The Angel Gabriel from Hell Came

by I, Hypocrite

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Heroes, and I don't own Gabriel/Sylar (however much I wish I did... for Fanfiction as well as... other purposes ;)

For those of you who have any background with the Church, yes. My title is taken from the hymn, but "from Heaven came" doesn't seem to fit Sylar too well...

Okay. This isn't my first fic, but it is my first fic under this name. I don't usually write this kind of stuff (ie, T-rated), but it just seemed to fit with the character. And I KNOW that my writing sounds bad, but I'm too lazy to write 2nd drafts (the shame! the shame!) so this will have to do. My book is probably going to be insanely cliché, but let's admit it! As unrespectable as it is, EVERYONE LOVES READING CLICHÉ! (Though not MarySue... this might be a little -- or a lot -- MarySue) And I've never tried it before, so this is going to be Mr. Toad's Wild Ride for me. (I picked that up somewhere. A book. I dunno. Funny that I should use it, because I only rode Mr. Toad's Wild Ride once, when I was about 4, and couldn't stop screaming. I mean, come on, it was CREEPY.)

Just a brief note before I start Gabriel... This first chapter takes place in the NYC underground for a bit. I want to make it known that I have never been on the New York metro, much less even been to New York, so if you have and I make a mistake, I apologize. You can ignore it or send me a PM or whatever you like, just be aware.

So here goes. Gabriel, do those fictional pre-book stretches or whatever you do before your cue gets here. Now... go.

Chapter One

In the Underground

Gabriel Gray was in serious need of a frappucino. Who cared if it contained half the calories he should have in a single day? He was never the sort to count calories anyway, but he distinctly recalled overhearing the frap fact on Oprah or Ellen or some other ridiculous female talk show he'd normally never be caught dead watching if he hadn't been channel surfing last week.

It didn't matter anyway; he hadn't eaten in four days due to some seethingly enviable rich fellow had come into Gray & Sons with a trashed grandfather clock, proffering a seethingly tempting sum if Gabriel could get it back in order by Wednesday. He did it. Unfortunately, it was trashed almost beyond recognition, so he'd given all time that would normally go into stuffing his face into repairing the clock. He'd hardly slept as well, and even the nineteen-hour nap that followed his payment didn't entirely blow away the grogginess. For that, he needed Starbucks. Serious Starbucks. He could spare a few extra calories to make up four days' consciousness.

Gabriel stepped and stumbled tiredly over the familiar slant of the subway steps, as the nearest Starbucks was a short Metro ride from his side of town. Thirty-one stony stairs unfolding themselves to the filthy, grime-infested splendor of the underground. Stepped carefully over the crack at the bottom, the same crooked line he'd avoided since he was a little kid accompanying his father on a trip to the supply store. In all honesty, superstition was a game he didn't often play, but he had memories. Memories of his early school years, unpleasant, of the children on the playground chanting at Gabriel Gray, known more commonly as "Mommy's Boy". Step on a crack and you'll break your mother's back, they would chant, and much to their amusement, Gabriel would follow the rhyme, hoping to spare even the slightest chance of hurting his mother. It had become more habit than a tradition of any real meaning; he hadn't spoken to his mom in quite a while. When she'd called the day he turned thirty-three to wish him happy birthday. He'd been a little rushed then, trying to finish a 1984 Rolex before closing up shop, and he'd barely had time to converse.

Feeling a tad loaded from the generosity of the customer with the grandfather clock, he tossed a quarter to the hobo who occasionally took up residence at that specific corner of the underground, the filthy man catching it between his palms and boredly displaying two rows of discolored teeth before shoving the silvery wealth down his frayed sleeping bag. Gabriel almost flinched, his instincts flooded with rot. If the man had been a clock, he'd be hours off, maybe even broken. One of those cheap digital watches found in a cereal box, or one that was ninety-nine cents at the Texaco counter, pedestaled unworthily along with the M&Ms and Camel Lights. Knowing very well that the hobo had no more interest in chatting than he, Gabriel shoved his hands in his pockets without a word, only then noticing that the metro had come to a stop and was nearly finished collecting passengers. He made a run for it, skidding into the rapidly closing doors with a swipe of his MetroCard.

Luckily for him, three o'clock in the afternoon wasn't a busy time on Thursdays, so God granted him a seat instead of attempting a standing balancing act with a metal pole, even if he was wedged between two large Saudi women who apparently hadn't bathed in a while. The metro jerked forward, gaining speed and allowing him to catch his breath, rubbing his hands for warmth in the frigid January air. As Gabriel gruffly upturned the collar of his trench coat, partly because of the cold but mainly because of the smell, he couldn't help but immerse himself in a favorite hobby of his.

She, Gabriel mused, glancing at a businesslike woman in the corner, is a Quartz watch. Then, glancing at her three-inch heels and ridiculously elaborate handbag, thought some more on the subject. One of those women's bracelet watches that can hardly stay on your hand, but slide up and down the arm. Decorative, but tiny numbers on the watch face; more showy than practical.

A teenage boy sat a few seats down from him, carelessly adorned in black and pimply, with a suspicious bulge to his jacket pocket. He's a Rolex look-alike from some pawnshop. Impressive, and sneaky if he can get away with it. That balding chap he's next to is definitely a digital. Gabriel looked down at his watch. Like mine. Connected by radar to the international space station so that it always has the right time.

That lady there... He stopped, examined her more closely. That girl... what is she? Indeed, what. A spectacle, if nothing else. She's holding a parasol. Why the hell has she got a parasol? Flowering atop her body, pale and petite, bloomed the pure white parasol. She gave it a twirl, and the twirl entranced him. He couldn't stop staring, and she, in return, offered a surplus of staring material. My god, she's got a waistcoat, too. With tails! The waistcoat appeared to be made of silk, cascading over her everyday mufti. Everyday, that is, except for the socks, which were purple stripes that led all the way up to her knees.

Gabriel glanced up at her face the instant she glanced up at his. Immediately, his instincts were given a sharp jolt unlike he'd ever experienced before. He sensed her internal gears ticking, ticking, louder than he'd heard ever before. Something about they way they worked unnerved him in a way he was fairly certain was good, but he wasn't too sure. It seemed good, but the enervating feel he'd gotten from the one glance from her was too powerful for him to be sure.

She smiled at him. Smiled! Grinned, really, a broad, stunning grin that dazzled him with the same whiteness of the parasol. In greeting, she tipped the tweed hat atop her auburn scalp... was it auburn? He couldn't quite give it a color. At the moment he was sure it was brown, he then thought it was strawberry blond, and then red. With every twitch of her head, the light hit a facet of her hair in a different way, making him more charmed than ever. Oh, God, help, she's staring at me. She must think I'm a creep, ogling her like this. In an attempt to salvage his reputation, he looked away and immediately began to better occupy his thoughts.

Quick! Quick, think of something... Her as a clock. She'd be a Mickey Mouse watch.

A Mickey Mouse watch, Gabriel? Have you gone absolutely mad?

Er, sorry. First thing that came off my head.

You can do better than that, you idiot.

Sorry... a church clock tower. One that chimes on the hour.

Sounds nice, Gabe, but can you back it up? Of course you can't. You can't just make something up and hope it passes; you'll have to do a lot better than that.

How about a... a pocket watch? For the lady had just pulled one out of her waistcoat pocket, clicked it open, and glanced at it intently before whipping it back into her pocket. 3:02 and twelve seconds, Gabriel thought, without having to look at his own. Why he even kept it, he didn't know. The comfort of a time-telling weight on his wrist made him feel a little more at ease all hours of the day.

Almost as if on cue, the metro began slowing as soon as the lady snapped the black button closed over her waistcoat pocket. Gabriel anchored his feet firmly to the ground in an attempt to not budge up against either of the rancid Saudi women. It worked. The moment the metro stopped, Gabriel appeared to be untouched by both sources of the stench, and, having dealt with this sort of situation before and knowing how it could turn out, sat waiting while the women stood first then got a considerable distance away before he dared stand and walk out.

When he did, he was welcomed by a much more pleasant sight and sound; a steel drum player had occupied himself by a wall near the exit, banging a tasteful rhythm onto his various instruments. As Gabriel watched, the drummer immersed himself into a rhythmic frenzy that attracted a small crowd tossing coins into a maroon suitcase he'd set up in front of his underground stage. It was quite a sight, the suitcase; one could no longer see the bottom. It was possible he'd been playing in such a craze since dawn, as it was nearly full to the brim with a cascade of copper and circular silvery stuff.

As the man drummed out a slow, soft, finish to his playing, the small crowd gave a smattering of applause. The drummer stood out next to his instruments and took a slight bow, but had barely stood when a spectator invaded the clearing the crowd had circled around. She waved to the drummer, who waved back.

My god, Gabriel thought, staring at the girl. It's her.

The lady from the subway appeared to know the drummer, because she walked up to him and they slapped hands nonchalantly, as if the movement was nearly worn out from years of practice. The crowd could barely hear what they were saying, but Gabriel caught most of the brief conversation.

"Hey, Chaz," the lady smiled, and glanced at the suitcase. "Looks like you're doing good today."

Chaz, the drummer, shrugged. "All right."

"Do you mind if I have a go?" she asked in a low voice that only a handful of the crowd heard, including Gabriel Gray.

"Only if I get to keep the money," Chaz grinned.

The lady sighed, but not unpleasantly. More of a there-he-goes-again, or a what-else-can-I-do? sigh. "Agreed." Chaz tossed her the drumsticks, and in exchange, the girl handed him her parasol, neatly closed and narrow. She took position behind the quartet of steel drums, massaging the tips of the drumsticks as if to warm them up, and began.

The rhythm began softly, a slow pattern like the gentle gait of a horse's hoof beats on the thin surface of one drum. It was pleasant, if nothing else, but carried the easy buzz of the moment when one is nearly asleep. That was soon remedied. The beat grew faster, still unfaltering and familiar, the same friend in a speedier skin.

Then the cycle changed, a whole new soul emerging from the hollow depths of the drums. Menacing, eerie, ominous, but confident. The rhythm knew what it was doing, the beat too casual with its power. I know I've got you cornered, it hissed through the sound waves rippling at ear-level across the underground. I can take all the time I need. You can't escape me.

The drumsticks banged now on a new drum, a much lighter sound, like the dark air in witness to the birth of this villain. All-seeing. All-knowing, but invisible. The first drum was played on again, faster than ever before and wilder, too. Rhythms so intricate sprang up from the drum that it was more like a maze than a song. Then the dark drum came into play, fighting the first drum back into silence, but the first drum wouldn't relinquish its dance. They fought, battled a deep, dark and crashing cacophony over the air, mounting in excitement and life. The two lunged for each other, noise against noise in an aching, biting, thrashing war that tumbled and tumbled higher up into the soul

and stillness.

No noise. A pause, not a declaration of silence; the air was still thick. The lady had stopped, her hands poised above the drums, and Gabriel noticed tiny pearls of sweat above her delicate brow. She sensed his gaze and swiveled her head slightly to meet it. It seemed selfish of her, leaving the rhythmic war up at a standstill like this, the crowd holding their breath, waiting to hear the beat of life...

Still staring at Gabriel, the lady landed a blow with her bare hand, no drumstick, against the first drum. It was a still sound, and the crowd was unsure of its meaning. She hit the drum again, louder this time. A soft but undeniably victorious battle cry. I won, it whispered, hardly daring to believe it. She hit the drum one last time, the sound it made now soft again, lower, and heartbreaking. Crying quietly at the end of the symphonic battle, the drum sobbed. I won.

The crowd exploded.

Roars of applause erupted from all the spectators, a cascade of loose change making its way into the suitcase. The mob was bigger; it seemed now that the whole of the subway had come to witness this amazing four-drum orchestra of war, the composer and conductor standing lifeless in the middle of it. Still and staring at Gabriel Gray.

He walked forward slowly entering the clearing, and knelt. He removed a five-dollar bill from his wallet and placed it in the suitcase, surrounded by an airborne shower of nickels and dimes. Then he found his feet again, stood, and walked over to the lady. From his height, he gazed down at her, brow furrowed, as though not sure why the world turned, his ears tuning out the sound of a hundred cheering spectators.

"Do you want to go get a coffee?" he rasped.

The girl looked up at him, eyes of the January wind outside. She nodded. Without further looking at each other, they parted the sea of people and waded out, up the stairs of the subway into the brisk air.

Gabriel glanced down at his shoes. They were brown. How odd. He glanced over at her shoes. White. Odder still. Snow. Clouds. Fog. Very bright light. Odd.

She stared up at the sky. It was a blue-grey, sponged hues of violet occasionally visible if you tried hard enough not to look for them. It was amazing. She glanced over at the man she was walking with. His hair was dark. He was cleanly shaved. His brow was thick, straight and serious. Even more amazing. He hadn't smiled yet, but had the prepared, obscured hint of it on the corner of his mouth. Amazing.

"I'm Lenore," she offered.

"Gabriel," said he.

The nearest Starbucks was a block ahead. On they walked.

"Nice watch," she said.

I really have mixed opinions about this chapter. Personally, I thought the ending was a little weak, but I guess I'll have to make a better one for the next chapter. I'm not quite sure what I think of it yet... But perhaps I'll make up my mind if I have some more opinions...? (HINT: that means leave a review please! I don't care if you liked it or not, I just want an opinion. Several opinions, if possible. wink, wink)