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Felps jams his key into the door of his apartment and turns it hard enough he almost snaps it in the lock. He pauses briefly, trying to take a deep breath. It’s not worth it to be angry and stupid and make his shitty day even shittier for himself, so once he’s got the fire rolling under his skin tampered down to a cooler, sticky-sour mood, he (slowly) pulls out his key and heads inside.
The first thing he sees is that he left the TV on this morning. He sighs. He thought he turned it off, but after the blender lid exploded and splashed half-blended fruit and milk all over the fucking place, a lot of things fell to the wayside as he tried to clean up his kitchen, change into a fresh uniform, and still leave in time to catch his train. Which he didn’t. Which means he had to wait for the next one. Which means that his asshole boss had yet another reason to get on his case, fucking…
Felps takes another deep breath. Not worth it to be so angry, he reminds himself. Takes too much energy. He’s home now. He can make himself something simple for dinner and watch something brainless on TV instead of the news network that’s currently droning on. He can stew about his shitty day until he simmers, and then he’ll go to bed and wake up feeling better.
But first, something to drink. He tried to be healthy this morning and it backfired spectacularly. If that’s not a sign, then Felps doesn’t know what is. He drops his keys into the dish, toes off his shoes, and turns into his little kitchen, making a beeline for the fridge. It’s when he’s got a beer in one hand and a bottle opener in the other that he notices the coffee pot.
Felps was in a rush this morning. He didn’t have time to make coffee at home. He made some for himself in the station break room.
The coffee pot is dirty.
His eyes snap to where the knife block is, counting. All eight are there. His bat is still between the couch and the wall. He’s been home for twenty seconds already, and he’s not dead yet, which tells him everything he needs to know. If he really wanted to get the jump on him, he wouldn’t be so obvious. Besides, if he wanted Felps dead, then he probably would have been dead a month ago. Then again, it’s not like he can’t change his mind.
Alright. So Felps is dealing with this today. Because of course he is. On top of everything else. Shitty fucking day. Felps cracks the cap off his beer. “Helped yourself this time, I see.”
“You were running late,” comes the reply from the living room. He has the gall to sound annoyed.
“My bad. Next time, I’ll go fix the broken trains myself so I can get home and you can hold a knife to my throat and make me make your coffee when it’s convenient for you. Sorry for putting you out like that.”
“It’s fine. I managed.”
Felps holds back a scoff. He takes a long drink of his beer instead. He tosses the opener back into the drawer, shuts it with his hip, and marches out of the kitchen and around the side of the couch.
And there is Cell, the Monster of Alcatraz, laying on Felps’ couch with his feet kicked up and boots still on because he always leaves his fucking boots on. He’s sitting propped up against his ratty backpack, intently staring at…
Felps blinks. “Wh— That’s my computer.”
Cell’s fingers fly across the keyboard in his lap. “Yep.”
“It’s password-protected.”
Cell jams the enter button and starts scrolling. With his free hand, he whips out a vaguely familiar pocket book, holding it towards him. “Found this in your desk.”
Felps heavily considers the offering—getting within grabbing distance of Cell is usually a very bad idea. After several seconds go by and Felps hasn’t moved to take it, Cell finally looks up from the screen, meeting Felps’ gaze with unblinking blue eyes. He raises an eyebrow, and he gives the pocketbook a little shake, holding it up higher.
“Come on,” he says. “I won’t bite.”
Felps doesn’t quite hold back his scoff this time. “Ha. Funny.” Cell smiles, all teeth. Gripping his beer bottle by the neck, Felps creeps forward and snatches the pocketbook from between Cell’s fingers, not taking his eyes off him for a second. Cell doesn’t either, for that matter. His eyes only stray once—probably glancing at the bottle Felps is grasping. At least they’re on the same page here.
Felps steps back until he’s a safe distance away. Cell picks up the TV remote by his leg and flicks through the channels, landing on another news network. Felps, meanwhile, juggles the bottle and book in his hand and flips through it. Old notes, dated back to when he first moved into this apartment, including, lo and behold, some passwords for his then-new laptop scrawled in the margins.
“Took me a few tries to pick the right one,” says Cell, eyes on the computer screen again. “Thankfully, you recycle your passwords a lot, so it wasn’t nearly as hard as it could have been.” He clicks a few times, then starts typing again. He jams the enter button, and the lights flash against his face as the screen changes—Google search.
“What are you even looking at?” Felps asks. “What the fuck do you need my computer for?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“None of my— It’s my computer!”
“And it’s my research,” Cell replies calmly, not looking up. “What’s your point?”
Felps stands there for a moment, just looking at Cell click around and scroll on Felps’ laptop, adjusting his dirty boots on Felps’ couch cushions, watching to the news play on Felps’ TV, a mug of Felps’ coffee sitting on Felps’ end table in Felps’ fucking apartment on this shitty ass fucking day—
Felps marches forward, slams his bottle on the end table, and snaps the laptop screen back. Google search: brazil illegal border crossing recent—
“HEY.” Cell shoves Felps away so hard he almost trips over himself.
“Fucking— shit, Cell,” Felps swears, getting his footing. “The hell are you ‘researching’? You’re gonna get me put on a watchlist!”
“A watchlist is the least of your worries,” Cell snarls, and he’s swinging himself onto his feet, laptop discarded on the cushions. His hand draws out of his hoodie pocket and yes, sure enough, there’s the knife. A fist curls around the front of Felps' shirt and the knife is waved at Felps’ throat fast enough to make him flinch.
Felps holds up his hands. “You can’t kill me.”
Cell growls. “Is that a challenge?”
“You have to keep your cover. Killing me would blow it.”
“Oh please, don’t tell me you honestly believe I haven’t killed a single person since I got out.” Cell chuckles darkly, twisting the point of the blade towards the soft underside of Felps’ jaw. “Do you really think so little of me, darling?”
“What I think is that you can’t afford to do it,” Felps replies, quick on the draw. “Seven o’clock on a work night, everyone’s home, and I’ve got neighbors above, below, and either side of me. You try to kill me, and someone’s bound to hear.”
For a moment so brief Felps isn’t entirely sure if he imagines it or not, Cell looks taken aback by his confidence. To be quite honest, Felps himself is surprised, but he has put a lot of thought into this. Who is going to hear you scream, is something you have to genuinely and frequently consider when a murderous fugitive keeps breaking into your apartment to steal your food, drink your coffee, and threaten to tear off your flesh.
Weirdly enough, Felps is getting the hang of dealing with Cell’s bullshit. Doesn’t mean he likes dealing with it, though. Aside from being a cannibal, a perma-killer, and Felps’ worst nightmare—the guy is just a fucking dick.
The scowl on Cell’s face now is particularly thunderous. Felps’ feels his heart rate pick up, but part of him can’t help but revel in the thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s finally gotten under Cell’s skin, for a change.
“Fuck it if someone hears,” Cell snaps. “Maybe I don’t care. Maybe I just kill you right now. Maybe I kill you the next time I drop in for a visit.”
Cell adjusts his knife again, presses it harder to Felps’ skin. Felps leans back with the motion.
“Maybe one of these days, I slit your throat and let you choke on your own blood again.” He turns the knife quickly so that the flat of it rests on Felps’ cheekbone, dangerously close to his eye. “Or maybe I change it up, carve out your eyes and make you eat them.” The knife goes to his throat again. “How does that sound, Felps?”
Felps swallows. There’s a familiar cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck, but there’s also a little fire on his tongue that he’s holding back, trapped behind his teeth. He meets Cell’s gaze, and he finds that there’s something bright burning in Cell’s eyes. Something like intrigue.
…The fact that Felps isn’t already dead says a lot. And Cell has never been too fond of cowards.
Felps decides to take a gamble. He goes with the fire: “And maybe one of these days, I say fuck what my asshole boss says and start bringing home my service pistol. How does that sound? What if I just shot you between the eyes next time I saw you? You can outrun the police, but can you outrun a bullet, Cell?”
Silence. The TV drones in the background. Cell stares at him. He adjusts his grip on his knife, licks his lips, and Felps holds his breath. God, he very well might have just doomed himself.
Then, several seconds later, something in Cell’s posture shifts. The knife eases off Felps’ throat, just a little. The look in Cell’s eyes is still wild, just as it always is (a little too wide, a little too sharp), but his face is oddly stony.
“You can’t kill me, Felps,” Cell says, and his tone is…strange. Low, and flat. “You know I’ll come back. You know I’ll find you. You don’t have it in you. You don’t even know what to do with a dead body.”
Felps considers this. He’s not quite sure what to make of this response—he’s almost certain that snapping at Cell like this back in Alcatraz would have earned him a swift trip to the Void—but there’s no denying the fact that the knife at his throat is slipping.
Maybe Cell isn’t actually as angry as he seems to be. Is Cell just trying to mess with him? Banter with him? Sometimes he likes it when Felps backtalks him. Felps decides to give it a shot: “Maybe. Though, considering what you do with dead bodies, of the two of us, I think I’m better off handling them than you.”
A pause, and then the stoniness of Cell’s face breaks, cracking into a grin. Right choice. Cell runs his tongue over his teeth and sucks on a canine like he’s got something stuck in there. The edge of the knife twists and grazes over Felps’ Adam's apple. “Ohhh, don’t remind me. The cravings are bad enough as is.”
A cold shudder makes its way down Felps’ spine, and an involuntary noise of disgust sounds in the back of his throat. He’s seen Cell eat before, and God, it’s some horrific shit. Cell chuckles, clearly reveling in Felp’s discomfort, and it’s like that blip never happened. He releases Felps and flops back onto the couch with his arms tossed across the backrest and the knife held lax between his nimble fingers.
“You know,” Cell says pleasantly. He taps the knife against the cushions, twirls it over his knuckles with a smile. “I really missed our little chats back in Alcatraz. It’s nice to talk to you again.”
Felps scoffs lightly. “We aren’t talking. We’re threatening to kill each other.”
“Afraid that requires talking, darling.” He reaches over with his free hand and drags the computer into his lap again. “Going to have to cut this one short, though. I have research to do.”
Felps looks down at him wearily. “Libraries have computers, you know.”
“And? Yours was closer.” Cell swings his legs back onto the couch, one ankle crossed over the other, and gets back to his Googling. A stretch of silence filled with the sound of the news channel and Cell tapping at the keyboard. It’s like Felps isn’t even there.
Felps regards him for a moment longer, and he realizes, fully and completely this time, Cell really doesn’t want to kill him. Once again: The fact that he isn’t already dead says a lot. Felps figures that the possibility of breaking this… stalemate they’ve found themselves in is reason enough for Cell to spare him. Cell wants a place to crash every now and then without threat of being killed or having the police called on him, and Felps would really rather not suffer a long and painful death, or be arrested for ‘aiding’ a known fugitive.
So long as neither of them do anything to break that stalemate, then things stay as they are: stable. Not safe, and certainly not sound, but stable.
After all, this is the third time Cell has come around. It’s definitely not going to be the last. Felps is already getting used to it. Why not just accept it? Felps could do with some stability, anyhow.
First thing’s first, though: “Can you take your fucking boots off?”
Cell looks up at him, eyebrow raised. He looks back down at the computer. “Mm. No.”
“At least get them off my couch.”
Cell keeps scrolling.
Felps takes a deep breath—not worth it to get angry all over again. He’s too tired for this. When Cell reaches for the remote again to switch to another news network, Felps snatches it up first and turns off the TV.
Cell sputters. “Wh—hey!” And of course the knife comes swinging towards Felps again. “What the fuck! I was watching that, asshole!”
“No, you were researching,” Felps retorts. He folds his arms. “Look. If we’re going to make this work, we need to lay some ground rules.”
“What?” says Cell. He laughs, a creaky, lopsided sound. “‘Ground rules’? What are— What are you talking about? What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re being… weird today.”
“What I’m trying to be is realistic,” Felps replies. “This isn’t Alcatraz, Cell. It’s my fucking apartment. I can’t seem to get rid of you, and you clearly want to be here because you keep breaking in, and if either of us do anything to attack or expose the other, everything goes to shit.”
He throws out a hand. “So here we are. We’re stuck together. Might as well try to make this tolerable.”
Cell stares. For all the deals, threats, and blackmailing he did in Alcatraz, it seems Cell never once considered the idea of a mutually-beneficial compromise, because this is the closest Felps has seen the man to genuinely perplexed.
Cell opens his mouth: “Felps I have no idea what you’re on about.”
Okay, that’s fucking funny.
“What I mean,” Felps elaborates, trying to keep his tone even and reasonable, “is that if you’re going to be here, you need to make some concessions. Like taking your boots off.”
“Can’t do that,” Cell deadpans.
“Then get your feet off my couch.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I can’t scrub my cushions every time you come around.”
“Why not?”
“Because that takes time, Cell!”
He sees Cell’s eyes widen, sees Cell’s hand tighten around the knife, and decides to take a tactical deep breath.
“It takes time,” he repeats, calmer, “and effort, and soap, and I really, really can’t deal with your mess when I also have to deal with my fucking job all day long. So if you’re going to keep busting in here and sleeping on my couch and stealing my food and—” he whirls a hand to gesture— “using my laptop to research your illegal activities, apparently, the very least you could do is get your dirty boots off my cushions.”
In the brief lull that follows, Felps wonders if he’s finally lost it, because this is either the most sane or most delusional decision he’s made since the day he met Cell, and there’s no way for him to tell anymore. Normal is relative, and Felps lost his reference point years ago. So, sure. Trying to negotiate a roommate agreement with Brazil’s most wanted cannibal murderer. Why not. This might be where he dies.
But, to Felps’...disbelief? Relief? Complete and utter amazement? Cell, without taking his eyes off Felps, slowly twists himself on the couch until he’s sitting up and his boots come to rest on the carpet below.
Felps considers this. Okay. So maybe this is doable. “Thank you,” he says, polite.
Cell’s expression—which looks almost equally baffled as Felps currently feels—immediately closes off into a scowl. “Fuck off,” he snarls.
“The correct response is ‘you’re welcome,’” Felps almost remarks, but he makes a last-second decision to hold that one back because Cell is twirling his knife rather fast over his knuckles and Felps doesn’t want to push his luck in that regard. He takes the tiniest step away from the couch, just to be safe.
In any case, this is progress. They’re heading in the right direction. Cell’s boots are still dirtying Felps’ carpet, but he’ll take the small win for what it is: a win. Cell eventually stops twirling his knife, and Felps—keeping Cell in his peripheral—clicks the TV on again. He starts flicking through the channels.
Cell makes a low, disgruntled sound. “I was watching the news,” he protests, jaw audibly tight.
“You can look up the news on my laptop,” Felps replies evenly. He doesn’t want to watch the news right now; he’s supposed to be taking his mind off things. Besides, if he has to deal with Cell’s bullshit tonight, then he doesn’t need to deal with the rest of the world’s either. Cell mutters something, but he doesn’t say anything outright. He shoves the knife into his hoodie pocket and goes back to Googling on Felps’ computer.
Felps skips past the PvP channels (Cell would probably enjoy those far too much) and eventually settles on a cartoon channel that looks like it’s just coming off of commercial break. He takes the remote with him into the kitchen, snagging his beer off the end table before he goes. If Cell really wants to watch the news, then he’ll have to get up and figure out the buttons on the TV himself.
A few seconds into the program, Cell makes a scoffing sound. “The fuck is this?”
“Uh…” Felps turns and hits the GUIDE button on the remote. “‘Gravity Falls’? I hear it’s supposed to be good.” He sets the remote on the counter and starts rummaging through his fridge. Onion, sauces, parsley, cilantro, does he have any pork…?
“Who says it’s good?” Cell prods, skepticism sharp in his tone.
“I don’t know. Social media, I guess.” Felps dumps his things on the counter. Onto the cabinet—spices, more spices, maybe some red pepper flakes. He has cumin, right? No, he has to go to the store.
“...The words they’re saying don’t match their mouths.”
“Well…” Felps opens another cabinet and pushes a bag of rice aside. He could have sworn… “That’s because it’s an American show. It’s originally in English. This one is a Portuguese dub.”
“A Portuguese what?”
“A dub. Like a voice-over.”
“A what?”
“It’s—” Felps sighs, shutting the cabinet. “Cell, did you take my black beans?”
“Yeah?” Cell says, like that should have been obvious.
“I need them back.”
Cell scoffs again. “Why?”
Because they’re mine, and I bought them, and the only reason you have them is I’m afraid you’ll decide to eat something else if I try to take them from you, and I happen to be the nearest ‘something else,’ Felps thinks. He says, “I’m making soup.”
There’s a long pause. A moment passes, and he watches Cell slowly turn around to look at him over the back of the couch. His eyes are narrowed. “...Soup.”
“Yes.”
“With beans.”
“Yes.”
Cell still seems perplexed by this, and part of Felps wants to know why he’s so confused by the notion that Felps would make a soup from black beans, but the other part of him really does not care at the minute.
“Look,” says Felps, “I want to make dinner, but I can’t do it without the beans, so if you think you can manage to give them back without…” He gestures vaguely. “... stabbing me, or something, then I can make you some soup too.”
Cell tilts his head to the side. “And if I don’t?”
Felps shrugs. “Then I guess there’s no soup for either of us.”
Sure, Felps has other things he can make himself for dinner, and he’s also got some leftovers in the fridge he ought to get through before they turn; but in all honesty, now that Cell doesn’t seem like he actively wants to stab him, Felps is curious—is it possible to get Cell to give the food back that he always steals from his pantry?
After several seconds of contemplation, Felps sees Cell turn back around. There’s the sound of a zipper opening and some rummaging. Cell gets up, rounds the side of the couch, and comes over to the kitchen, where Felps is standing.
Then, with obvious reluctance, Cell stares Felps in the eye, sets the bag of beans on the counter, and slooooowly slides itover. It’s another several seconds before Cell lets it go. He retracts his hands quickly.
Huh. Alright. “Thank you,” Felps says.
Cell’s expression is highly skeptical. He makes a derisive sound—a tsk accentuated by a flick of his tongue over his lip—and retreats to the couch once again.
It’s quiet for a while. With the TV droning in the background and Felps himself going through the familiar motions of preparing a simple black bean soup, it almost kind of feels like any other night. Cell doesn’t say much after handing over the bag of beans, probably engrossed in whatever legally-dubious research he’s doing on Felps’ laptop. Felps hears him typing every now and then, and that’s really the only signifier that he’s in the room at all. It’s an unusual silence for him, considering how much seems to love ‘chatting’ with Felps whenever he shows up—not that Felps is complaining.
It’s not long at all before the soup is done. He takes out two bowls, fills them up, puts a spoon in each. He briefly wonders if the pork topping was a bad idea, considering the tastes of those present (God above and Void below, the last thing Felps wants is to spark one of his ‘cravings’), but it’s too late for that now. He decides that the thought of sitting down to eat dinner at a table with Cell is just too fucking weird for him, so he brings the bowls around to the living room. Cell can have the couch, and Felps will go for the old recliner that’s sitting a safe distance away. Easy.
Cell is watching the show when Felps comes around. Though his hands still rest on the keyboard, the computer is clearly an afterthought now, the screen having gone dark. Besides a slight pinch in his brow, his face is…oddly slack. Felps would go as far as to say it’s neutral, if Cell were capable of anything apart from giddy mania, thunderous rage, and revolting ‘charm’.
Felps considers this for a moment, and then something occurs to him. “...Do you like it?” he ventures.
Cell’s eyes snap to him. Sure enough, there’s that thunderous expression. “Like what?” he snaps.
Felps can’t tell if he’s caught Cell off-guard (not likely) or if Cell is being obtuse on purpose (more likely). Either way, Felps nods his head at the TV. “The cartoon.Gravity Falls. Do you like it?”
There’s a brief moment where Cell doesn’t seem like he knows what to make of the question. He looks at the TV, and then he looks back at Felps like he’s grown a second head. “The fuck are you asking me for?”
It’s a fair question. But there is, undeniably, something so amusing about the thought that Cell—murderer, cannibal, certified lunatic—would enjoy something as quaint as a children’s cartoon. “God forbid I make smalltalk,” Felps says. He holds out one of the bowls. “Here.”
Cell eyes it like it’s a live grenade. “How do I know that’s not poisoned?”
Felps shrugs at him again. “You don’t have to eat it.”
“But I gave you the beans.”
Technically my beans, Felps thinks but does not say. He sighs. Better to let the murderer get riled up again. “Okay. Alright. I get it. Just—here, hold this for a second.”
Felps passes Cell one of the bowls. From the other, Felps eats a large mouthful of the soup.
“Okay, now keep that spoon and trade bowls with me.”
Once more, the bowls are passed between them, the one that Felps took a bite out of now in Cell’s possession.
“There,” says Felps, gesturing at the bowl in Cell’s hands. “If it was poisoned, then we’ll die together.” And he heads for the recliner.
After he settles in, he sees Cell staring down at the bowl in his hands, spoon hovering over it. Hesitant.
Felps furrows his brow. “What.”
Cell passes his tongue over his lips. “...You could have put the poison in this one and the antidote in the other.”
Christ. “Like I said, you don’t have to eat it.”
It’s then that Felps decides that he’s done trying to convince him. He starts eating his black bean soup, because he’s hungry damnit. He watches a bit of the show, but he’s mostly keeping tabs on Cell, because obviously. Cell pokes at the soup for several minutes, glancing in Felps’ direction quite frequently, before finally seeming to make up his mind and scooping spoonful into his mouth.
He pauses. The spoon lingers in his mouth. He furrows his brow. He looks at Felps.
Felps…doesn’t know what that look means. In the end, Felps just shrugs at him. He keeps eating.
While Felps has gotten pretty good at reading Cell over the years—a means of survival—he honestly has no idea what’s going through Cell’s head right now. He doesn’t know what could possibly be wrong with the soup. Felps thinks it turned out pretty good, as simple as it is. The cumin would have made it better, but overall, it tastes fine. It’s warm, the pork pairs with it well, and—
The sound of Cell’s spoon clattering against the rim of his bowl makes Felps jump. He straightens, tense, when he realizes that Cell has already set the bowl aside and stood up and is now reaching for his backpack.
Felps blinks. His brain catches up. “You—are you leaving?”
Cell swings his backpack over his shoulder and starts walking. “Yep.”
Felps sputters. “But— why?”
Felps doesn’t know why he bothers asking the known murderer why he’s leaving his house—couldn’t quite stop the question before it came tumbling out, he supposes—but in the end, it doesn’t really matter; by the time Felps asks it, Cell is already gone. The only answer Felps gets is the slam of the door.
~*~
Fuck that.
Cell slams the door behind him and marches down the hall. He wrestles the other strap of his backpack onto his shoulder and shoves his hand into his hoodie pocket where he closes a fist around the grip of the knife concealed there. With his other hand, he tugs his hood up before he rounds the corner where the first security camera is. He shoulders his way through a door and into the stairwell. He skates down the first flight, skips the bottom step, and grips the railing to whip himself around and down the next flight of stairs, and the next, and the next…
Felps was being fucking—fucking weird tonight. Cell was expecting the shock factor to be less intense the third time around, sure, but Felps forcing himself into Cell’s space? Going toe to toe with him? Threatening to kill him? Felps has been angry at him before, snapped back at him when he wasn’t supposed to, of course he has. (Cell thinks back on that shouting match on the first night a lot. Cell was having a little too much fun playing with him, it seems.) But for all the shouting, Felps has never dared to threaten death upon him.
Cell had thought things went back to normal when Felps tried to snark at him, but then… whatever the fuck Felps had been going on about. The “concessions.” And the whole fucking boots ordeal. And then that fever dream of a half hour, where Cell was sitting on Felps’ couch, practically with the man’s permission, listening to him cook dinner while watching a—
Cartoon. Desenho animado. Saturday, adventure, movie, laugh. Sábado, aventura, filme, rir.
Cell’s head hasn’t given him a new tangle of words like that in years. Years. And Christ, who the fuck cooks with beans, anyway? You boil them and peel them and eat them as is! That’s the whole point of them! You eat them straight, and you eat them fast, and they keep you going, just like mushroom stew and jerky strips; just like trays of meat, grits, bread, and syruped fruit. They’re not supposed to taste good. He never should have given up that bag, that was fucking—
Cell shakes his head. Fuck that. Fuck that, fuck that, fuck that, fuck ALL of that. And fuck Felps. Cell doesn’t know what’s up with him, but he doesn’t like it. No, scratch that—Cell knows exactly what’s up with him: Felps isn’t scared of him anymore. And that’s…
Cell growls. “Fuck!”
His boots hit the concrete at the bottom of the last landing and he slams through the heavy metal door, re-entering the building’s main hallways. His heart pounds almost as loud as his feet. Someone bumps into him as he’s coming down the hall, and he has to grit his teeth and walk faster to keep from whipping around and slashing out their throat.
He licks his lips at the thought. He needs to kill someone. No, he doesn’t just need to kill someone, needs to fucking strangle someone. Snap their neck in his hands, watch the blood spurt from their nose and lips, rip meat from bone with his teeth. It should probably be Felps. Cell imagines tearing him to shreds, carving bloody canyons across his flesh until he begs for it to end, then driving his knife home and watching his eyes glaze over with a thin milky film as the Void claims him one last time.
Then, Cell sets the thought aside, erases it. No, he can’t. He—can’t lose the apartment. It’s too secure of a sleep spot. It always has food. Felps is always—no. Doesn’t matter. He can’t lose the apartment. He can’t lose the apartment. Cell punches the wall beside him hard enough to make his knuckles scream. He can’t lose the apartment.
Cell bursts out the back door of the building into the cool night. He stalks down the alleys, and he keeps trying to come up with a fucking plan for where he’s going to spend the night, but his head is still spinning. He can’t think. He refuses to believe that Felps isn’t scared of him. It’s just not fucking possible. He still flinched, he still shook, he still maintained his distance, he still kept a wary eye on him. Felps knows what Cell would do to him, given the chance.
No, clearly, Felps is still scared. He’d be braindead not to be. He’s just being weird because he’s Felps and Felps is just like that.
Cell tugs his hood down a little lower as he slinks out onto the sidewalk. His fingers shake. It’s the cold. He breathes. There’s a train stop about half an hour from here that has a maintenance shed no one goes in anymore. He can stop off there to jot down what he learned from his research while it’s still fresh in his mind, then sleep. In the morning he can grab some money from one of his caches and head twenty minutes north to the corner store with the cheap breakfast bread rolls. He’ll lift a couple other necessities while he’s at it.
But he can’t go there anymore after this, he thinks. The woman working the counter was a little too familiar with him while ringing him up last time. He’ll have to find somewhere new. He can manage that.