complexharmony | Overflow. Open Post. Captcha. Etc

( Hank spends his time in limbo watching everyone that passes. Most of them wore the restaurant's uniform and was, obviously, not his mystery guest. Not too long of a wait before a promising candidate follows a waiter, and right past Hank's table, he pulls in an audible breath and huffs it right back out. He felt like an idiot. He had no idea what he was doing, in a sense that he had no idea what prompted him to follow through with this sort of encounter.

Well, a few things came to mind, but he doesn't like to acknowledge the insight he has into his behaviors. This particular one stems from loneliness and the need, the desire, for human connection. Hank's more common behaviors derived from recklessness and suicidal ideation. He lifts a beer to his lips and swallows back the remaining last gulps. He sets the beer down. His eyes fall to another waiter leading a young kid. Even as the dark-haired boy sits down at his table, Hank's waiting for the stranger to pass him.

Until he says his name. Gabriel? Didn't this kid say something about fucking flying with an angel? What the fuck... )

You're fucking shitting me. ( He stares at the hand outstretched to him. He neglects to take it. )

( Gabriel releases a small huff of air, somewhere between an exhale and laughter, accentuated by a wry smile. His tongue flickers out briefly licking at his upper lip as he draws his hand back. )

Ah, no, I'm afraid I am not in the habit of doing... well, that.

( The smile shifts to something akin to nervousness, his eyes wide and unassuming. But there's something within them, if anyone looked close enough, a keen sharpness just beneath the disguise. When the waiter comes by, Gabriel orders exactly what was promised: nuggets with a side of mac n cheese, plus apple juice. It would be terribly unhealthy, he knew, but it wasn't something he needed to worry about any longer.

Food handled, he watches Hank for a moment, taking in the disheveled appearance, the hair too long and beard too stringy. He could see how he worked, predict his next move. But what broke him? What secrets lie within that mind? He cants his head, focusing now on the wristwatch. Exactly twelve seconds tick by. )

Your watch is two minutes slow. I could fix that for you. ( He looks up, meeting those tired eyes directly. ) If you'll permit me...?

( Hank watches the kid order his fucking meal off the kid's menu - even with the employee's expression flickering between hospitable to quizzical, Gabriel's confidence exudes compliance for his request. Hank held his breath for a moment and watched the waiter slip away. Hank's eyes fall back on the younger man's face; Gabriel eyes the table before Hank. The older man lowers his eyes and tries to spy what it was Gabriel was seeing. That is until the youth gave it away with the comment about his watch. Hank's eyes his watch, his hand comes up, and he turns it as he cocks his head, a frown to his lips. )

You want to fix my watch? ( He settles his hand back onto the table and raises his eyes to Gabriel's. ) Alright. I guess, if you want to earn your meal.

( Gabriel shakes his head, his brows furrowed over his eyes. )

You misunderstand me. It's not about earning anything. It's simply a technological imperative.

( From his pants pocket he retrieves a small kit, sets it on the table, and pops it open so Hank could see the contents within. )

( Hank takes in a deep breath, unfastens the watch and slides it over with a soft exhalation. Time wasn't necessarily all that imperative to him; punctuality was a trait he'd left behind years ago. He was also sort of just joking, but this kid seems awfully too serious. )

Can't imagine me running two minutes behind on my schedule?

( He eyes the kit. Impressed by the little first-aid set up the kid had with him. Like some sort of wrist watch doctor, always on call. )

( He takes it and holds it up to his ear, listening more closely to its lagging gears. Mm...hm....There. Once he's located the problem, he sets it on the table as well and gets to work. )

The schedule isn't important. Time is a flexible construct, like a flowing river. There's parallels, alternates, even events we cannot foresee happening consecutively adjacent to us.

( His hands move with a dexterous flurry over the tools and watch, prying open its casing with an expert touch. )

What is important, Hank, is the puzzle. The mystery. I like to know how things work. And a watch is a complex piece of machinery. The slightest alteration to the gears, something off kilter, and everything becomes wrong.

( A little more prodding, moving the timepiece's innards around. There's a small adjustment and he closes his eyes, bending close to listen. Smiling with satisfaction, he wraps it back up, and hands it back to the older man. )

There. Now you'll be on time. Or have more freedom to ignore its accuracy.

( Hank's eyes narrow, his head slowly tilting to the right, his focus increasing on Gabriel's calculated movements. His fingers were steady, delicate, strong, confident - like that tone he had with the waiter when he asked for a fucking kid's meal. Who was this kid? Hank was a bit surprised, honestly, with how someone so young was so ... knowledgeable on clocks. He would probably be wrong if it were only just wrist watches the boy knows. Hank can imagine a clockmaker's room full of gears, walls decorated with archaic pieces, innards organized in a mess of piles about the room.

Even the way Gabriel took time to listen to the watch was ... odd, as if the wristwatch told him the very fucking secret as to why it was two minutes behind.

Hank was captivated. He couldn't remember the last time something trivial had his interest to the point that it became somehow bigger than a simple attraction. Hank got the impression Gabriel was really into clocks. He also sounded like a fucking psychopath, but given Hank's line of work, anyone that says they want to open something up and see how it works meant something far more nefarious than a benign wristwatch.

Hank moves his hand over to the watch and holds it between his hands. He takes a new appreciation for the piece. Instead of a wristwatch, he slapped on his wrist, the piece was a complex mechanic that needed TLC, and Hank had been neglectful. He binds it on his wrist again and looks up to Gabriel. )

Thanks for doing that.

( He knew of the interested gaze upon him and thrived with the attention. Tragic that this was all he could show to the public eye. His other activities were practically works of art, and ones he could never claim.

Hank was not too far off with any of his readings, either. Gabriel's work days had been filled with ticks and chimes, rattling pieces, and rotating gears. Is it any wonder Sylar heard them still? They had become a part of him, integrated into his own modes of thinking. He heard them the loudest as he deconstructed a person's mind, liberating it of its power like a pirate plundering treasure from the ocean's depths.

Sylar watches how Hank retrieves the timepiece, noting the difference of how he put it back on (caring, reverent) as compared to the nearly flippant way of its removal. There's no exaggerating his smile for the persona he's portraying. Sylar and Gabriel both favored customers who appreciated their good work. He snaps closed the kit and pockets it once more. )

You are very welcome. Old habits die hard. Perhaps now you'll permit me to ask: why are you drinking so heavily tonight? I mean... ( Sylar rubs at the back of his neck and affects a nervous laugh. ) ...If you don't mind telling me, that is.

( Hank's attention returns to Gabriel when he hears him zip up the tools pouch. Then he looks to his beer with consideration. )

Am I?

( His brows raise on his forehead, and his upper lip lifts over his teeth, exposing the small gap of his two front teeth. He then closes his mouth with a heavy huff that ripples his lips with an audible "phhbbblll." His brows relax, and he returns his eyes to Gabriel. Honestly: )

I was just getting started. ( He grins. He figures, since they're getting acquainted with one another, he ought to ask a question himself. Of course, he starts with the one foremost on his mind. )

Why did you come here and meet me?

( While Hank debates his answer, the waiter brings the order over. Gabriel thanks him graciously, unfolds a napkin with a flick of his wrist, and tucks it into his shirt collar. This was less about maintaining appearances and more for his own assurances. Mac and cheese, of a certain distinction, could be messier than murder.

He dabs some pepper over the pasta, swirls his fork in the creamy cheese, and takes a bountiful bite. While some of his mind still screams about the unhealthiness inherent in the meal, he silences that by marveling at the nostalgic deliciousness. The waiter lingers to see if Hank requires anything further, then leaves the pair alone. )

Mmm. Now this? This is good. Six cheeses, at least. Perfectly blended. ( He dabs at his lips with the napkin as he finishes the bite. ) I came because you offered. It wasn't just about the meal, but the company. And you seemed... interesting. I miss enjoying meals with interesting people.

( Hank tucks into his own food. He's careful how many times he glances up at Gabriel, conscious of not staring as the youth expresses his satisfaction with the meal he ordered. It certainly was more than he could describe; Hank's verdict consisted of a few words, only really what was necessary: good, shit, too drunk to taste.

He takes a sip of his beer as he contemplates Gabriel's next statement. It offered Hank a bit of insight into Gabriel's environment. Or as the other would project it. Interesting people were far and few between, enough for the dark-haired boy to miss encountering them. The timeline is relative; it could be a few hours to a few years. Hank catches himself staring, and he looks down at his meal. When was the last time he had an interesting outing with someone? He wonders how long he could keep up the pretense of being "interesting." The thought then prompts Hank to wonder just when he decided to try and be interesting for the kid... He was a disappointment. Gabriel will soon see that. )

What keeps you from enjoying those meals?

( That staring did not go unnoticed even if, by all appearances, Gabriel continues with his meal nonchalantly. It was a look he'd cultivated well. No one at diners wanted to really look at anybody, you were expected to keep your eyes drifting, non-threatening, casual.

Funny what information one could glean from that. Where the exits were. How often the waiters came around or when they snuck off for a quick snort of booger sugar behind the shop. The chef kept his head down, buried in his work or, more accurately, the sports game on his phone. Gabriel couldn't see it, but knew the look of a gambler. He had a whole check, possibly more, riding on the next couple hours. And the hostess? The long sleeves didn't fool anyone, not with how she kept scratching at the inside of her elbow.

All this he derives over several bites, a few glances, seemingly under the guise of simple people watching. )

I travel often. Sometimes I have enough for a cup of ramen, other times it's more.

( But that'd only lead to more questions, wouldn't it? He turns that perceptive tool on Hank now, the metal of his fork clacking between his teeth. Unkempt hair, multiple beers, awkwardness. He sucks the last tendrils of cheese from the utensil, working his tongue between the prongs. This was someone who didn't want to go home. Bad relationship, bad memories, overburdened work load, not enough work? He was a puzzle that needed solving. )

But what about you? Do you often enjoy the company of strange young men at night? Meeting like this?

( Hank looks up from his bite of food as Gabriel talks about ramen. He was personally familiar with the noodles. Although, these days, it was more about take-out, fast food, and restaurants. Hank's income was enough to cover the bill for this place. Even a kid's meal was uncomfortably expensive.

He huffs gently and shakes his head as he contemplates on the inquiry. )

Hm. Mm, sometimes. ( He brings a napkin to his lips and wipes at his skin. He sets the napkin down on the table, beside his plate. ) Sometimes I don't enjoy their company. Though I don't typically meet them ... in a restaurant. More like, the scene of the crime, interrogating rooms, over the phone, undisclosed secret locations that make them feel safe... whatever.

( He delights in that response, grinning around his fork. The first two, two-and-a-half answers related to the job. Detective work, walking the beat, he could almost picture Hank in a proper uniform. Billy club, mace, checkerboard cap. Was that the style these days? They cycled out through the decades, he barely bothered to keep track anymore. 'Undisclosed secret locations' gets a slightly quirked brow. )

You make your work sound almost like a hook-up.

( The venturing statement held no judgment nor certainty. It might've even been taken as a joke, so casually flippant as it was. But his eyes were sharp--too much so, and he lowered his glance back to his plate. )

So, a cop then. No... more high ranking. Are you the... Captain, perhaps?

Tch. ( Hank thinks about how his description brought Gabriel to reflect on it like a hook-up. He got it, and he didn't necessarily disagree with that assessment either. He was, in a way, hooking up with these people to extract some intimate knowledge. To take whatever secrets they had to share, find out whatever they may be hiding. The exchange was more for his benefit, less for whoever he was meeting.

What would be more impressive to Gabriel? Telling him what he was or saying something false? Hank didn't imagine anyone was too impressed by him as of late. Was it wrong to want to feel that again? From a stranger? )

Lieutenant.

( He disliked the idea of talking about himself though, so he tried to turn the questions around. )

What about you, what's your story here?

( To his credit, Gabriel does appear impressed. He always wanted to be a cop, had even considered trying it out for a few years, but ultimately decided against it. Too much risk involved. The government had begun its plans for people like him nearly two decades ago. Round them all up, put them in camps. Mark them as terrorists and no questions were asked. He'd even worked with them for a while but splintered off.

And now here he was. Eating a kid's meal.

He finishes the last couple bites of his pasta, then munches thoughtfully on the nuggets. Flaky, crispy, microwaved. )

Oh, I'm hardly as interesting as you. You've made a name for yourself. Accredited, accolades, reputation. I'm currently drifting. Trying to find my place in the world. I'm sure it's a story as old as time.

( It was an easy mold to fit into. Early thirties, fresh from college, or divorce, or on the flipside, newly married. The stories and lies became easy. )

( Hank nods his head, the answer was vague and intentionally unspecific. There was an idea behind Gabriel's description of himself, but nothing concrete. The next thought was how he described Hank's achievements, which made him wonder if Gabriel had heard about him before. The only thing he managed was a bust some years ago, probably when this guy was still just a kid.

No, Hank doesn't think Gabriel's heard of him but considered what must be a prerequisite of becoming a lieutenant that a cop had to be someone to move into that position.

Gabriel described himself as drifting, a piece from earth having fallen off the bank and into the stream, dipping into the cold water, splashing against the ridges, and washing ashore.

Detroit was an odd place to wash up on; most of what ends up in the water here tends to drift out of the city. Was this just a place he'd caught onto before the tide takes him back out into the rapid waters? Or will he be entangled with whatever else is lost and forgotten on the banks of Detroit's rivers? )

It is. Sometimes people don't get to that answer.

No, they don't. Some remain insignificant their entire lives. Collect snow globes, insist on staying in the same place forever. Never moving, always just... Trapped.

( His eyes softened with the memory. "You are not my Gabriel. You are damned!" The words haunt him, his mother's--no, not his mother's, just the woman who adopted him in a diner. Paid for him like buying a new car. It didn't make her death any easier to bear. She hadn't deserved that. There's no wetness to his eyes, no tears to shed anymore. He shifts in his seat, straightens, refocuses his mind. Who to pick on? The chef's gamblings weren't doing so hot. Those dark brows were furrowed, sweat pooling in his dreadlocks. Gabriel only hoped he would not drip anything onto the food he served, but then, doubted the man cared. )

Take the people in this shop. Perfect example. You've seen what I've seen, right? No one becomes a cop without that ability to observe. ( Gabriel nods his head towards the hostess, indicates with his eyes the chef, the other patrons. ) Tell me what you see. Where do you think their lives are headed?

Edited 2020-12-09 07:29 (UTC)

Hm. ( Just like driftwood, Hank thinks. It started out trapped, broke away from its roots, and peaced the fuck out downstream. He also did a mental check on if he owned any fucking snow globes. What a fucking tourist trap that was. ) Eh? ( He's redirected with Gabriel's encouragement to observe the surrounding environment. His lips part, and he looks around, wondering what the hell he was supposed to "see." No one becomes a cop without that ability to observe. He looks back to Gabriel, and his eyes focus on the dark edges of the young man's jawline. A five o'clock shadow is coming in strong. His eyes then trail off of his companion to those around them, finding the hostess with Gabriel's guiding eyes toward her. )

You want me to make up a story about who I see here and where they're going?

( No, Gabriel wants him to observe these people as if they're books. He was right, though. Part of being a good cop was being suspicious of everyone - well, Hank would say so. People watching became second nature to Hank. He picked up on little things here and there and stored bits of information for later, but he wasn't a fucking profiler. He was simply street smart. )

Okay. ( He clears his throat and shifts in his seat. He brings a napkin to his lips and pats at them before he exchanges the cloth for his beer bottle to moisten his palate. He sets the bottle down with a soft thud to the tablecloth and looks to Gabriel as he answers. The hostess didn't have a name tag. High-end restaurants like this didn't bother with such minuscule details. They sold the latest trends in meals, wine, and cakes. What was important was the patron would go home dreaming about the Skillet Cod with Lemon and Capers and not about Bob, Kate, Jen, or Shelly. So, without a name, Hank gives her one - not that it would be close to what it was, but for the sake of this weird little game(?) to remain inconspicuous, he makes one up: )

Rachel, too thin, gray, and the foundation she is wearing is cheap. She can't afford name brands because she has a habit to keep the itch away. ( The comment about her foundation is to indicate that Hank noticed the scars and scabs that freckled her face beneath that makeup. It wasn't acne or blemishes. It was the itch, the meth bug that also scattered bites across her fingers and hands. ) She's going to be fired and homeless, all her family has cut ties, and all her friends only stick around long enough to get high.

She'll be in and out of treatment, find some boyfriends, return to drugs, and eventually be picked up by law enforcement and entered into mandatory residential recovery houses to stave off criminal charges.

I'm not interested in judging if her life is significant, but it tends to work out that most people with the problem grew up feeling that way. I've seen my share of people coming in and out of the department, I know the look.

( He didn't feel good about this assessment, in fact, he felt shitty about making that judgment - telling that "story" about Rachel. Even if it were true, what business was it of his? ) Is that what you wanted me to say?

( Gabriel watches Hank throughout, studying him as much as the older man studied the environment. He could practically see the cobwebs clearing out darkened corners, settled dust clearing off tools that might've gone a bit rusty. He follows the older man's gaze, beginning to see the reality as he illustrated.

He was tempted to paint the future for himself, to see just how accurate Hank's story would be. This he resists as he realizes, partway through Hank's audio book version of 'This Is Your Life', that he doesn't want to know. The reality proclaimed is enough. What are the chances he'd run into "Rachel" again after tonight? Slim to none, if he were the betting sort.

After Hank's story concludes, Sylar actually grins. He won't applaud him, as that'd draw in too much attention, but he does incline his head forward in a slight bow. )

More than what I wanted, Lieutenant. You were flawless. But you saw exactly what I needed you to see. These people have no escape. They're like mice running on a wheel. They may stop to grab a drink- ( His gaze shifts, just for a half-second, towards the collection of bottles on Hank's side of the table. ) -or some other vice, but ultimately? They run their routines like good little drones, never thinking for themselves or breaking free.

( He tosses the final piece of nugget into the air and catches it with a snap of his sharp white teeth. With another shift gesture, he retrieves a clicky pen from his pocket. )

However, there are some routines we must all abide by, isn't there? Certain... natural urges for our own survival.

( Sylar finishes writing, ducks his head down, and blows on the thin napkin so it sails over next to Hank's own napkin. On it would be the address of his motel and room number. )

Just in case the universe doesn't see fit for our phones to mis-align once again, that's where I'm staying for the next week. Just in case you want to talk or break out from your own routine, hm?

( The words are innocent enough, but in his dark eyes, there's something of a challenge within. He licks at a few stray crumbs from his index finger and thumb. )

( Hank's eyes narrow to Gabriel's mouth as the corners push into a soft smile. It's an indication that he was pleased, which words following that smirk confirm Hank's perception of Gabriel's body language. Gabriel's message didn't necessarily tumble from his lips with minced words. Derogatory adjectives such as mice and drones gave Hank a clear understanding that Gabriel did not think much of his fellow humanity.

Hank contemplates the blind date. Was it also important for Gabriel to break away from routine and give in to impulsive behaviors and divine interventions? Did Gabriel think he was proving to himself he was not a drone by meeting Hank tonight? Did Hank prove he wasn't a drone either? His light blue eyes lower to the napkin that glides above the table cloth and lands onto his own used napkin. He sees the writing on it for what it was, rather than reading it. After, he looks up to Gabriel to see an ignited expression on his face. Like he was watching the ball soar through the air, about ready to nestle into the net. )

Alright. Fuck routines.

Overflow. Open Post. Captcha. Etc

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject