Part I
He has his own room now. A real room, with a tidily made up full-sized bed, a nightstand with a lamp he controls, and a dresser and closet for his clothes -- no more institutional pajamas. There's a sitting area with comfortable chairs and shelves of books from his personal library, and even a desk for his watchmaking tools. And, most importantly, there's a bathroom with a door so he can satisfy nature's call in private.
If Noah had his way, Gabriel would still be in a cell on Level 5 -- if not in some other dimension, via a vortex. Luckily for him, Noah's not in charge and Angela -- his mother -- is.
Not that Gabriel thinks his new living arrangements are the product of maternal affection, or even concern for the well-being of her long-lost son. No, he saw the terror lurking behind her cool mask as she stated, matter-of-factly, that has control of his powers and needn't return to Level 5, that his abilities are too great an asset to the Company to be kept under lock and key.
By abilities, he knows she means his immortality. Funny how the one power they'd tried so hard to stop him from taking for himself is their one hope of surviving whatever new villain haunts Angela like the unrelenting vestiges of a nightmare. He chuckles to himself as he peers through magnified lenses at the 1917 German watch that eluded his intuitive aptitude for seven years before he learned to feed his hunger by taking people apart instead of putting timepieces together; he'll have to tell Noah that one -- though of course Noah won't appreciate his twisted sense of irony. Which is what makes it so deeply satisfying to make off-the-cuff remarks like that, to watch him blink and squirm behind those horn-rimmed glasses, like a beetle trapped in a glass jar. Even though part of Gabriel genuinely does wish he had his partner's respect, part of him is truly sorry about what he did to Claire.
Not, he acknowledges, that he'd be likely, reform or no reform, to act any differently if presented with the choice again.
Sighing, he hunches over his desk, inspecting the inner workings of the antique timepiece. But his mind is not on watchmaking. It has turned, as it tends to do so frequently these days, to the unnamed enemy stalking his mother in her dreams. Who does she see? What does he do? And how -- though Gabriel tries not to think it -- does he do it?
Angela won't speak to anyone of what she's seen, but could he see it for himself? Could he paint it? He sets aside the watch and his glasses looks around his room as if expecting it to have turned into Isaac Mendez's loft, where paint and canvass abound. Of course no tools of that trade are at Gabriel's disposal here, and he wonders whether that is deliberate. Probably. While this room provides an illusion of independence and privacy, it lacks anything that might give him knowledge beyond what Angela and Noah feed him; there's not even a TV (though Gabriel's never been much of a television watcher) or a computer. He does, however, have pencils and paper. Maybe a simple sketch will provide the answers he seeks--
A rap on the door startles him as he's opening the desk drawer where yellow legal pads are stored. He withdraws his hand like a boy caught in the act of peeping at his father's hidden stash of Playboys, then is disgusted by his own furtiveness. What are they doing to him? He, who has power far and away beyond any of them, is allowing them to deprive him of his freedoms.
He hears the rattle of Angela's manicured nails on the keypad outside the room, followed by the heavy, automated deadbolt turning over within the door. At least Angela has the courtesy not to open the door until Gabriel says "come in" -- unlike Noah, who barges in to say he's got a lead on a new target, as though he sees no difference between this room and the cells on Level 5. And maybe there isn't any.
All the same, Gabriel appreciates Angela, and the way she says his name -- not Sylar -- as she bids him good morning.
"I hope we're not interrupting you."
"Morning...Mom."
Mom is a test, to which Angela does not react. Battling to control his own reaction of squeezing his pencil so tightly that it starts to crack, Gabriel tucks it behind his ear and rises from the straight-backed wooden chair.
"We?" he asks.
Angela steps aside to give a young blonde woman entrance into the room. "Of course you remember our former employee, Elle Bishop."
Gabriel swallows as the mere sight of Elle, and the memory of that encounter, shocks his senses. That wonderful power...
"How could I forget someone who electrocuted me?"
Though Elle's arms are crossed over her chest in what could be interpreted as a self-protective stance, Gabriel notes the almost defiant tilt of her head and the level gaze with which she meets his. It's not how he expects an almost-victim to look at him; it's definitely not how Claire looks at him. But then, Elle hasn't survived quite as much as Claire.
Or has she?
"Not," Elle says, "'How could I forget someone I tried to scalp'?"
"After you've done it a few times, they all start to blend together."
Instinctively, Gabriel starts to move toward Elle. She doesn't take a step back from him, though the tempo of her beating heart accelerates. His eyes dart sideways, to Angela. Elle's a little unhinged, but Angela's face, at least, should show some concern; she is, after all, the one who first encouraged him to control his urges. To Gabriel's chagrin, Angela looks the most composed he's seen her look in days. He takes a step backward, and sideways, positioning himself behind his chair, and curls his fingers over the back.
"It's the ones you can't kill," he says quietly, looking at Elle again, "that you remember."
He's staring at the pale white scar on her forehead when the twitch of her eyebrows diverts his gaze to Elle's. Her eyes are fixed on him in a way that feels almost electric. Is she unleashing her power? Is it the hunger stirring at the memory of it, like an appetite aroused by the smell of food in the oven?
"Why are you here?" Gabriel asks, hoping it will get her, temptation, out of here sooner.
"I'll leave you to your visitor," Angela says, backing from the room. She pauses in the midst of pulling the door closed to look at Elle with open disgust, and Gabriel thinks of when Angela brought Bridget to his cell to feed him. Reeling with panic, he seeks Angela's eye, pleading with his gaze for this not to be a betrayal of the trust he's worked so hard to earn, but she is gone. The door shuts -- and locks -- between them; the click of her stilettos recedes down the hall.
"I'm sorry," says Elle.
Gabriel gapes at her, surprised, and to ask what on earth for. Before he can produce any words, Elle's mouth curls into a smirk.
"Not even psychotic serial killers deserve bitches like Angela Petrelli for mothers."
Doubts about Angela's loyalty slip away as the epithet puts Gabriel on the defensive. "Kind of rich, don't you think, for the daughter of Bob Bishop to criticize anyone's parent?"
Elle's smirk slides downward into a glower, her eyes narrowing on Gabriel. For a second, the room seems to crackle with surging energy; white-knuckled, he grips the back of the chair, as much to brace for the inevitable shock as to stay his hand from reaching out to crack open that pretty head and take such power for himself.
But the blast of energy never comes. Nor does one of Elle's equally stinging retorts.
Gabriel lets out his breath, relaxing. "I suppose..."
He steps around the chair; he can do this, he can control himself to interact normally with special people.
"Growing up in the presence of such highly evolved people as Bob and Angela, you never had to imagine that the family who raised you would turn out to be an adoptive family, that your real parents were out there somewhere, leading lives of power and significance."
Elle looks unimpressed. "Angela has dreams."
"And Bob had King Midas' touch."
It's probably not the right thing to do, drawing the pencil from behind his ear and turning it into gold, but Gabriel doesn't think of this until after he's done it and Elle's eyes brim with tears.
Briefly. Blinking them away, she says, "Money makes the world go round," and snatches the pencil from Gabriel before he can react, shoving it into her coat pocket. A curious action. Does she want a memento of her father? Or is she hard up for cash? Surely a man with the Golden Touch left his daughter set for life?
"So...Gabriel." Elle arches an eyebrow at him as she strides past him; she knocks shoulders with him, giving Gabriel a little jolt he's not sure is electricity or simply the first human contact he's had in a while. Inspecting his desk, she asks, "Wouldn't 'Angel of Death' fit you a little better?"
"In some traditions, Gabriel is the Angel of Death."
He tenses as Elle's slim, trembling fingers -- is that the current of power coursing through her? -- close around the antique pocket watch and catch it up for inspection. But it's Gabriel at whom she looks with interest. Just a watchmaker, he thinks, ashamed. An insignificant watchmaker.
"Oh yeah?" says Elle. "Guess I've come to the right place after all. I was a little worried when Angela told me you'd reformed."
Smirking, she replaces the watch on the desk. Though relieved the precious timepiece is no longer in her inexperienced -- and dangerous -- hands, Gabriel doesn't relax. He steps around her, consciously avoiding contact with her, and picks up the watch, examining the gears to be sure nothing's gone amiss since he last looked at it. With a racing heart, he thinks of that terrible last day in his mother's apartment, when he'd desperately tried to win her approval and hold on to what was left of Gabriel Gray by repairing his father's old clock.
"I said in some traditions," he growls. "Not mine."
Whatever it is Elle is asking him to do, he won't do it. He's worked too hard, denied himself too much, to lose control again now. He may not be a free man here, but he'll be damned if he's sent back to Level 5--
Elle's laugh cuts the air like a bolt of lighting. "Please. You're only reformed because Mama Petrelli needs you to be. When she's done with you, you'll get over it."
Her hand comes to rest on Gabriel's shoulder. He winces at her touch, though she hasn't shocked him; despite his best efforts not to meet her gaze, he can't help looking into her mocking eyes.
"You and I both know you have a very long tradition of death."
That's true. But he won't give in. He steps back, so that Elle's hand falls to her side.
"Not in your case. Or don't you remember knocking me out cold?"
Though Elle's lips remain fixed in her sardonic smile, the bravado leaves her pale face, like a power switch flipped off. When she speaks again, her voice is quiet -- though not so much for Gabriel's heightened sense of hearing. "I promise I won't do it again this time."
Gabriel's eyes are drawn once more to the scar above her eyebrow. His heart thuds as he works out Elle's meaning. "You're asking me to--"
"Finish what you started," she says. "Kill me. Take my power. Angela told me to find a new life. I'm choosing death."
As Gabriel stares in astonishment at Elle's offer, she shakes her long, wavy blonde hair and flashes another smile. He can't help but think how beautiful she is, how special -- though she clearly doesn't appreciate that as much as he does. And that's the most tempting quality of all...
"So what do you say, Gabriel? Will you help me do what Mother Dearest says?"
To be continued...
A/N: It's probably not the wisest idea to start a WIP when new episodes tonight and the next couple weeks will most likely make this scenario impossible, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone till I did something with it. Hopefully the premise will be interesting enough that people will keep reading regardless. :) Knowing what you think of this story will help motivate me to update faster! Those of you kind enough to leave a little feedback will get a private visit with Gabriel, who'll be as angelic -- or not -- as you wish. ;)