Second Life
Title: Second Life
Characters: Gabriel Gray, Peter Petrelli, mentions of others (platonic Gabriel&Peter)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word count: ~3,400
Setting: Post-series
Summary: Gabriel has reason to believe he's leading a second life.
Notes: Beta and a long, valuable discussion of the meaning of horror by dancingdragon3. Written for Halloween, 2012. Dedicated to black_sluggard.
As nightmares went, nothing all that gruesome happened in it, but it still scared the crap out of him.
He was seeing the dream from the point of view of himself. He was dining at a posh restaurant, way out of the league of Gabriel's normal venues - one of those upscale New York or DC places that served you tiny portions at enormous prices. Speaking of which, he bent to sign the little slip of paper that was brought to him with his returned credit card. As he started to fold shut the slender black folio over the bill, his eyes caught on the signature and widened in shock. The pretty waitress, hostess, or whatever the staff was called at these high priced places took it from his faltering hand. He started to reach out for it again as it left his grip.
Ever attentive, she paused. "Sir?" She offered the folio back to him, but his hand had already been retracted to his lap as though his body was possessed by some force other than his own will.
He felt his face contort into a polite smile as words left it that he had no intention of speaking. "No, it's nothing. Thank you so much."
The signature: Nathan Petrelli.
Gabriel's life was very quiet these days. He worked alone in the clock repair shop he'd purchased and he lived in the modest apartment above it. It was run down, but cozy, and didn't require him to go anywhere to get to work. His work was a labor of love, mostly restoring antiques no one else would bother with. The amount of work and specialized spare parts needed would ward off anyone who cared about money. Gabriel only cared about salvaging broken things which were unique and damaged, restoring them to life and the admiration of others. He was fortunate that his abilities enabled his hobby. It kept him out of trouble.
Many other people with abilities weren't so lucky. Claire had outed them with a few too many careless words about the nature of the performers at the Sullivan Brothers' carnival. In the absence of their leader and confronted by inquiring reporters, a few confessed to their abilities and that was all it took for confirmation of Claire's amazing story. Within days, all the carnies were celebrities and the world knew not only about regenerating, indestructible girls, but also of fire-breathers and people who could turn things invisible or use telekinesis.
After the previous (subjective) eight years with no more than a single, irascible, irritable companion for five of them, Gabriel had not been keen to put himself in the limelight. He bought his shop, retired to its comforting, carefully synchronized ticking, and fixed things. Peter visited several times a week. No longer irascible, Peter would bring dinner and Gabriel would listen as the paramedic would tell him about his adventures of the day. A little more subtly (though Gabriel noticed), Peter kept him up on news of the family with the occasional casual reference to Angela joining a bridge club or Simon playing baseball. He appreciated those, going still and listening intently until Peter moved on to the next topic with an admirably natural flow to the typically one-sided conversation.
He worried about the world and life he had shut himself away from, but what he had, mostly alone, was still a good life. It was so much better than he deserved. He was happy and safe. So was everyone else. That was what mattered.
One of the clocks was off. It was a common occurrence as some of the oldest models in his collection tended to spin faster at the beginning of their cycle and slower towards the end. This one didn't sound like that sort of problem and his ear was refined enough through his ability that he could detect that even across a room filled with noisy chronographs. He stalked slowly around the room, listening at each device. He could tell it was one of the larger ones from the peculiar, haunting echo. He lingered next to the three grandfather clocks he had running, but they were going strong with clean, crisp, clear movements.
He spied a wall clock with a mirror-like face, stepping closer to it. The angle caught his reflection and returned it to him. Even though his mind was firmly on the sound, he knew what he saw. It made him gasp and stagger back, a frightened croak emerging from his throat as his hands flew to his features, pawing at them in panic. They were normal enough, known to him since his earliest memories. They were nothing at all like those of Peter's brother. Breathing hard, Gabriel remembered that long sojourn, trapped under the identity and mind of another. It was his worst nightmare.
Summoning his courage, Gabriel sidled up to the clock, looking at the reflective back. His face looked the same as ever, if a little paler and more drawn. It looked nothing at all like Nathan. He studied it for several minutes as his heart rate slowed back to normal. Maybe I'm not getting enough sleep. He did look a bit haggard. His brows drew together and he tilted his head, eyes going unfocused as he listened again.
Not a single clock was out of sync.
He watched the news on specials a lot. The evolving public opinion on them was one of the few things on television that he found worth watching. Scientists, politicians, musicians, and religious leaders all chimed in. There was an air of barely controlled hysteria at times. They managed to dig up Mohinder somewhere. It amused Gabriel to watch the man try to explain the unexplainable. He was less amused when Coyote Sands was more literally unearthed. He watched the film as a small cohort stood around Samuel Sullivan while the sands boiled and shifted, spewing up the same grisly remains that Nathan had helped bury - and for good, he'd hoped. Nothing good was going to come of bringing the dead back. The idea of restless spirits of past specials, Nathan in particular, haunting them all gave him a shiver.
He showed the video clip to Peter, who nodded and told him, "There was an emergency law passed making all police, law enforcement officers, first responders, teachers, and I don't know who else, into mandatory reporters about abilities."
"You are … legally required to report yourself?"
"Yeah," Peter said soberly.
"We're fugitives again."
"Almost," Peter agreed. "It won't last. Everyone will have to go underground again. You're safe," he tried to sooth. The watchmaker wasn't worried about himself, but about the world that he was hiding himself from. Was it possible that he should be out there making a difference?
Gabriel flipped through the few shirts assembled in his small closet. He didn't have many clothes, having purchased everything he owned in the last few months. One more new white shirt didn't stand out to him, but this particular one was clean, crisp, and looked expensive. He pulled it off the hanger, thinking that perhaps he could pair it with the golden brown silk tie Emma had liked so much at the shop and insisted he buy. She'd made several rapid signs indicating her eyes, so he assumed it complimented him. Maybe he'd have a customer today and it would impress them.
He shrugged into it, but couldn't get it to set right on his lean shoulders. The neck was about right, but the cuffs didn't hang in the right place. The fit was weird. He took it off, fingering the fine texture of the cloth. He could remember buying it and even having a tailor take his measurements and adjust it to size. His brows drew together in puzzlement. He could even remember exchanging pleasantries with the man. That was no shopping trip with Emma. When did I do that? It was without context though, as all he could remember was trying the shirt on at the store, posing and talking while wearing it, and then the tailor covering the garment with a protective bag.
With a start, he realized he wasn't 'remembering' this at all. Savagely, he threw the shirt into the corner with a snarl. He'd been standing there absently pulling the memory out of the cloth just like he'd done when Angela had brought him Nathan's childhood things. I didn't buy that shirt! But then what was it doing in my closet?!
A quick search turned up nothing else of questionable provenance in his wardrobe. He glared at the cast-aside top in the corner, but didn't dare to touch it again. The very thought of doing so made his skin crawl. He left it there to rot through the day and that night.
In the morning, it was gone like it had never been there at all.
"Peter, what would you do if I went insane?"
"You're not insane, Gabriel."
"But what would you do if I did?"
Peter chuckled as he dug into his guacamole. "Are you planning on going insane? Is that like a vacation destination?"
Gabriel sighed and stared at his calzone. He knew Peter had had to go out of his way to get it, since Peter had already been at Mexican Ed's when he'd called to see what Gabe wanted for dinner. Now that the food was in front of him, he didn't have much appetite. It was like his stomach was rebelling against the idea of a heavy Italian meal. (And why had he wanted Italian anyway? He hated Italian food.) He picked it up resolutely and took a bite anyway. If he was losing his marbles for real, then being unappreciative about Peter hanging out with him was not a good idea. He'd need all the help he could get.
"Hey," Peter said softly as he chewed, giving him that intent look that Gabriel was both embarrassed and reassured to see. It told him Peter had noticed. "What's going on for you?"
"It's probably nothing."
"Yeah, a lot of people tell me that in my line of work, but someone always thought it was important enough to call for an ambulance. Now that I'm here, you gotta tell me. Those are the rules."
He smiled wanly, imagining Peter using those lines on little children and old fogies alike. It probably worked better on them than on him. Because of all that Peter had let the two of them put in the past, never to stand between them, Gabriel was all the more hesitant to drag anything that smacked of Nathan out into the light of day. Making up his mind, he shook his head. "No. It's nothing." He stared sightlessly at his calzone. "Just … keep an eye on me, okay?"
He was killing again. It wasn't the first time he'd had this particular nightmare. He took consolation in knowing it was just a bad dream. This time he recognized the victim, which made it worse. He supposed his imagination was getting creative in torturing him. It still took him a few moments to place the girl. Her name was Amanda. She'd been in the carnival. Lydia's … something, as he recalled. Daughter, niece, ward, whatever. He hadn't talked to her in his brief time there. He supposed she had a power, which was why he was currently cutting into her cranium as she screamed and begged for her life.
He didn't bother to try to not do it. All he ever managed in these dreams was brief moments of control wrested away from … himself. The only thing that would do was botch the otherwise surgically precise cut and prolong her agony as he would merely cut again.
Skullcap went to the side via telekinesis. Brownish-blonde hair splayed around it like some absurd, tendril-legged starfish. He mused on that for a moment while she whimpered and sobbed, before he turned back to finish the job. Gabriel wished he could shut his eyes and didn't have to watch, but even had he been able to, it wouldn't have helped. He knew this part too well - burned into his memory as it was. His fingers probed expertly, finding the spot easily as she slipped into unconsciousness, never to wake. There was that click inside of his brain like the instant and perfect satisfaction of the worst craving imaginable. He was addicted and it was his fix.
Gabriel loathed how good that felt and the slow, lovely, orgasmic aftershocks that flowed and rippled through his body. He didn't deserve to feel that way. In an angry, unexpected surge, he slashed downward and to the side with his right hand, cutting into his left. He wouldn't have minded if he'd cut it off. Although it was deep, it healed in a few seconds and he found himself as powerless as before. Frustrating dreams, these were, showing him the worst parts of himself and leaving him a spectator to them.
He struggled to wake up as his body turned to the small assembled audience and the many videocameras. He held up one blood-smeared hand with a slight flourish, his hand filling with flame. Gabriel fought not to speak, but the words came anyway in Nathan's voice. "That's all there is to it, ladies and gentlemen. If you can duplicate this one power and release a few of them into the public with an appropriate kill switch, then abilities become a self-regulating issue. You could call it the 'final solution' to the abilities problem."
The next day, talk radio droned on comfortingly in the background as Gabriel settled in for his most recent project. He was feeling good this morning, despite his continuing difficulty in getting restful sleep. He pondered that as he opened the case and displayed all the delicate machinery inside. He could sense the source of the disturbance so clearly in his mind - a slightly warped gear had put everything else out of pattern. Sometimes, repairing a timepiece held interesting parallels to opening a skull and gaining an ability. It seemed no wonder that he was dreaming about doing the real thing. He decided that his good mood must be due to the new project and the fact that he was apparently getting enough of a reputation in the chronograph club to receive referrals. It was always cheering to be thought well of.
An hour later, he leaned away, stretching his back. A faint noise caught his ear - an odd scraping. He looked to his left forearm, moving it experimentally. There it was again. He pulled up his sleeve to see that a small burr on the clasp of his watch was snagging on the fabric of his cuff. A burr? What did I hit with my watch that would ding the clasp like that? He was usually so careful. Brows furrowed, he took it off and spun his chair around to bring the sylar under better light and magnification.
The metal had an angled cut in it, the acute point of which had turned up as a burr to hook on fabric and anything else it rubbed against. Cold sweat suddenly broke out across him as he realized something that might have caused it. He held up his left hand and mimed slicing at it with his right - across his forearm, with the cut ending at his wrist. It felt like his stomach just fell through the floor. Breathing shallowly, he turned his hand, flexing his fingers. He didn't need the manifestation to be sure, because as soon as he looked for it inside his mind, he knew it was there. Fire sprang from his fingertips as the truth was known.
"Peter! You have to lock me up. I'm- I think I'm killing again."
Peter stood on the stoop, two steaming bags of what purported to be Vietnamese food in hand. Gabriel's stomach sank even further as Peter didn't even look surprised - merely disappointed. Peter made a tilt of his head and gesture with the sacks as if to ask, 'are you going to let me in?'
Gabriel held open the door silently, feeling miserable and sick. In his rush to confess, it hadn't occurred to him that by backsliding, he'd let down the only friend he had - the man who had forgiven him more than anyone else and yet who still found time to keep him company, to keep him from completely fading away from the world.
Peter glanced around, then walked to the tiny kitchen table where they usually ate. "You 'think' you're killing? Tell me about that." He put the food down and watched Gabriel closely.
Gabriel stuffed his hands into his pockets and anxiously explained. "I've been having these dreams, nightmares really, where I'm the one behind all the government programs and paranoia and stuff. I'm talking to the president, other senators," Peter sighed as he unloaded take-out containers, but didn't interrupt, "helping bring people in … and last night I killed again … a- a girl. Teenage girl. Amanda, from the carnival."
"I know."
Peter's soft words were like a fist to the gut, sending Gabriel's already churning stomach into overdrive. "You knew!?" he whispered, swaying on his feet. He seized the corner of the wall at the edge of the kitchen.
Peter sat down heavily at the table, looking far older than he should as he reached up to rub at his forehead.
"What do you mean, 'you knew'?" Gabriel demanded.
"It happened a long time ago. And this ..." Peter shrugged, gesturing loosely around the apartment. Very sad, was his face. Torn. Like a doctor telling someone they were terminal. "This was your choice."
"What?" Vertigo assailed him as the edges of Gabriel's sense of reality peeled up like the corners of a label. Peter was still looking down, their dinner forgotten off to the side. Gabriel came to the other side of the table, resting his hands on it for stability and so he could feel something solid. "What … choice did I make?"
"It's always the same one," Peter said, looking up at Gabriel. He spoke gently, as if he well knew how upset Gabriel was and how fragile he felt. "And I always explain, so that … if you want to try again …?" He shrugged and Gabriel waited silent and tense for Peter's promised explanation. Even if practiced, it was still hard for Peter to give. "After we got out of Matt's prison, after Claire jumped, after so many specials were revealed … a part of you still believed you were Nathan Petrelli." Peter grimaced. "You did- He did, terrible things - Nathan's morality, Sylar's abilities. You came to me and begged me to stop you, help you kill Nathan, and reverse it all."
"We could … have Matt ..."
"He's dead," Peter said shortly. "A lot of people are dead. And we tried. We tried a lot of things. You're too powerful. You shake off the drugs, I'm not willing to kill you, and when it comes down to it, you don't want to die. This," he made a smaller wave at the apartment, "this was your idea." Peter looked up at him with a momentary, brittle smile. "It works. You figure it out every six months or so, but it works until then."
Gabriel swallowed, mouth dry. "I'm … asleep somewhere. And this whole thing, the shop, the clocks, you visiting me … I'm trapped in my mind. Again." The years of loneliness pressed down on him, making tears well up in his eyes. "Are you real?" he barely got out before his voice broke.
"Yes," Peter said emphatically. "I'm real. I will not leave you. I won't stop visiting. One of these times you'll beat it, maybe come to terms with whatever it is inside of you that's broken. No matter how long it takes."
"How long as it taken already?"
Peter's expression shuttered slightly. "It's been a while."
"What do we do now?"
Peter dipped his head to the side and exhaled. "I touch your forehead, drain the memories, and you start over with your shop."
"You'll still visit me?"
Peter nodded solemnly. "I'll still visit you."