Anger Management (Closed RP)

[racheltherunner.livejournal.com]

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.

Comments

[mmm-brainz.livejournal.com]

He'd heard her first. Freakish, sensitive hearing automatically snagging onto the sound of vertebrae popping back into the place, the cry from Rachel's throat as bone ground against bone. The no-kill rule. Of course it would do that, to automatically correct whatever error had occurred in Rachel's biology, to keep her from death. He'd done the same thing, after Susan had thrown him in the lake. Ten minutes of coughing up water after spending half the afternoon underwater. No death. It was miraculous.

It also meant that she couldn't die, however. The thought honestly hadn't occurred to him until it had actually taken place.

One of his hands grasped at her fist, twisting hard, almost enough to dislocate her shoulder. "What was that? What was that?" he automatically barked out, through gritted teeth, and, God, he would have loved for her to just stay dead. "What about you? Why would you do that? Kiss me. Do that to somebody you obvious weren't interested in! You didn't care. Why would you do that?" Telekinetic fingers snagged into the back of her shirt, jerking her backwards, hard, into the counter. "Is this some kind of sick game?" They called him twisted.

[racheltherunner.livejournal.com]

Crying out again as my back slammed against the counter, I definitely felt something give way. "Oh my God, it was a kiss," I shouted back. And it had that or a headbutt, and I had been afraid I would have knocked myself out with that.

Pushing myself off of the counter, I nearly dropped to my knees. I was hurt, bad, and if I didn't do something about these stab wounds I was going to run out of blood to spread around his tent. I started to laugh, a wheezing, choked sound. "Besides, it seemed like a good idea at the time." Straightening up, arm wrapped around my torso, I lunged at him, past him, grabbing the machete and pointing at him. "You have nice eyes. Crazy, but nice." God, I was just babbling, my vision going dark around the edges.

Pulling up the last of my strength, I added, "Go to hell," to my little rant and chucked the machete at him as hard as I could. Letting that be my rear guard, leaving my bag and my splat gun on his kitchen floor (oh, I was so coming back for those later!), I moved as quickly as I could out the door. Not so much a run as a really fast hobble.

But I had the watch. I so won.

[mmm-brainz.livejournal.com]

It was a kiss, and weren't things like that supposed to... mean something? Anything? Or were they just that? No, it wasn't like they'd fucked and she'd left him for somebody else or something, but for someone who had shared his most intimate moments with his mother - other than those days on the road with Mohinder, but... well, the whole 'Mohinder finding out that Sylar killed his parents' thing was probably a bit of a damper on any bond they might have created - it was most certainly a lot. For someone capable of so much, naivety was rampant on the subject of anything broaching upon intimacy, with Sylar.

...Nice eyes? She was delirious. Blood loss had sent her into shock, and he was probably well on his way to following suit. He could have been imagining this whole thing, right now. All of this could be entirely fantastical means, layers of psychosis created by an oxygen-starved mind. None of this meant anything.

Except for the machete. Maybe. ...Ow.

Sylar had barely gotten time to grit out any manner of response. One minute, he was standing. The next, two feet of steel were jammed straight into that notch in his shoulder. Near fatal, on most people. A few inches to the right... Damn. The force of the machete jarring into his shoulder sent him reeling, sprawling against a nearby chair, nails snagging onto the fabric as a sharp gasp was jerked free from his throat.

Goddamn, this was going to smart in the morning.