Anger has always worked on instinct, and no one can really blame him for that, because all five of them do. Maybe he was a little quicker to the controls than his coworkers and maybe he was a little harder to drag him away from the console when he was really agitated, but could you argue that moments like that were his fault?
...Yes. Yeah, that would be a safe argument.
But regardless of the trouble it caused, Anger continued to work on instinct. It was the only way he knew how to work; in fact, it was the only way he knew how to live. He worked on instinct, made all of his decisions on instinct, acted on instinct, said things on instinct...
That last one had caused him trouble time and time again. Because as it turns out, it's very easy to say things you don't necessarily mean when you don't think before you speak. Who knew, right?
And that leaves him in his current situation; wedged between Disgust and Fear in front of the console, striking his hands on any button he can reach. It's a bad day for Riley, but not a sad one, which means Sadness and Joy have opted to stand a safe distance away and watch the sparks fly.
"I can't believe this," Disgust is hissing, but with her voice 'hissing' sounds much more like 'shrieking'. "I can't believe this!" He surges forward, wraps her palm around a lever, and yanks it back. "If one more girl comes by and stares at us funny, I am going to vomit."
Fear doesn't even wait to start his rant; in fact, it feels like they started talking at the same time—
"Ohhh... you don't think they're judging us again, do you?" He slams his hand down on a whole row of tabs and pushes them up. "We're not doing anything weird, are we?"
—like they're just perfectly in sync, like they're—
"I spent all of last night picking this outfit; it's like, who do they think they are?"
—just so in tune they can read each other's damn minds—
"Do we have toilet paper stuck to our shoe?" The view on the monitor shifts down to Riley's feet, but there's no toilet paper to be found. "Or food on our face? O-or maybe we have something sticking out of our nose?"
—they're not even talking to each other, can't they just stop—
"Ew! Can you just cut that out, I'm trying to figure out what these girls want!"
—oh, but now they are, of course—
"You're trying to figure it out? I-I'm trying harder than anyone here! Do you think we have a stain on our shirt?"
—they don't need him, they've never needed that—
"I would never pick out a stained shirt! They're probably noticing how much we're shaking, no thanks to you."
—why does he even care what they think of him, they're just a couple of fussy little—
"We aren't shaking! My hand is nowhere near that button, see?"
—who get along with each other way better than they'd ever get along with him—
"Oh, well, I'm sorry if I didn't notice you push every button other than that one!"
—of course they do, they're always together, they're always paying attention to each other—
"I've been very selective! You're the one who can't keep your hands away from the console; you'll make Riley puke at this rate!"
—and he's just always left, out, always forgotten, always—
"Euuugggh! I'm the one who's going to puke if you don't stop talking about it!"
—alwaysalwaysalwaysalways—
"Will the two of you just SHUT UP ?"
Fear and Disgust both stop mid-sentence, frozen until they realize how close they are to the blazing fire rising from the flat top of Anger's head. Disgust steps back with a shout, the flames just barely licking her neckerchief. Fear is a lot more jumpy about his escape; fleeing halfway across the headquarters until he's hidden safely behind Sadness. She regards him with a vague look of surprise, but otherwise keeps her eyes firmly planted on Anger.
"What the hell was that for?" Disgust demands, and Anger is quick to answer.
"I'm sick and tired of you and Fear's non-stop blabbing! Who cares if Riley's got more mud on her shoes or if some good-for-nothing bitch—" Joy gasps at this, but Anger doesn't stop (he can't stop) "—thinks her shirt's the wrong shade of green? I don't! And I don't need to put up with this!" And even though he says he doesn't care, he still turns around and shoves some levers forward, smacks some buttons, and all around throws a temper tantrum on the console before he storms back to his bedroom. He tries hard to ignore the feeling of their eyes on him; Joy's sympathetic gaze, Sadness' drowsy stare, Fear's trembling gawk, Disgust's sharpened glare...
They can deal with her bad mood themselves. It's not like he can make her feel better, anyways.
