A/N: Apologies for the wait between chapters. I'd hoped to get writing time over Thanksgiving, but alas got too swept up in the holidays. Luckily (?) I caught a cold and had time to update this week. Of course, that could be directly responsible for the cheesy rhyming jokes and Wicked references, so maybe that's not a good thing. ;) I hope you enjoy! There will be at least one more chapter (for the smut!) and maybe more; I'm debating how far to carry this story.


Part V

Elle's blue eyes go perfectly round as she opens her door to find her nose buried in a bouquet of red roses. For passion, of course, but Gabriel thinks his romantic designs are undermined by Elle shuffling backward from the him and his offering and bumping against the edge of the door. He backs away, too, lowering the bouquet and silently berating himself for being too eager. If he doesn't watch himself, he'll scare the poor girl away before he even has a chance to show her there might be more for her -- more for them both -- than death.

As if standing too close to her door is the creepiest behavior Elle should worry about from him.

Ignoring the nasty thought, he speaks deliberately to keep the nerves out of his voice. "Hello, Elle."

He doesn't completely succeed at eliminating shakiness, but Elle gives him a wobbly smile and says, "Hi," in an equally tremulous voice. Gabriel doesn't need enhanced hearing to detect her nervousness, but his ears pick up her accelerated pulse and the rush of blood in her ears. Or is that his own? Not the most important question at the moment; his uncertainty is indisputable. Why is Elle nervous? Because it's a date? Or because it's a date with him?

For Gabriel's part, any shred of confidence he might have had about pulling off a successful date without the guiding force of an ulterior motive dissolves in the face of Elle in a midnight blue dress that hugs her breasts and hips and shows off the slender length of her legs. She's wearing black stockings, and he can't help but wonder if they're the kind with a seam up the back and held up by a sexy little garter belt -- and, more importantly, whether he'll get to find out. Probably not. Even if he did spend half the day shopping for the perfect dark gray suit and green-striped shirt and tie, not wanting to appear a "Company man" in the clothes his mother picked out for him for his missions with Bennet, this blonde bombshell is so far out of his league. His glasses start to slide down the bridge of his sweaty nose; he plucks them off.

"These are for you." He thrusts out the roses, almost getting Elle in the face again.

Their fingers brush as Elle accepts the bouquet, and she jerks her hand back quickly, as though receiving a shock. "You brought a vase this time."

"Oh. Yeah." Over her shoulder, Gabriel glimpses yesterday's floral offering on the bedside table. Two bouquets in two days. Over-eager, much? Even if one is only a bunch of purple carnations. "I noticed when I was here yesterday you put those in a plastic cup."

"I don't have a vase," she says, then quickly amends. "Didn't."

"Well..." Putting on his glasses again, Gabriel unfastens the button of his jacket and reaches into the inner pocket. "Now you have two."

As he procures a slender violet glass vase, a smile blooms on Elle's face. It's the expression he'd have expected the flowers to produce rather than the vessel, but he'll take what he can get.

Elle turns, and her four-inch patent heels click across the tiled floor of her room as she goes to transfer her carnations into the new vase. Gabriel sucks in his breath at the sight of the low-cut back of her dress, exposing her back almost to her waist, and the tantalizing dip between her shoulder blades along which he wants to run his tongue; her stockings do, indeed, have back seams.

"If I'd known you were a vase girl," he says, stepping just inside the room and leaning against the door frame, "I wouldn't have bothered with flowers."

Elle's grin becomes sheepish, her nose scrunching adorably. "No, I love them. You know you're the first person who's given me flowers?"

"Really? Not even your dad?" The words burst from his mouth without permission from his brain, and Gabriel cringes.

Elle arranges the roses on her dresser beside a framed photo of Bob Bishop in fishing gear with a huge catch -- the picture that formerly stood on his expansive oak desk. It's strange that Elle doesn't have a picture of the two of them together.

"A dozen red roses," Elle's voice breaks into Gabriel's thoughts, and he smiles to see her slight fingers with French-manicured nails tracing the curling edge of a barely opened bud. "Wow -- did someone forget to tell me it's Valentine's Day?"

She gives her wavy blonde hair a shake as she looks over her shoulder, peeking at Gabriel from beneath side-swept bangs with a gleam in her eyes and a curve of her shiny lips that makes his stomach feel as if its acquired his brothers' gift of flight. It's the kind of look he always dreamed of getting from a girl like Elle, but never believed he actually would. Kind of cute for a geek she told him yesterday. But it doesn't instill Gabriel with confidence that his tentative courtship will actually bring the pay-off he so desires, because his response to her flirtation is crucial, and he just doesn't have one. Well -- he does, but it's not flirtatious, and in fact is quite serious and potentially embarrassing. Sylar would have a smooth line to lay on her -- though of course, Sylar would also be far more interested in looking into Elle's brain for what produces that electrical current all through that hot, petite body than in looking up her skirt to see what's keeping her stockings up. The hunger -- the one he's trying so hard not to feed, stirs. So, he blurts:

"This is actually my first date." His face is flame-hot, but he forges ahead. "I wanted to do this properly."

His heart thuds, once, and he catches his breath awaiting Elle's reply. He hates how he feels now -- like he did in school, the misfit kid with dorky hair, high-water pants, a watchmaker for a father, and a shabby Queens apartment where no one wanted to come hang out because his mom was always trying to force-feed everyone tuna fish sandwiches and those damn snow globes everywhere were kind of creepy. He's afraid to meet Elle's eyes, because he's sure she's looking at him the same way Jessica Bianchi, his pretty Biology lab partner, looked at him when he asked her to the senior prom and she told him to fuck off.

But Elle doesn't tell him to fuck off. Instead, she says, "Huh," in a tone of interest that makes Gabriel look up to see that she's gazing at him with her head tilted to one side as if she's seeing him in a new light. "This is my first date, too."

Gabriel blinks, more amazed by this than by the earlier revelation that he's the first man to give her flowers. Now he holds his tongue, unwilling to make another verbal misstep at this crucial juncture, no matter how much he hungers to know how such a thing as possible as a dateless Elle.

Plucking a shimmering silver shrug and matching clutch off the foot of her bed, Elle crosses the small room to Gabriel, the vulnerability of her confession replaced by the seductive expression he's accustomed to.

"I thought what the hell? So you're a serial killer. Might as well go out with you, since I asked you to kill me anyway and I've always wanted to go on a date before I die."

She dangles her shrug in front of him on her hooked index finger, the eyebrow not covered by her bangs lifted in a challenge. Gabriel stands motionless, unsure whether he wants to pin her to the wall and tear open her head or pin her to the bed and tear off her dress, or if Elle really wants him to do the former...or the latter, for that matter, or if she's just pushing his buttons. But he thinks back to three days ago, when she first asked him to kill her and she teased him with lightning bolts from her fingertips. There's no tantalizing show of power now to whet his appetite. That has to mean something.

Swallowing, he takes the shrug from her, and she turns to allow him to slide the garment over her shoulders. Fighting disappointment at covering up her back, he wonders how such a small, flimsy piece of fabric can possibly keep her warm, and imagines himself draping his suit coat, much too large for her, around her tiny frame, or tucking her into the crook of his arm. He hopes, selfishly, that their destination will be well air-conditioned.

"The only dying you'll be doing at my hands, Miss Elle," he says, chancing brushing his fingers through her long, soft hair to free it from the neckline of her shrug, "will be of the Metaphysical variety."

He thinks Elle might have shivered at his touch, but can't be sure because she turns to face him with a smirk.

"Awfully cocky for a geek, aren't you?"

Gabriel chuckles. He's getting used to Elle mockery, and rather than making him uncomfortable, she's making him less self-conscious, less ashamed to be Gabriel.

"In case you were in any doubt, I looked up a poem for you."

"Oh really? A dozen red roses and a date with a guy who reads poetry."

"Memorizes, actually."

"I think you're a keeper."

Gabriel blushes, and Elle's laugh tickles his ears.

"Well?" she says impatiently -- eagerly, even. "Let's hear it!"

"Later." As foreplay. He lay awake far too late last night planning it. "If we don't get going now, we'll be late."

"For what?"

Grinning at Elle's curiosity, Gabriel gestures for her to exit the room ahead of him. As she passes, he leans close to whisper, "It's a surprise."

Elle stops in the hall and looks at him uncertainly. "Am I dressed okay for this mystery date?"

Looking Elle unabashedly up and down, his gaze lingering for a moment on her cleavage as he wonders what kind of bra the low-backed dress permits her to wear, or if she's wearing one at all, there's no question now that what Gabriel feels has nothing to do with Elle's power -- beyond her inborn feminine power. His struggle to control himself, however, is no less than his struggle against the hunger. It might even be more difficult, as he's never fed this particular appetite.

He swallows, hard. Then clears his throat. "You're perfect."

The door clicks shut behind him, and one step closes the gap between him and Elle. On impulse, he slides his hands over the satiny fabric clinging to Elle's narrow waist. Touching her arouses a boldness in him which, frighteningly, isn't at all unlike the exhilarating rush of power he felt when he killed Brian Davis and took that first ability for himself. It's almost enough to put him off this, to call off the whole date with the young woman whose father he killed, who was, herself, almost another victim. But Elle doesn't move, in fact looks up at Gabriel breathlessly, waiting for him to continue. So he packs away every thought but her into the compartment at the back of his mind that belongs to Sylar, and proceeds with his flirtation.

"I'm tempted to cancel our dinner reservation, because you look good enough to eat."

Dipping his head, he nips gently at Elle's neck, wrapping his arms securely around her as his breath raises goose bumps on her fair skin and makes her squirm against him. Her hands come to rest on his chest, an innocent and simple touch, but nonetheless one that arouses a simultaneous desire to dominate and protect this gorgeous female. He presses his lips to her neck, and feels the vibration of her vocal chords.

"So that's how you do it."

"Do what?"

Lifting his head, Gabriel meets Elle's straight face, but her middle quivers against his hips. "Take people's powers. You eat their brains."

Rolling his eyes, Gabriel heaves an exaggerated sigh and releases her. "What do you people think I am?" He removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Some kind of zombie?"

"Pretty much," says Elle, giggling.

"Well, I'm not," he snaps, half-annoyed, half-amused.

They walk down the quiet, institutional hall to the elevator that will carry them to the street level Primatech Paper Company entrance, where Angela's Rolls Royce is parked.

As they wait for the elevator, Elle asks, "What are you, then?"

Gabriel offers Elle his hand -- which she takes. Lacing their fingers together, he lifts their twined hands to his mouth, pressing soft kisses to her knuckles.

"I'm a geeky watchmaker who's somehow gotten lucky enough to score the hottest date in New York."

He means it, and Elle looks deeply pleased to hear it, if her slightly dopey smile is anything to go by.

Although she might also be thinking that was the dopiest line ever laid on her.

But as they board the elevator and the sliding doors close on the floor where their living quarters lie, Elle squeezes his hand and says, "Only in New York?"

"Popular...Popular," Elle sings softly as she peruses a stained and sticky menu. She doesn't seem to be aware she's singing, and Gabriel watches her from across the table, a smile on his lips as she keeps going, a little off-key, and substituting hums for most of the lyrics. He could sing the entire libretto back to her, verbatim, thanks to the ability he got from that little red-haired waitress in Texas, but of course wouldn't show Elle up like that -- not on the first date, anyway.

"Catchy song, isn't it?" he says.

"Huh? Oh!" Elle ducks her head sheepishly, bangs falling over her eyes, lower lip catching between her teeth. "Sorry, I didn't mean to burst into song."

"We did just see a musical."

Gabriel nudges her foot with his under the table and discovers she's slipped off her shoes. He wondered, on their brisk two-block walk from the theater to the diner -- hand-in-hand, as they'd remained since leaving Company headquarters, whether her four-inch heels were giving her trouble. He slides his foot along hers, grinning at how little it is compared to his.

"You have a really pretty voice," he tells her.

"Really?"

"I have a good ear for that kind of thing."

"You're musical?"

She sounds so thrilled at the prospect that Gabriel hates to disappoint her. He wonders if he could be musical, using his enhanced memory. "Enhanced hearing."

"Oh."

There's a moment of silence, during which Gabriel wishes he hadn't mentioned his stolen powers, though Elle, looking reflective and wearing a little pleased smile, doesn't seem to be thinking about that.

"Good thing I sing well, since I think I'm gonna be singing Popular for the rest of my life. I'll have coffee and peach pie a la mode," she tells the gum-chewing waitress who just walked up to their booth.

Pleased in a totally juvenile way at his date's choice of desert, Gabriel orders, "Peach pie, not la mode."

The waitress give him a dull look. "No ice cream?"

"Yes."

She scribbles a note on her pad. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please."

As the waitress shuffles to the counter, Gabriel asks Elle, with a slight feeling of trepidation, "Apart from having the songs stuck in your head--"

"Just the one."

"--did you enjoy the show?"

It seemed like such a good idea, taking Elle to a popular Broadway musical -- and, thanks to his family connections, he was able to score prime box seats from which he'd been able to keep an eye on Elle (wearing his suit coat, because it had been freezing in the hall) as well as the actors on stage. She wore a huge grin the whole time and laughed and applauded with enthusiasm, but now she's confessed to having a song stuck in her head, he can't help but fear she found Wicked cheesy and annoying.

"Loved it!" The grin from the musical returns and banishes Gabriel's sudden-onset insecurity. "I've never been to a musical before, and it was so much fun. I've always loved The Wizard of Oz. Did you like it?"

"No, the flying monkeys always freaked me out when I was a kid."

Elle sniggers. "I mean Wicked."

Now it's Gabriel's turn to hunch sheepishly in his seat. "Right. I did like it, a lot. I'd like to see it again."

"Peach pie a la mode?" The tray-wielding waitress glances back and forth between them as if she has no memory of who ordered what.

"He's the one who made the clever little not la mode comment, remember?" says Elle, giving the waitress a withering glance.

The waitress reminds Gabriel vaguely of a cow as she stands chewing her gum. "So he had the peach pie without ice cream?"

"That's right, Sherlock," Elle says. When the waitress is gone, having sloshed half their coffee on the table, Elle takes a bite of her ice cream-drowned pie and says, "I wouldn't have pegged you as a peach pie kind of guy." She scrunches her face. "I rhymed again?"

Gabriel chuckles. "You did. Peach pie's my vice. Well -- one of them."

Now he winces. Inexperienced as he is at the art of courtship, he's fairly certain continually reminding your date that in the very recent past you were a serial killer isn't the best idea, even if she has asked to be your next victim.

Elle's lips close around another bite of pie, and she slides her fork slowly, sensuously from between her teeth. "And apparently musicals, too."

Gabriel sighs in relief that she took his comment as a joke. Briefly, he wonders whether it's good to be relieved that your date, is able to joke about your serial killer past. Either she's crazy, or he didn't make enough of an impression on her about this death wish of hers.

"I don't know about all musicals," he says, "but Wicked definitely made an impression. I really related to it."

"Me, too."

"Which would be why you've latched onto Popular?"

"Right." Elle snorts into her coffee cup. "The only people I've ever been popular with are the freaks from Level Five."

The comment itself is enough to catch Gabriel off-guard, but the sadness lurking in her eyes really gets him. He recalls Elle's comment about Company tutors, which he'd scarcely given a second thought yesterday.

"Your father..." He hesitates, knowing it must be touchy for him to criticize a man he killed. "You were kept completely sheltered from the world outside the Company, weren't you, Elle?"

Picking at her pie with her fork, Elle's gaze drifts out the window to Broadway, lit up like a Christmas tree. "I hardly set foot outside the building till I became an agent. I never had a boyfriend...I never even had a friend."

"The outside world doesn't guarantee popularity," says Gabriel. "But you have me now."

Laughing, Elle takes a bite of her pie. "So your offer to sleep with me was a friendly gesture?"

"Friends and lovers," Gabriel says, relieved she didn't point out that he, too, is a freak from Level Five.

"Something else to do before I die. You know you haven't touched your pie." Her fork clatters to her plate as she covers her face with her hands. "Oh my God! I keep doing it!"

"Should I burst out in song so you won't be alone with the rhyming?"

"Would you?"

"The song stuck in my head isn't nearly as chipper as Popular."

"Which one?"

"No One Mourns the Wicked."

Elle lowers her hands from her face. "If that's true, it's lucky you can't die."

"We all have our bucket of water."

"That didn't work, remember? So you have nothing to worry about. Unless you take my power. Then a bucket of water could make you could short-out."

Gabriel picks up his fork and tucks into his pie, thinking there's nothing like filling your belly with comfort food when you're pouring out your heart. It's not warm anymore, but he still shuts his eyes in bliss as the gooey peach feeling overwhelms his taste buds with a sense of normalcy and enjoying simple human pleasures he hasn't experienced since his abilities manifested and brought that insatiable hunger.

"In the unlikely event of my death," he says, wiping his mouth on a paper napkin from the holder on the table, "I think I'd rather people mourn than celebrate."

Across the table, Elle goes rigid, crossing her arms over her chest. "Oh. Is that what this is all about? With me? Having someone to mourn you?"

Gabriel's mouth hangs open, not so much at Elle's accusation but because, for someone who insists she's only out with him to check "date" off her Things to Do Before She Dies list, she's awfully defensive about the prospect of being used. It gives Gabriel the confidence to get up and slide into her side of the booth.

"No, Elle, of course not." He lays his hands on her arm, gently pulling them un-crossed, and holds her hand in his lap. "I really like you."

Apparently it's the right thing to say, because immediately Elle becomes flirtatious. "What do you like about me?"

"You're smart, and funny...and you're a good singer." They laugh quietly, Elle beaming, and Gabriel continues, allowing his voice to drop to a teasing pitch, "You have a really cool ability..."

Elle opens her mouth and glares at him in mock protest, until he reaches up with his free hand to brush her bangs off of her forehead, leaning in to kiss her temple as he does.

"And because you're so beautiful."

He trails his fingers down over her high cheekbone, then across the delicate line of her jaw line and chin, and up again to settle lightly on her full lower lip. He hears Elle's heart quicken. She parts her lips slightly, just kissing his fingertips. Gabriel doesn't see sparks, but feels electricity ripple through his fingers into his hand and up his arm, the hairs standing up beneath his shirtsleeve. Holding his breath, he leans in to touch his lips to hers...

...but before they meet in a kiss, Elle pulls back from him, her eyes narrowed, blue and crackling with her power.

"And because I'm broken, and you want to fix me, watchmaker?"

The way she spits the word makes him think of his mother -- no, not his mother, Virginia -- and how watchmaker was never special enough for her. He can't tell whether Elle really means to demean him, or if she's just trying to get a rise out of him. After staring at her for a long time, unable to arrive at a conclusion, he releases her hand and turns away from her with a sigh.

His unfinished peach pie is across the table. He starts to move it with his mind, but after one tremor of the chipped plate on the table, he stops, the image of Brian Davis with his bashed-in head and exposed brain, his blood staining the floor of Gray & Sons and painting the walls of Gabriel's apartment with the words forgive me and I have sinned, leaping to the front of his mind, unbidden.

"I used to fix things," he says. "Then I started taking them apart."

"Because it made you special."

Gabriel nods. "Lately I've been thinking...is being special worth the price of being unwanted?" He looks at Elle. "Of being un-mourned?"

"Your mother wants you," she replies, an edge creeping into her voice, which Gabriel at first takes to be bitterness, but on further analysis, ascertains to be envy.

"My mother wants me the way your father wanted you."

Ell winces, as if stricken, but her eyes soften on Gabriel. Understanding, empathy, passes between them. It's an electrifying connection.

"What does she want you to do?"

"Kill my father."

"Your...Arthur's already dead!"

"Apparently a bucket of water doesn't work on him, either."

Elle considers this. "Are you going to do it?"

"I don't know."

Without the assistance of his telekinesis, he moves his coffee and pie across the table, eating and drinking as he relates yesterday's discussion with Angela to Elle. He holds nothing back, shares everything with her, from the attempted drowning to Angela's theories of what his upbringing meant to the manifestation of his abilities.

"But what if she's lying?" he concludes with a weary sigh, eyeing his plate, empty of every last crumb of crust and blob of filling. When the waitress comes by to add fresh, hot coffee to their mugs, he considers ordering another slice of pie, but decides against it.

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Even if she's not lying...Even if my father is evil and deserves to die...Who am I to mete out that justice? Don't I deserve death, too?"

Knowing it could mean the end of all his hopes with Elle, he meets her gaze, faces her, against whom he's sinned so grievously, as jury, judge, and executioner.

Surprisingly, her answer is a quiet, "Maybe. Maybe I do, too. I've killed people, too, Gabriel..."

Gabriel. He sits up, everything in him, previously so weighed down with guilt, lightening at Elle's first use of his name in a way that's not mocking.

"...and I don't even feel guilty about killing," she continues. "Maybe that makes me a worse person than you. But maybe it doesn't. Maybe neither of us deserves to be punished for what we've done, because it wasn't us, it was them."

"Are people born wicked?" he quotes. "Or do they have wickedness thrust upon them?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

Much as Gabriel craves absolution, something holds him back from embracing the appealing idea Elle dangles before him. His eyes narrow on her.

"Why are you saying all this? Are you trying to convince me it's okay to kill you?"

"No, I--"

He grabs her roughly by the shoulders, pushing her against the wall on the side of the booth, the window sill digging into her back, and shakes her.

"Do you have any idea how much I want to do it? Your ability teases me, Elle, like a peach pie baking in the oven. All I have to do is open you up and take it. You can't even imagine how much I want you..."

Up till now he's been staring at her forehead, and the thin white scar he gave her before, which he could rip open again. But at her sharply indrawn breath, his gaze drops, and he sees her wide eyes. He can't read if she's afraid or simply surprised that he seems finally about to fulfill her request. The hesitation is just enough to bring himself under control, to remember Angela's words.

"That's not my true ability," he says, shakily, not relaxing his grip on Elle's shoulders, though his fingers around her arms feel more like he's clinging to her for support than holding her still so he can exact his work on her. "I'm capable of so much more than that...savagery. And I think that if I can fix you, I might have a chance at fixing me."

If Elle was afraid, there's no sign of it now. "Because you know me you can chance for the better?"

He's not sure if Elle means it -- she might be mocking him again. But he doesn't care, because he has hope now, faith in himself that wasn't there before.

"Maybe even for good."

His hands slide up from Elle's shoulders, fingers stroking the so-soft skin of her neck. He leans closer to her, the diner booth creaking and wobbling as he shifts his weight on the bench, so he can cup her face in his hands. Once again he brushes his thumb across her lips, wanting to kiss her, afraid to do so because she might pull away.

She doesn't.

In fact, it's Elle who closes the gap between them, pressing her lips against his.

It's nothing like Gabriel expects for a first kiss, nothing like he imagined kissing her had he had the chance to initiate; Elle kisses him hard, bruisingly, biting his lower lip and plunging her tongue into his mouth...igniting the tiniest bursts of electricity to give him a literal taste of her power. Not that he minds her passion, or has any difficulty responding with equal fervor -- though of course, sans electricity. He makes up for that by raking the fingers of one hand through her hair, sweeping the other down the bare curve of her back, slipping his fingers beneath the opening of her dress, coaxing sighs and low moans from her by pulling her practically into his lap...

A thump on the table jars his mouth from Elle's. Thinking he's rammed her legs against the underside of the table, he starts to apologize, when a brusque woman's voice that doesn't belong to Elle says.

"Here's your check."

He glances over his shoulder to see, through smudged and askew glasses, the waitress leaning against the table where she slammed down the little black folder containing their bill.

"Thank you," he says sheepishly, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

The waitress huffs away before he can get out his money, but flings back over her shoulder. "Get a room."

"Sorry," Gabriel apologizes, straightening his glasses, then fumbling through his wallet for a few bills to pay their tab. He's still too hazy from the kiss to comprehend the numbers on the cash or compare them with the total indicated on the check. "I should have brought you someplace classier."

"We did classy for dinner. And we couldn't make out in a classy place, could we?"

Elle takes Gabriel's wallet from him, kissing him languidly as she does so.

"Anyway," she says, pulling back and flinging a ten on the table, which is leaving the waitress a much bigger tip than Gabriel thinks her service merits -- until Elle continues, "I think that waitress is a little smarter than I thought."

Gabriel blinks, struggling to comprehend. "You...want to get a...?" His voice breaks, and he clears his throat, which feels suddenly constricted by the collar of his dress shirt and his tie. "You want to get a room? Like in a hotel?"

"Unless you'd rather get Metaphysical at Mommy's?"

Gabriel is out of the booth and pulling Elle up with him as if he's acquired super speed. "No, but I wouldn't mind getting Metaphysical on Mommy's credit card."

Elle grins wickedly. "Screw the Company -- now you're talking."

A/N: Thanks very much to all who read and reviewed the last chapter. Your feedback and encouragement mean a lot! This time, commenters get to go out for pie with your choice of Gabriel -- the gentleman who orders you your own slice of pie; the romantic who shares one piece and uses the same fork; or the lustful one who doesn't care about pie and just wants to make out. ;)

Next up...smut. ;)