hh_mirror | Anger Management (Closed RP)

Current Location: Sylar!Tent
Current Music: The Package ~ A Perfect Circle

Entry tags:

Anger Management (Closed RP)

It had been a bad week. That was a pretty good way to put it. What made it all ten times worse, though, was that I'd been denied my usual ways of coping. I couldn't leave, couldn't ignore everyone and bang around in my kitchen, I couldn't even go on runs for fear of leaving the camp and the demon coming after Peter while I was gone. I was frustrated - by way more than just the demon - and I had energy to burn like you would not believe.

Oh, yeah. And I was pissed. But even I wasn't stupid enough to try to take down a demon. Which left me with way too much aggression and nowhere to put it. Peter needed me, so I shoved everything I was feeling deep down until, eventually, it had to explode. Peter had gone out earlier that day, Claude trailing (invisibly and unknown to Peter) behind him. Excellent.

I left a note saying I'd gone for a walk. Then, grabbing my splat gun and a bag containing several amulets and the machete I'd gotten from Dean, I headed out the door. What? It was a run. Recovering stolen merchandise. I'd even planned for it. Had steps and everything.

Arriving at my destination, I kicked open the door, my eyes scanning the room. Step one - check.

Sylar was sitting in a chair, headphones in, unaware. Two steps from the door, my fist connected with his jaw. Step two - check.

See? Going great.

Grinning ferociously, I aimed my splat gun at his head. "Hey, fuckface. You have something I need back."

Oh, this was going to work out swell.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Hey! It was Peter. "Hi, Pete!" Hee, Peter. I reached up and patted his face, somehow connecting. "I went on a run. 'S okay, you should see the other guy."

One thought was very clear - I could not tell Peter what I'd done. Mainly because he'd shout or something and my head hurt. Grimacing, I made a soft noise of pain when I shifted wrong. Oh, yeah. Ribs definitely broken. Some still-coherent thought process had me sitting up, breath hitching as I moved my stabbed shoulder, to reach into the stand next to the tub and pull out a pain amulet. Lots of blood made for easy invoking, and I dropped it over my head, giving myself a moment to reorient.

"It happened..." God, I didn't even know. "Kind of a gradual thing." Then I registered his concern and looked at him. "I'm fine. Don't worry, I'm fine." I wished I had some Brimstone, though, even though you'd never hear me admit it. Oh, yeah, and that I could stitch myself up, because two stab wounds definitely needed some attention.

"Don't suppose you have a needle and thread on you?" I wheezed a laugh, face contorting as my ribs ground against each other at the movement.

"Damn it, I left my splat gun on his floor!" Son of a bitch!

Just because he was a nurse and kind of used to this stuff didn't stop Peter from getting close to freaking out. Hey, he'd been a hospice nurse more recently, and dying people didn't have a tendency to wander around and get stabbed. It had months since he'd seen something like this - he just hoped the training would kick in at some point.

A little incoherent, probably from blood loss or adrenaline. Stab wound in the shoulder, probably one in the stomach under the towel, definitely broken ribs from the way Rachel was grimacing. Burn marks on her arm, god, what had she been going up against? Bruising around her neck, and Peter was willing to bet there'd be more bruising where he couldn't see it. This was insane.

"You're not fine," Peter retorted automatically, ignoring what she said about the splat gun. That was not the right thing to be worrying about here. He tucked the watch into his pocket and rolled up his sleeves, watching Rachel for any signs that she might be about to fall over. Stitching, that was a good idea, had to do that before she lost anymore blood. "Rachel, you're going to have to move. It's a bad idea, medically speaking, and I don't really like it, but I'm going to have to move you to a flat surface so I can stitch you up."

The idea of going to the Hospital Wing was shoved to the back of his mind - it was too far, and he didn't even want to try teleportation. "You with me? We're gonna move to the bed so you can lie down." To hell with caring about getting blood everywhere, that could be cleaned up. And Peter also wasn't caring who did this just yet, either. That could be worried about later.

"Pssh," I waved my hand, dismissing him. "I'm fine. With you all the way, baby."

Ooh, except everything got kind of dark around the edges when I sat up. That wasn't fun. Tipping my head forward, crying out a little as things got moved that shouldn't have - stab wound to the stomach was inconvenient - I breathed deeply and tried not to throw up. After a minute, I shoved myself roughly to my feet, swaying a little.

Okay! I was golden, now. Pushing off Peter's help, I stumbled into the bedroom on my own power, focusing on one step in front of the other. Finally, after what seemed like years, I was lying down, the blankets feeling clean and cool against all the sweat and blood and dirt I was coated in.

"No, seriously," I muttered. "I left my splat gun. And my bag. And Dean's machete... Oh, crap, he's going to be pissed at me."

It felt so good to be lying down, to stop fighting, but nonetheless I pushed myself back up. "I should go back now, while he's down. I think I got him before I left, I could go back." Room spinning, again, my skin flashed to an even paler tone, my freckles standing out in stark relief against my skin. I'd taken the pinkie ring off earlier, not wanting to risk losing it. I couldn't remember if Peter had ever seen me without it.

...Right, other, more important things to think about. Like going back and kicking Sylar's ass a second time so I could get my stuff.

Cursing all stubborn women everywhere, Peter didn't try and help her again after she shrugged off his help to walk. If he grabbed her it might aggravate something internally, and that would be a hell of a lot worse.

As soon as Rachel was lying down, Peter sat on the edge of the bed. Her sitting up again made him scowl, so he just pressed his hand lightly against her shoulder and pushed her back down until she was lying on her back again. "Just... stop talking and let me take care of this," he ordered firmly. Gingerly, he removed the towel from her stomach, setting it aside and pushing up her t-shirt so that he could get a better look. Definitely a stab would - not huge and gaping like he'd feared, but dangerous enough.

The medical kit Peter normally kept on hand was brought to the bed with a wave of his wand - no time to be concerned about proper use or misuse of powers, not when Rachel was in this kind of shape.

Peter hesitated briefly. There was no way he was going to stitch Rachel up when she was awake. And he wasn't going to wait until she fell unconscious. He remembered her threatening to beat him up if he ever did this again, but Peter just didn't care. Not now. "I don't know how you get yourself into these situations," he murmured, resting his hand on Rachel's temple and lightly stroking the hair back from her forehead. "But don't worry, I'll take care of this. You'll be fine. Just..." Peter frowned faintly, and the next words were mental, wrapping around Rachel's subconscious and bending it to his will, "GO TO SLEEP. You'll feel better when you wake up."

I saw what he was going to do a second before he did it, the realization flaring in my eyes. "Peter, no--"

But it was too late. I felt the words pressing me down, under, and even though I struggled against it, I fell into the blackness.

When I awoke, I felt as though I had a mouthful of cotton. My eyelids were so heavy that I postponed opening them for a moment. Someone was sitting next to me and I could feel a hand stroking my hair. "Peter," I murmured, confused, calling for him.

Then the events of the past few hours fell back into place. Oh, right. My suicide run to Sylar. That had gone beautifully. Finally blinking open my eyes, I took a second to refocus before looking down. My clothes were changed and most of the blood coating my skin had been cleaned off. I was sore, horrendously so, in that familiar way that meant I'd been stitched up. Damn. Peter was no pixie; I'd probably have scarring.

My gaze finally rose to find Peter and one corner of my mouth pulled up in a crooked smile. "Hey." My voice cracked a little and I frowned. "You did that thing again. I hate it when you do that thing." When I had more energy, I'd be mad. For now I just raised my hand shakily to my neck, feeling my spine. Dear God, I'd been dead. I'd been dead and he'd snapped my neck. Everything was rushing back and (oh, GOD, had I kissed Sylar? What the hell kind of exit strategy had that been? The neck snap had been a better option) I remembered the whole 'not telling Peter' plan. Unlike my first plan of the evening, that one was sound.

"Water?" My throat was on fire. Pushing myself to sit up, I started coughing, feeling as though my whole body was going to turn inside out. Damn Sylar with the neck snapping and such.

As soon as Rachel had fallen asleep, Voice-willed, Peter had gotten to work. Thinking back, it had passed in a combination of haze and clarity; having to cut Rachel's t-shirt off, sponging off the blood so that he could actually see what he was doing, stitching the wounds up. It had been a while since he'd had to stitch anything, and Peter had contemplated owling Carla to ask if there was anything in the Hospital Wing that could help with scarring.

While Rachel had been unconscious, Peter had pulled up the few memories that he had of the cop who'd had telepathy, and clung onto them as long as he could. His intention had just to be to be able to tell when she waking up, but as soon as she did, Peter forgot all about switching that ability off.

"Sorry," he apologized, halting in stroking his hair and returning his hands to his lap. "It was necessary, though. Didn't want you squirming around and upsetting my stitches."

Not shutting the door on telepathy promptly came around to kick him in the ass. Suicide run to Sylar- Snapped my neck- dead- ...kissed Sylar. Peter didn't react outwardly to the jumble of thoughts. He just lifted himself off the bed to go get a glass of water and a straw. When he returned, he clamped a hand around Rachel's uninjured shoulder. "Hey, just breath, not too deep," Peter suggested calmly, lifting the glass and straw to Rachel's mouth. "And take a drink when you're ready. Just small sips, you don't want to choke yourself."

"I've been awake for stitches before," I grumbled. But I was way more interested in the water he'd brought. Trying to keep his advice in mind, I took a sip, eyes closing as the water washed down my raw throat, feeling like a balm. I knew from experience that the blood loss would dehydrate me, so I carefully took a few more drinks before lying back against the headboard, grimacing as I propped myself up with pillows.

"Hey," I said, my hand going out to rest lightly on one of his. "Thanks, though. Not for the mental KO, but the rest. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come home like that. I wasn't thinking too clearly."

This was going really well, actually. I hadn't let anything slip, and Peter had no idea what I'd done. I would pass the whole thing off as a run and it'd be over.

"I would have kicked your ass if you hadn't come home," Peter assured Rachel, reaching out to adjust the pillows behind her. There wasn't much he could do about the broken ribs - all he could do was convince her to lie still and stay in bed for the next week. Knowing Rachel, that was going to be nearly impossible.

Dammit, why couldn't he have picked up a useful ability, like the power to heal someone else?

What she'd been thinking... Peter almost couldn't believe it. He'd grown to understand that Rachel went out and looked for a fight when she was frustrated - something about the adrenaline, maybe, or the pain - but this was unbelievable. If Sylar had snapped her neck and she was still alive, then obviously the no-kill spell had kicked him. And why had she kissed him? The only answer was that Rachel was attracted to danger. Suddenly, her attraction to himself made a lot more sense - his powers were potentially dangerous to other people. Perhaps it was nothing more than that.

Setting the glass down on the bedside table, Peter pulled his watch out of his pocket and turned it over in his fingers, contemplating. "So," he spoke up, "Sylar, huh?" He hadn't asked before, because the need to take care of Rachel was more important than anything else. "I bet he was just the challenge you were looking for, right?"

Freezing, I looked at Peter. Damn it back to the Turn. "Having fun in my head?" I responded, eyebrows raising even as my eyes narrowed. Irrational anger stabbed through me and I shifted back, folding my arms across my chest with a wince.

"Why bother asking? Why not just rifle through my brain and pick out what happened? Or, hey, we could just not talk at all anymore - every time you want to know something, just help yourself. It'll be a real time saver."

Bitterness colored my tone, even as I moved to swing my legs out of the bed. I needed to get out of there. Just the challenge I was looking for meant someone I knew wouldn't hesitate to hurt me. Because that could be easily quantified, could be understood. There was no gray in fights like that. There was you and there was them and you could expel everything you had in order to survive. No holding back, no second guessing. But I had no way of ever expressing that to Peter. He wouldn't understand.

"Yeah," I said, meeting his eyes, expression hard. "He was."

Turn it, I would not apologize for who I was.

"I have to read your thoughts sometimes, Rachel, otherwise I'd never know anything about what you do," Peter snapped, easily and gently forcing her back into bed. That she was so weak worked to his advantage - and she needed to stay there otherwise she'd never heal right. Peter would have thought she'd known that, with all the times she'd obviously done something like this.

Anger suddenly rushing over him in a wave, Peter clenched the watch in his hand, distancing himself from the bed. "You kissed him," he commented, still unbelieving. Oh, he knew it happened, but he was never going to be able to comprehend why. "I told you he was dangerous! And you went after him because, what... you have some kind of death wish? You want to prove that you're bigger and badder than my easy little life and it's easy little problems?"

Why did he ever think this could work? Rachel obviously didn't respect him, if she thought so little about what he feared. She said she loved him, but then turned around and flirted with Nathan, went off and kissed Sylar. She kept threatening to leave, so clearly she didn't actually want to be here.

And don't even get him started on Rachel's apparent hatred of all things emotional. He couldn't deal with that, not right now.

"You shout at me and call me an idiot for doing something to save millions of lives, and then you go and do this! Something so stupid, over a watch and your frustration with me!" Said watch was abruptly lifted into the air and flung into the wall with telekinesis. It splintered, hurtled back towards the wall, smashed into pieces. A third time, the pieces fractured and fell to the ground. "Jesus christ, I knew you didn't like being around me and my emotions, but getting killed is not the way to escape that!"

"This had nothing to do with you!"

The words burst from my lips, violent and loud, and the truth of them was like an ache. "God, Peter, if you spent so much time in my head, I'd think you'd know me better. This wasn't about a watch, it wasn't about you. It was about me. Feeling helpless, worthless, being so confused I couldn't think straight."

My breath was heaving, now, painfully, but I ignored it, fixing my eyes on him. Every word was clipped and hurled at him with all the force I could muster. "I tell you, Mr. Touchy Feely, that I'm in love with you and I get even less of a reaction than I got from Dean. I live with you, day in and day out, and sometimes you still feel like a stranger. YOU KISSED THAT DEMON." Shaking, I barely kept myself from standing. I would probably fall over and that would ruin my groove. "I watched you, Peter." My voice cracked, but I refused to look away from him. "You wanted to kiss her. The way you looked at her - some stranger you'd know for ten minutes - I've never seen anything even remotely like that when you look at me. I kissed Sylar? You're mad about that? I did it because he was choking me and it was either that or head butting him, which probably would have just ended with me unconscious. I needed to do something unexpected and that's what occurred to me. In hindsight, yeah, kind of dumb. Sorry, I was playing it by ear. But it wasn't something I wanted."

Oh, fuck it. I stood, swaying for a second as I got my balance, before advancing on him. "You think I think your life is easy? You're an idiot, all right. You have no idea... I got mad at you about the demon deal because you're better than that. Because I know - I knew - you could control that ability. Because I believed in you and you took the easy way out. And it was killing you and I couldn't help, and I was angry and frustrated at myself. For not being enough. Again."

I poked him in the shoulder, eyes snapping. "You think I don't want to be around you? Turn it, Peter - that is all I want and it's confusing me to death. I don't do emotions, but when I'm around you I'm..." Not so closed off. Alive. Like I used to be, like I sometimes wish I could be. "Me."

The fatigue caught up with me and I sagged against the bedpost, running a shaky hand through my hair. "I went after Sylar because I knew he was better than me. Because if you go after someone like that, there is no confusion. There's just a fight. The rush from knowing you have to be everything you are with no hesitation or else you'll fail. I can understand that. And I just needed to understand something." I looked at him steadily, before turning my back on him and collapsing back into bed. "So go to hell, Peter. You have no idea what you're talking about."

"I didn't react to your declaration of love? Maybe that was because I was more focused on just having been tricked into dealing with a demon," Peter shouted back, expression contorted in anger. "And I kissed her because that was how the deal was sealed!" But even then, Rachel was right. He had wanted to do it, because the facade the demon presented was so... exactly his type, really. Sure, he'd taken the easy way out. Where did people get off thinking he was stronger than that?

And like hell this had nothing to do with him. Somebody didn't go off and get themselves killed because they liked the person they were living with. Peter couldn't wrap his mind around that.

"Maybe I still feel like a stranger to you because I know you don't do emotions," he continued, a lot less angrily and a lot more quietly. At least Rachel was back in bed. "Why would I share anything with you when I know that confronting feelings is something you hate? I've been trying to make it easier for you, make you comfortable, but instead I just get... this. You acting hurt because I've been trying to adjust to your comfort zones."

Breathing heavily in restrained frustration (yes, he was being restrained), Peter stalked into the living room and grabbed his wallet, shrugging on a long, heavy coat. The muffling amulet was torn off his neck, flung across the room.

He couldn't do this. Peter couldn't stand by and watch as Rachel destroyed herself because of him. There was only one logical solution to this in his mind; cut out one part of the equation.

Go to hell, Peter. Getting out. Maybe that was a good idea.

For a moment, he paused, hand on the doorway to the tent. Peter couldn't bring himself to look at Rachel - instead, he bowed his head slightly, letting his hair mostly cover an expression torn between anger and hurt. "You keep threatening to leave," he started quietly. "And you keep going off on suicidal missions because of your frustration with me. I don't understand why you think you're not enough for me - I could easily love you, if getting close to people wasn't apparently such a disgusting idea for you. So I'm going to do what you can't, and cut pathetic little Peter Petrelli out of your life. I hope you're happy."

Oh, God.

If I'd thought being stabbed hurt, it was nothing - NOTHING - compared to seeing him about to walk out. To watching him leave.

"My father died because his partner...messed up somehow," I said. Unable to move without feeling sick, I just stared at him, willing him to listen. "I sat in the hospital, and I held his hand, and I watched him die. And he told me to go it alone. To never let anyone close."

I took a breath, and the spill of tears on my cheeks was a hot stream. "Peter, I do...the stupid things I do not because I'm frustrated with you. It's - it's because I've spent most of my life very carefully keeping people out. And you're here, and I...I want more. But I have no idea how to do that."

Babbling, now, I was just hoping to make him stay. To say anything in the world to convince him not to walk out that door. "People in my life don't leave because they're bad people," I admitted, my voice small. "They leave because I drive them away. Because I'm afraid." I was sitting on the edge of my bed, fingers curled into the mattress to hold myself up.

"Please. Please, don't go."

Hand still clutching the doorknob, back turned to Rachel, Peter closed his eyes and sighed quietly. It made sense what Rachel said, and it hurt to hear it. But he wasn't finished being frustrated.

"Yeah? You wanna know what my father said to me around the times he was trying to kill himself? Absolutely nothing. He holed himself up in his office and didn't make the effort to get out and get close to anyone," Peter scowled, turning his head slightly so that he could look at Rachel. Guilt immediately set in about what he was doing, about the state he'd be leaving her in. No matter what she said or denied, Peter believed she'd gone to Sylar on a suicide mission because of him.

His grip tightened around the doorknob, wanting to turn it and just get out of here. "I cut myself out of the family just because I never listened to my father, because he tried to show me that I loved people too much. You can't let what your father told you rule your life, Rachel. You have to be stronger than that, and you have to realize that what he told you was a pile of shit." That was a bit harsher than intended, but Peter couldn't hold back on his words, not right now.

Blinking, I jerked back like he'd hit me. "You don't know a damn thing about my father," I whispered. "He died because of me."

I had never said those words out loud. I'd thought them plenty of times, but never given them voice. The second I did, though, a wave of grief and guilt washed over me and I bowed my head. "He died to save my life. So don't talk about him. You didn't know him." Neither had I.

"If you want to leave, then do it." My tone turned harsh, remote. Dad had been right. If Peter walked out that door, he had been right. "But don't think you're saving me or protecting me or any of that martyr shit I know you believe. You walk out that door, Peter, and I'm going to hurt worse than anything that might happen if you stay. Because, no matter what you think, I do love you. And I am trying. And I...I don't know what else to do." Taking a breath, I didn't raise my eyes. If he left, I didn't want to watch. "But if you want to leave, then go. Because I sure as hell don't want you here out of guilt or some sense of responsibility. I want you to want me like I do you."

And I thought I'd officially used up my quota of 'emotional vulnerability' for the month. Exhausted, I kept my head lowered, staring at the floor and blinking back tears.

Damn it. Peter had been so sure that leaving was the right thing to do, too.

Guilt, protecting Rachel; those played a part in what Peter was trying to do. But they weren't the main focus right now.

"Rachel, I'm an empath. You know what that means. I thrive off human connection," Peter forced the words out, turning to face Rachel and lean against the door. If he was going to say this and be honest, he wasn't going to hide and not look at her while doing it. "You say that I give you what you need, that I make you... you. And that's good, it really is. I'm glad I can do that for you, because it makes both of us happy." He hesitated slightly. "But I don't know if you can give me what I need. I need connection, Rachel. I need love that doesn't show itself by running off in suicide missions. I need access to emotions and a willingness to give back."

It was harsh, but it was the truth. "I think the world of you, I really do. But I don't know if I can stay sane around someone that is afraid of one thing I need," he finished, voice hollow. This would be so much easier if Rachel would get angry and kick him out.

I closed my eyes and nodded, once. Not enough. Of course I wasn't. It'd been stupid to think that I could be.

"I'm sorry." My voice was so dead. How could my voice be so dead when I was screaming inside?

Without another word, I lay down, my back to him, staring off sightlessly into the darkness of the room. I was crying - I knew I was from the wetness on my cheeks - but I couldn't feel it. I couldn't feel anything but this empty hollow, this sense of utter failure.

I had been as open with Peter as I had ever been in my life. And it still wasn't enough. Who I was wasn't enough. Would never be enough.

So I was alone. Again.

Like it was supposed to be. Okay, Dad, I get it. I was too messed up for someone to love me, too lacking for someone to want to be with me. I wasn't worth a fight. And I'd been stupid to think for even a second that I would be.

Lost in my own thoughts, I wouldn't hear Peter leave. It was better that way.

Stifling the urge to kick something in frustration, Peter finally let go of the door. He couldn't leave it at that.

Slowly making his way over to the bed, Peter sat on the edge of it. This was really stupid. Rachel was in bad shape - she'd heal, though, no doubt about that. But he just couldn't stay here right now. Maybe he'd come back in a few days, a week, he didn't know. But he just needed some time off.

"I know you're thinking that who you are isn't enough," he commented quietly - not using telepathy, just knowledge of Rachel. "You're wrong, though. I wish I was enough for you. I wish I could help you learn to embrace emotions and loving people." But he didn't know if she even wanted to do that. Or, if she did, if she'd succeed. "I wish I hadn't taken the easy way out and done that deal. I wish I was as strong as you, to bear the weight of that. ...There's a lot of things I wish," he shrugged, feeling useless. Peter brushed the tears from Rachel's face with his thumb, leaning down to press a light kiss on her forehead. "I'll come back, don't doubt that. I think I just need to learn to be as strong as you, first."

Without giving it a second thought, Peter was off the bed and out the door, closing it quietly behind him.

There was no reaction to Peter - to his word, to his touch. Nothing. Rachel had gotten very good at shutting down over the years. Some people had breached that - Ivy, Jenks, and now Peter. But Peter walking out the door, leaving her, slammed everything back into place.

She didn't need anyone.

She was alone.

Better this way.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Anger Management (Closed RP)

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