bakerstreet | throw it out the window

Entry tags:

throw it out the window

The Defenestration Meme
...it seemed like a good idea at the time.

dēˌfenəˈstrāSHən
noun
the act of throwing a thing or especially a person out of a window: the defenestration of the commissioners at Prague.

- Post with your character.
- Reply to other characters.
- If you need a prompt, hit up the RNG and...

1. You are about to defenestrate yourself. Is this a suicide attempt? Is it merely because you need a quick exit and fortunately the building is only one or two stories tall so it's not that much in the way of defenestration? Well. Either way, you're about to throw yourself out of a window and somebody caught you in the act.
2. You're defenestrating your/someone else's belongings. Is it because it's a messy break-up? Is it a fit of rage? It doesn't matter, because unless someone actively stops you you'll end up defenestrating the contents of the entire room.
3. You're defenestrating/defenestrated a helpless NPC! Or maybe they're not so helpless. They could be an assassin or something.
4. You're defenestrating the person who replied to you! (In the event that person happens to be your long lost brother, your beloved mother, your one true love, or someone equally close to you, you may assume that mind control was involved.)

(...it feels kind of weird to only have only four RNG prompts, but there's only so many ways to throw something out of a window. I mean, really.)

- And kick ass and take names.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

Yeah, but I know I deserve it. That's the one thing I never thought I wanted to do, with this. Especially with what you've told me about what you've been through. And then I forgot all about it. I lost my temper like a bloody child.

[He's disparaging and bitter. Control is after all so important to him, and normally he's never the vindictive type. He's better than getting angry and losing perspective, than wanting to lash out in the heat of the moment. Having that kind of impulse control in his life isn't just beneath him, it's dangerous.

Yet this time he couldn't resist. Is this what having this ability is doing to him? He's losing it. He's losing everything.

He's going to lose whatever strange happiness he found with her, too.]

Yeah. Way, way out. But who could possibly help with this?

I can ask around. Might help if you found someone to help you with some meditation or... fuck. I don't know. I know a guy who's into it. He might have a better clue about what to do, but he's...

[-A dumbass rich white boy with a glowing fist that acts like a twelve year old.

Well, that cat was out of the bag. It was just a good thing Matt wasn't around, otherwise she might inadvertently spill his secret. Mind shit was the worst.]

He what -- oh, all right, sure. [Owen coughs out a hysterical laugh.] Why should I question anything at this point?

[I'm a bloody mind-reader. A freak who knows other people's thoughts, other people's feelings, and can't turn it off. This is insane. I can't live like this. I can't be around other people, I can't do anything. I'm useless. I'm going to lose it this way.]

You are if you keep thinking like that. Look, you're good at controlling yourself. Usually. You're... meticulous. Stubborn. So fucking use it. Are you really going to let something about you not work the way you want it to?

[She gave his scarred half a pointed look, daring him to argue with her.]

[He followed her gaze down, eyes trailing across the scar tissue that runs from the base of his neck onto his chest, part of it visible through the collar of his shirt. His eyes harden even as his frown grows more pronounced.]

That's different. I don't know how to handle this kind of thing, Jessica. It's like nothing I've ever experienced before. It hits all the wrong buttons and I...I panic.

[He snarls practically, hating to admit it outright. But what's the use? She'll see it inside his head, anyway.]

Yeah? And you get thrown out of planes every day? Go into two year comas and have to drag yourself back from an atrophied husk to this all the time? Wow, your life must suck.

[She's prodding at him, trying to make him angry. Coddling doesn't work for him. Not in this instance. Feeling sorry for him might start him on a downward spiral. But Shaw was a fighter. He lived for it. Or, that's what she'd picked up on from her time with him. So she'd make him fight.]

Are you literally going to tell me you can't control yourself?

Stop it. [He grabs for her hands, trying to shake her, as he shoves to more a sitting position. Snapping and glaring at her.] What are you trying to do? Do you want to make me mad at you again? Is that it? Have you really forgotten what just happened?

I don't forget, Shaw.

[A quiet reminder to him. A steely look as she grabbed him back, drawing him in until her face was close to his.]

Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Stop looking at this like it's insurmountable. You've gotten over worse than this. Yeah, okay. You're a freak now. Join the club. Now get over it and do something about it.

You think it's just so easy.

[There's a real surliness working it's way into his voice and manner now. An outright nastiness that he's never had with her, even when they're short-tempered and poking at one another. He sneers, letting her hold his face and not flinching, meeting her eyes.]

You were basically a child when you got your powers. You know what, I don't think you even remember what normal is anymore. To you it's all just some faded candy-floss daydream. "Ooh, tralala, a life with mommy and daddy to take care of me, where I'm just like everyone else." [The mockery fades as his voice goes cold.] You've no idea. No concept what this feels like.

[A part of her flinches at the way he's talking to her, knowing that kind of intentional nastiness but not liking it anymore for knowing it.]

Are you admitting that a child can get a better handle on themselves than you can? Guess you're not that much of a man in the first place.

Please. I've told you before how I feel about the cheap shots, Jones. Is that the best you've got?

[Little hard to even take the concept of that insult seriously when you've devoted so much time to riding this cock.

He doesn't say it aloud - too defensive, if he does - but that doesn't stop him from thinking it, and knowing she'll hear all the same.]

Your powers are easy. Straightforward. Know your body, learn your limits, and you're done. But this? [He presses two fingers to his temple, unconsciously almost miming the gesture of a gun.] This is a nightmare. People aren't meant to see other people's thoughts. To not be able to keep secrets. To be unable to lie about how they feel. It's wrong, it's so wrong. No one can live this way!

Are you actually serious right now? You think it's easy to know your limits just because it's your body?

[She moved to stand, flinging her arms open wide.]

I was fifteen when it happened. Puberty was enough of a bitch without that coming into it. And let's discuss the merits of trying to learn how much strength it takes to open a door or hit someone without killing them. I can punch through someone if I wanted to. And since we're on the subject of sex, want to know how careful I have to be not to break the person I'm trying to have it with? To know I have to treat someone like fucking glass when you're supposed to be able to just let go?

[She snorted at him, shaking her head.]

You think you're the all amazing lover, but if you were really that good, I'dve broken a lot more by now.

[Cheap shot, but he was going there first.]

There is no 'done' with this because even I don't know my limits, you prick. So yeah, you can hear thoughts. You're supposed to be some calculating mastermind. So master your fucking mind.

[The cheap shot this time makes him bristle, even though he knows exactly what she's doing. It digs in a little more than the previous attempt. And he continues to be irritated she's even following this track.

Though his head is still sore, and he feels light-headed, spinning slightly, he pushes off the couch and jumps to his own feet. Not intimidated he comes toward her, trying to loom over her and look down at her with furious disdain.]

So you can hit like a freight train and fuck like a jackhammer. Good for you. Master any deadly skill and you have to learn when not to use it. When to harness your impulses and keep it all inside. There is no precedence for this.

[He reaches towards her - not pushing, he learned his lesson the last time. But he's transmitting what's inside his head on purpose, the distorted whispers and rattling anxieties he's soaking up from the other tenets in her building. They're crowding in on him from all sides until it's hard to know what direction is up. He raises his voice, like he feels he has to: like he has to shout over them, drowning it out.]

There is no other skill to compare it to! This isn't my mind, it's everyone else's! Everyone within earshot!

After what I've seen, I don't know if that's true or not. Maybe there are other people out there who can do some brain woo-woo. But you've got your head lodged so far up your ass with your little pity parade, I'm surprised you can pick up any thoughts. It's new, yes. I'm not fucking denying that. But it's not new to the world. There's stories of this shit in books. In movies. Maybe all that shit has some kind of basis in reality. So you're not special other than you're one of the few in having something happen to you.

[She stood face to face with him, daring him to lay a hand on her and pushing his thoughts back at him, mentally shoving at him like it was a physical thing. Like she had the strength to back that up.]

You really going to let something like this beat you? Are you going to sit there and just wallow in self pity? It can be blocked you asshole. It had been before you shoved at it. Maybe your mind was insulating itself. Maybe it was a survival technique. But you're not even thinking of that. You're just whining.

[He leans back slightly, registering her mental push, but he doesn't stagger. He sets his jaw hard. Christ she can be so bloody frustrating!]

This is not pity. It isn't whining. Or if it is, what do you call what you did, back when little Jessica woke up with all of her normal gone?

[All these stupid little ugly thoughts dragging at me like flotsam. Thinking about the rent, about their lovers, about what's on TV. Death by a thousand cuts, garbage in my mind, the pathetic common stink of them. I've lived my whole life trying to cut this wasted energy out. This concern for others. The idea that anyone's ever connected to anyone. I don't need it, I don't want it, it isn't me, get it out out out out.]

[That's your problem, you idiot. You've made yourself believe you're not really like anyone else. That you're above all us little peons floating along below you. You're human. You're -just- human.

She stared at him, frustrated with him, with herself, with this whole goddamn situation.

I just wanted you, and you make it so fucking hard to do that. You sabotage your own goddamn happiness worse than I do. Or maybe you really believe that you're better than everyone. That we're all beneath you. Fine. Whatever.

Her hands lifted to rub over her face and she turned away from him, went over to her drawer and pulled out a bottle. She was trying not to let herself think her thoughts. Not to him. Not even to herself. She'd pushed everyone away from her when she'd woken up like this. The only reason Trish and her had bonded was because her mother was such a piece of work, anger or not, Jessica had felt she had to do something. To protect someone other than herself. To make up for being so selfish and stupid and getting her family killed.

And that had just... stuck. Trish had stuck. But she'd tried so hard to make everyone else go away, because they would all leave and she'd rather they do that when she wanted them to and not when it would hurt her.

Drinking helped. Drinking numbed the world around her. It gave her something real to hold onto as to why she was a piece of shit. Each swallow hammered a nail in her coffin. Each bottle piling up proved she wasn't worth the time or effort to get to know her. To care.

And then she'd gone and fallen for some asshole who hated everyone more than she did, and who instead of thinking himself beneath everyone, floated above the world in a narcissistic ship of bullshit. She was his polar opposite.]

What's your genius idea?

[He swallows a bitter taste as watches her go for that hidden bottle. He's literally driving her to drink, and he hates that he does it, and he hates himself for hating it, and at the same time he's pleased to see signs he can push her like that, and he hates himself for that even more.

He does think he's better than everyone, most days. Some days he just thinks he's - different. Wired wrong, maybe. Missing some crucial bit that's supposed to make him crave being smothered in family and comfort and easy. He's a restless soul, never knows how to relax, feeling his most calm when he's got his hands on the wheel or gunshots firing at his face.

He was already a freak. He was born broken. But that's all right, he doesn't mind, because he knows how to make it work. He plays it to his advantage, using it to help make him better, stronger, faster, harder. Let everyone else be wrapped in the cotton wool of society, friends, domestic bliss. He lives on the outside, where everything's rough and raw and real.

But nothing's ever felt quite as real as being with her. With her he gets the fun parts, the push to the edge, the dark laughs at what's supposed to be sane and sober. And at the same time he gets this...feeling like he has something for the first time ever that he wants to come home to, a place that he belongs. He doesn't just want to fuck her. He wants to kiss her, to hold her, to make her laugh. And he enjoys that part just as much.

He remembers where things stood, before they started fighting on the street. Before he messed up, and screwed up his own head along with it. Little lightning bolt thoughts of strangers shooting through his mind like pins. Small but sharp and jarringly out of place.

You were going to cook her dinner, he recalls. Christ. What is wrong with you.

But he pretends he didn't think that. He's certain she'll pretend not to hear it, too.]

You mean what to do about what's going on inside? Hell if I know. [He spits this out, with the condemning anger of a man who knows his whole life is fucked.] There doesn't seem to be any fix for it. And that's all I want, this gone, and myself back to normal. But looks like now I'm pretty well fucked over, huh?

Yeah. You are.

[She kept her back to him, moving over to her window and looking through the slats of the blinds, looking out at the world that kept going on like hers wasn't crashing down around her head. Like it would no matter what happened. Life always kept going. People always wrapped themselves in their own shit, and she couldn't blame them for it. Sometimes those little things were the only things that let any of them get up in the morning. Made them get out of bed. Made them be human.

The same thing that's wrong with me, you fucking moron.

And she didn't voice the reality they were both trying so hard to ignore.]

[He stares at her back, hard, for so long like he's trying to memorize it. Every curve and crease to her.

Under any other circumstance this would be the part where he leaves, walks out and slams the door behind him, never looks back. In a few weeks, a few months, he could probably convince himself it was all something worth snidely laughing at. Once the pain in the memories faded enough he could believe. Or who knows. He's never walked away from something he's wanted before.

He wants to do it, though. He wants to go, to try and find his way back to the isolated brutal path he once walked. Except--

There's no place to go.

What can he possibly do, with his head still like this? While he's still hearing voices like a crazy person, and worse spilling his own thoughts out too for anyone to pick up on?

He needs a place to lay low and while there are other options than here, he'd need to leave and brave the crowded reality that is New York first. The possibility alone is enough to make him feel sick inside.

He storms over to her, reaches out and snatches the bottle from her hand. Brings it to his lips, tilts his head back and gulps down swallow after swallow without pause.]

[She turns when she feels the bottle tugged out of her hand, looking at him and seeing him trying to drown himself her way. She wants to be mad at him. She is. But there's some kind of tempered understanding there. What if she'd woken up being able to hear thoughts instead of being able to punch through a wall? It wasn't like she didn't feel for him, didn't understand that most of his reactions and lashing out were from fear, but that didn't mean she'd let him walk on her like he was.]

You want to try to figure this out together, or you planning on fucking up entirely on your own?

[He finally breaks for air, and roughly wipes the back of his hand against his mouth and nose. His expression is all anger, sneering and unwelcoming, but it doesn't match his eyes.

There he's just miserable, and beaten down, and might actually be on the verge of tears again.]

Does it make any difference? There's nothing I can do, there's nothing you can do, there's nothing anyone can do.

Not with that attitude. Hell, keep that up and I'm going to start checking my paints to make sure I didn't suddenly become the one with the dick here.

[She pulled the bottle away from him, taking a drink herself, then setting it down and finally turning to face him.]

You want to feel shitty for yourself? Fine. Take an hour or a day and go whine and bitch and cry over how bad you have it. Then let's deal with this, Shaw. If you can relearn how to walk, we can relearn how to shove a fucking wall up in your mind.

And if not?

[He couldn't say why he keeps dwelling on this. But he does. What if they try, and fail anyway? What if there is no fixing this? What in the hell is he going to do then?

He's never been this afraid of failing before. He's never let himself believe that failure is that much of an option, that it can just squash him flat. He's never been this afraid, period.

Why am I so scared.]

[Welcome to the possibility of failure. Sucks to feel human, doesn't it?

She wasn't quite ready to reach for him. Not yet. She was still pissed. Still upset at him. But she was trying to get past that to help him, because she wanted what they'd been aiming for before this all blew up. Maybe.

Fuck her, yes. Yes, she wanted that thing with him. Whatever it was. Whatever their version was. She wanted it.]

We'll figure it out.

[He flinches, brow creasing as he scowls at her hard. Could you try not to rub it in so much, he sarcastically snaps.

But even beneath how pissed they still are at one another he can feel that wisp of longing coming from her, that emotional want for him. His hands fist at his sides and he rocks back on his heels, on the verge of shuffling away.]

So much confidence. [He says it flat, hard to tell if he's needling her with it or not.]

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject