fixeswatches | (no subject)

(no subject)

Angela's talk with him ended up being orders. She told him that he and Elle were going to be sent on assignment together. That the only way he would really learn control would be to test it in real life situations. After all, he had proven time and time again that he wouldn't kill Elle, so her showing off her power to him wasn't a significant test of his control.

He wasn't even sure he wanted control, but he kept that part to himself and took the orders, along with the suit he was apparently supposed to wear.

They were being sent to take care of a bank robbery. The perpetrator had a power, of course. He could create fire. Gabriel couldn't help but shiver a little as he thought about that idea. What a wonderful, useful power that one could be.

And then he reminded himself that he was supposed to bring the man, Flint, in alive.

What a disappointment.

He stood in front of his mirror, adjusting the tie of his suit. He couldn't help but feel like a fraud. He didn't really want to do any of this. But for now, it seemed he had little choice if he wanted to stay close to Elle.

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As the fire reached closer to Elle, something in Gabriel went off. The ticking grew louder, and that dark, deeper desire to take take take overrode his sense of reason. He stalked toward Flint's whimpering body, bringing a hand up.

It was too hard to resist.

It was too hard not to kill.

He began to cut through the man's forehead, the screams of agony only pushing him further.

Somewhere, he knew his "mother" would be angry at him for messing up the mission, but he can't get himself to care.

Elle dropped her hand and could only watch in horror for a moment when Gabriel began to--suddenly the Haitian was holding her again, and she was kicking and screaming and the blurry images were all in stark relief--her Daddy's mouth ajar in agony, blood running down his forehead, his eyes open in terror--and then suddenly she was back, and Gabriel was killing Flint, and the heat was growing hotter.

And it wasn't going to happen again.

The flames were reaching the roof now, and she screamed at the hostages to "Get out!"

They needed no further instruction and ran towards the door. Elle's hands were already poised, and she unleashed on Gabriel, electrocuting him hard and fast with a flick of her wrist.

Gabriel hissed out in pain as she electrocuted him. Without even a thought he flicked his own wrist in retaliation, throwing her against the wall. If he was thinking logically enough, he would probably feel bad. She was the last person he wanted to hurt, but she was in the way.

He crouches next to Flint after finishing the incision. He ripped off the man's skull and chuckled to himself, as if he was surprised to actually find any brains in there before tossing it aside. He felt around, looking for it until he shuddered as he found that special spot he had been searching for.

He rose to his feet once he finished taking the power and held a bloody hand out, letting blue fire form in his palm.

He couldn't help but smirk proudly.

She could scream--she should scream as he threw her against the wall, but she couldn't breathe. For a fleeting moment, she thought he was choking her, but no--there was no pressure, there was just panic. Her heart pounded an erratic rhythm out of her chest as she slammed down into the ground, and for the first time since she was a child, her electricity went rogue, crackling and zapping out of her in white flashes.

She lifted her head and finally sucked in a breath as he searched Flint's exposed brain (her dad's lifeless eyes and Gabriel's hands--hands that had loved her--sliding over the bloody matter). She scrambled to her feet, sparking uncontrollably as he rose as well.

And she snapped.

She didn't even think to electrocute him first; she barreled into him, using all her of weight and momentum to push him to the ground under her.

She grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and hardly needed to push out her spark--there was so much it hurt even her (or maybe that was just the grief?), and he was just a good a conductor as anything.

She tilted her head back and screamed--all the memories from that she'd pushed back and ignored and flashed through her mind, unbidden, and she was shaking with pained tears by the time it was all over, collapsed on his chest.

Gabriel cried out in pain as she channeled all her electricity, her pain, her hate, everything she had, she was putting it into him. He was surprised he could take it. It feels worse than before, somehow. He can't explain it.

As the pain subsides, he can't help but bring a bloody hand up, brushing away some of her long blond hair. He never meant to break her. He had never realized how fragile she was.

His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer to him. He had forgotten how nice it felt, having her so close. Sure, she had just attacked him, and was crying her eyes out, but there was still something lovely about the moment that he couldn't quite explain.

She choked on each and every gasping breath, and cried harder as he held her close; it hurt, everything hurt, and he was so warm and gentle, and she didn't have any fight left.

"I hate you so much," she slurred, forced out through her hoarse throat. "You're a monster," she said, but it was just a fact.

Flint was dead, and her dad was dead, and all she had left was him, all any higher power thought she deserved was a murderer. An animal.

What did that make her?

His hands continued to run through her hair, as if he was unsure of what else to do at this point. He had never meant to lose such control of himself.

It made him wonder if he ever had control to begin with.

"I never said I wasn't." He said in a simple tone.

He knew what he was, now more than ever. He was a monster, an addict, unable to control himself.

And yet she was so beautifully broken, crying and weeping in his arms. His, but at what cost?

They were almost like a fairy tale. Beauty and the Beast. Only Gabriel doubted they would ever get any sort of happy ending.

"You wanted to be good," she gasped out uselessly, blinking out tears. "We were supposed to be good."

They were supposed to be happy. She'd thought they'd be happy.

"I know," His own voice weakened slightly in response.

"I thought if I was happy I could stop."

He rests his cheek against the top of her head.

"I was wrong."

She let out a wracking cry at his words, and trembled with the force of her chest splitting open. "Why?" she demanded. "Why did it have to be my dad? Why did you have to take him away?"

She knew he'd already answered, already told her, but she didn't care. She wasn't looking for his psychotic justifications; it was a question no one could ever answer.

"It wasn't anything personal. I would have...it could have been anyone."

Not that it made it better.

Not that anything he said could make it better.

"But you don't need him, Elle," He insisted once more. "I love you. He just saw you as a tool, but I love you."

It wasn't anything personal. She sucked in a harsh breath and let out an anguished scream she stifled into his chest.

It wasn't anything personal.

"You don't love me," she rasped out. "You don't do that to someone you love."

And yet she shuddered at his touch and clung to him anyway. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to make it all go away.

"I wouldn't know. I've never loved anyone before." He smoothed back some of her hair, pressing a kiss against her forehead.

Except maybe himself. And maybe Virginia.

But not like this.

Not this crazy possessive love that made him glad that he had killed Elle's father, because that meant he really was all she had left in the world.

She wanted to lurch back from his soothing kiss. She wanted to tear herself out of his arms and just... kill him.

But she was so tired. She was so tired, and all she could do was lie limply in his arms.

"You're sick," she whispered. By now her sobs had lessened into painful hiccups, and her voice felt raw, and she couldn't stop shaking.

She'd never loved anyone before, either.

"I know," He conceded, a humorless smirk on his lips as he said it. He tilted her head up, bringing a hand to brush away some of the tears, the dried blood on his hands leaving stains on her face.

He drew himself up from the floor just enough to press his lips against hers. Maybe if he just pressed things enough, she'd realize they could still be happy together.

A fresh wave of hot tears stung her eyes as he kissed her, and she choked a little against his mouth. He was tender, brushing away her tears, cradling her and loving her and comforting her, as if a simple kiss could sooth all of her tears and anger and agony.

It just hurt more, because it felt so right. She wanted him to kiss her, and hold her, and make everything okay again.

How could something that felt so beautiful be a lie?

He had dealt with watches more broken than her in the past before. There had to be a way to wind her up, make her work again.

He had to fix her.

But for now, he just pressed against her a little more, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth. Because he liked kissing her. Because he didn't know what else to do. Because she hadn't said no yet.

She closed her eyes tight and parted her lips; she couldn't move away, she couldn't say no. She couldn't do anything but let him have her.

And she felt... relief. She didn't have to fight anymore. She didn't have to feel. She could let him make everything better. She could just melt into the safety of his arms and never have to worry about anything ever again.

And if sometimes it hurt, that would be okay, right? Maybe he'd make it hurt less. Maybe time would dull the pain.

Maybe this was the only way she could ever be happy again.

He couldn't help but gasp in surprise as she willingly opened her mouth for him. His tongue brushed against hers as his hands slid down to settle on her waist. Hope fluttered in his heart because if this wasn't a sign that his convictions were right (she was his, even now) then he didn't know what it was.

Didn't want to know.

His hands began to slide up her shirt and he didn't even care that his hands were caked in blood or that there was a corpse not too far from them. All he cared about was her.

She shivered at his touch, but it was a good shiver, and she relaxed her eyelids as he kissed her, gasping sharply at his warm tongue.

She just had to let go. She wanted to let go. Just kiss him back, she thought, and everything would be all right. Maybe she could still save him. Maybe he was wrong.

She leaned into him, ignoring the hot twisting in her gut, the carnal pleasure that wrapped into the uneasiness. She'd already taken this gamble. She shouldn't think a second time would be any different.

But did she have to lose? And if he failed... didn't she promise him she wouldn't leave him?

She did.

Gabriel groaned softly into her mouth as she leaned into him.

She still wanted him despite everything he had put her through.

A wave of desire and triumph rush over him as he breaks away only to start tugging her shirt off roughly, tearing it a little in the process. He should have known to be more careful.

Well, he knew, he just didn't care.

She dropped her face to his neck, unmoving as he tore through her shirt. She blinked quietly against his skin, and her voice sounded far away when she spoke. "Gabriel, the police," she whispered against his skin.

At her voice of concern he brought his hand up and twisted it, locking the doors to the bank via his telekinesis.

"They can wait," He answered softly, bringing his lips down to bite against her skin.

It had taken so much progress to get her this comfortable with him again, if they paused now...everything might just regress.

She closed her eyes and let out a shameful little gasp against his pulse as he marked her. His, she thought, detached. He was claiming her. The unease grew, snaking up into her heart, but he felt good. If she could just concentrate on that...

He licked at the wound on her neck, his line of thought about the same as hers. His. She'd realize it soon enough, he was certain of it. She had been his since they first made love in his bed.

But what was happening now as his hand slipped down her pants, fingers brushing against soft golden curls, it wasn't making love. It wasn't sweet or tender or innocent the way it was before.

No, it felt more primal, more urgent to him now, so much that he barely registered the fact that for once, she was not an active participant.

Instead she was lying there like another victim.