My first ever fanfiction, written as a dare. It currently abides somewhere on Livejournal, but I felt like setting up a little home here. This part is more of a prequel. Not my best work- but it gets my foot in the door, at least.

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Ever since he'd been a child, Gabriel Gray had gone to bed at 10.30 pm and risen at 6.45 am. This was non-negotiable. Time and the very notion of order and punctuality hadn't merely been encouraged by his parents- it was something with which he had been born. Routine comforted him just as it had done in the turbulent days of his youth and even as he resented it, he clung to it fiercely. Every morning he would shower, shave, dress, eat breakfast and flip the sign on Gray & Sons front door to "Open". The official opening time was 8am, but he was always ready for business by 7.30am. He'd be at his desk all day, tinkering with the one watch that he'd never been able to fix

( Sylar, damn Sylar, whoever the hell you were, what kind of maniac were you to have made something as complicated as THIS?)

and he'd close up at 7pm. More aimless tinkering, supper, then bed.

Punctuality. Numbers. Clockwork. It was his life, and he had known little else.

As a very young child he'd been more normal than he would ever care to remember. He had wanted to be an astronaut, then a doctor, then a vet, then a doctor again, until his father had taken him to one side- a vague, puzzling, short-sighted boy of 12 years.

"I have to live on, son," he'd rumbled mysteriously. "You're going to have your Very Own Store, soon. Won't that be exciting?".

Ever since then the mantra was repeated faithfully every Friday evening (like clockwork, perhaps), usually with the liquor on his father's breath making him light-headed but always with those three words verbally italicized, as though in neon lights. His father had never laid a finger on him but, as any child of a beaten mother will tell you, the injury is inherited in other, more subtle ways. Virginia Gray had steadily disconnected herself from the reality of her son, flinching at his most innocent of gestures, collecting meaningless heirlooms as if her life depended on it. She spent more time at the church of Our Lady and St. Anne's than she did at home- not that Gabriel ever blamed her. She cried often, and didn't always hide her emotions from her special boy.

Little Gabriel would sometimes look at his parents with dark, critical eyes and be reminded of the harassed customers who would storm into their (his) store, waving malfunctioning timepieces under his nose. "It's a piece of cheap junk" they would rant, as though he had somehow been personally responsible for the shoddy craftsmanship. "You're just a boy, I doubt you'll be able to do anything for it. It's broken."

Robert and Virginia Gray. Broken.

It was sad, he supposed. He had loved his parents very much, and he supposed they had loved him back. His mother still told him so every other day, even if her eyes were a million miles away from him as she did so (his father had died at the age of 50, his liver finally giving up the ghost after years of alcohol abuse- Gabriel was less sad for himself than he was relieved for is mother). It was just as well that they had loved him- his life, insular as it was, hadn't allowed for friends. There were bullies, of course- after all, what child nowadays had the fortune to be entirely overlooked? He'd come home on many an occasion with a bloodstained handkerchief clutched to his nose and more than the usual amount of adolescent scrapes on his elbows and knees. His glasses had rarely survived longer than a year. Funny how his mother had never said anything.

Despite all of this he had coped well but even now he smiled rarely, and when he did there was a wistful sadness in his eyes, the sadness of a man who knows he is missing some...thing. There were unhappier people in the world, but Gabriel had never known many people to compare himself with. So here he was, alone, in his Very Own Store, living a quiet and inconsequential life- him and his endless array of clocks and watches. It was like living inside a ticking bomb, set to explode at any minute.

There was a muted jingle as the door opened and two men walked in, silent. Gabriel allowed himself a silent chuckle- "walked" wasn't the correct term, really. "Stumbled" would have been more appropriate. One man was really more of a boy- a tiny Oriental fellow with a perpetually bemused and somewhat fearful expression. He looked all around him with wide terrified eyes, as though ready to flee at the first sign of trouble (trouble? what trouble was there to be had in this place?). There was something strapped to his back, something Gabriel naively assumed was some kind of sports equipment. The other was South Asian- Indian, possibly- and was a little more self-assured. He had every right to be- there was a warm if clumsy charisma in the way he placed an almost fatherly hand on his companion's shoulder. With his jet black curls and rich brown complexion, he was ridiculously handsome. Gabriel felt a twinge of emotion in the pit of his stomach which he put down to jealousy- he'd never thought of himself as handsome, and as a result tended to resent anyone of physical beauty. Ever the helpful shopkeeper he shed this unwanted feeling and stood up to meet his new customers. "Can I help you?" he spoke softly.

He could never have imagined the reaction those words would invoke.