Realistic or Modern LOVE, LOSS, REVENGE

[SquigglyWiggly]

It's not that Kaden has a fear of needles, he has a respect for them when they're around his neck.
And prefers when they're properly used.

But Damien tolerated being held at gunpoint. Finch can handle this much.

His eyes fall shut and he suppresses the need to swallow. The needle tip is sharp enough it doesn't hurt, but it does itch and irritate the sting of the sliver.
Something this small has no right to be this troublesome.

"...We came to an understanding," Kaden says softly, slowly at first to test the waters. It's one thing to be held, another to be scolded for moving.
"Ash fought for an alliance...it was like his father couldn't hear him. Or wouldn't. I wouldn't tolerate that insubordination either but..." Kaden's hand clamps shut as the needle tip digs a little deeper. It doesn't hurt, Damien is just squeezing him a bit more than before.

His fingers are a firm and steady weight on his skin. Each minute shift of his index rustles the hair there and makes Kaden want to twitch.
If a dog is most sensitive around his ears, then a human's place is the back of his neck. It's truly awful.

"He was a possession to that man, one he wasn't particularly proud of. I never understood... Well, it's no wonder Ash struggled to find himself."

How long does it take to get a piece of wood out of someone's neck?
That good pain that only exists in the context of having an irritant being removed blossoms over his skin, slowly.

"The shooter aimed for Ash, but now that I know it was Delilah I suspect she was drawing my attention. Her true target was always Kenji, she just needed me out of the way." Finch draws in a short breath.
He's aware with his neck craned his throat is on full display when he swallows. He knows what that looks like; he's always been on the other end of the needle.

"And now I have to kill his son next. Even apart it's like she and I are still working together..."

Was it some final act of love or an appreciation for his skill in taking a bullet? Kaden doesn't know... He hasn't known much of anything for a while now.

Kaden heaves a breath once he's free.
The sudden removal makes him realize how bothersome it truly was in comparison.
It's a little thing, but it does feel better.

Finch knows Damien's night was just as personal, if not more so.

His hands are rubbed raw.

"I'll have that officer you mentioned lifted and worked over when I can," he says, standing up from the table. The best he can ever offer is violence. That's what he does, even if Damien has made great strides in domesticating him.
Finch doesn't know any other way to help.

"If he is with the High-Rise he'll be a substantial lead. If not I'd feel better if he was gone, regardless."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

The way Kaden describes Ash's relationship with his father makes Damien grimace, pausing his work for a split second. A possession. That's a familiar feeling - such a family situation is something he is intimately acquainted with, even without being the son of a crime boss. To be raised in someone else's image, expected to behave a certain way, talk to certain people... not allowed your own individuality, but instead used as an extension of another's will.

Damien sympathizes with Asahi more than he can describe. That makes the idea that Kaden has to kill the young Nakurra all the more terrible.

"You can't be serious," Damien speaks in disbelief, brows furrowing, "The two gangs were meant to unite, now you're thinking of starting a gang war by killing Ash?"

This is the worst-case scenario, isn't it? And after they'd already come to an understanding... It almost sounds like the shooter was biding their time to see if the two organizations would come to an agreement and if yes, well... worst-case scenario it is. However, that shooter was Delilah herself. The ex-cop eyes Kaden. Suspicion pulls at his mind - who is the woman actually working to benefit? He banishes such thoughts, deciding them unwise to ponder or speak. Still, he can communicate some of his worries.

"Sounds like that shot, whether aimed at the father or the son, was meant to ruin any chance of alliance, to force you into fighting against each other. I mean, even if the Black Dogs come out as victors on the other end, you'll be exhausted, left as easy pickings. It's a ludicrous idea, Kaden."

The ex-cop bites at the inside of his cheek, "Ash now stands as the Nakurra's successor. Is it not worth it to reach out in one last attempt? It sounds like the boy sees reason, especially if he fought for an alliance once already."

With the splinter removed and with Damien not holding him in place any longer, Finch rises up from his spot. It isn't even a second later that Damien latches onto his sleeve to stop him.

That officer you mentioned.

"No!" Damien's voice comes out louder than he intended. His grip tightens, eyes widening to stare up at the capo, pleading, "Don't involve yourself with him. You don't-"

Shit. Damien lowers his head. It's pathetic how debilitating this fear is. It takes the ex-convict several seconds to continue, "He's a bad cop, Kaden." The type of bad cop Damien can imagine beating up a defenseless kid within inches of dying. He's done even worse, "... I'm not sure, but he might have recognized me. Sending out your men means creating a connection with the Black Dogs."

A connection with Finch. Damien shudders, swallowing.

"Before he was killed," the ex-cop hurries along, words raining past his lips. He needs to move on from the topic, "Moore mentioned some documents, proving his dealing with the High-Rise. Those could be a smoking gun against them. The files are supposed to be somewhere secure and secret, but I have a hunch one person knows - Jasmine Simons, the lawyer. And I do have a potential way of getting to her."

Damien inhales deeply, reigning in his nerves. He finally lets go of Finch's sleeve to look up, meeting the man's eyes after steeling his resolve, "Moore mentioned something else - he claimed he didn't hire Genevieve. That he was only involved as far as deciding which one of us was to be killed... I want to work with you, with the Black Dogs against the High-Rise."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

They were meant to unite, but after tonight Kaden doesn't know if that's plausible anymore.
His instinct is to strike fast and hard; teeth to the jugular.
Damien disagrees.

He suggests more than that as well. Troubling things that Finch's head can't quite grasp.
Or refuses to.

But it's Damien's outburst that truly traps Kaden's attention.
This is a man not easily disturbed sent into a panic by a name.
Who is this cop? What did he do to Damien?

Finch finds himself wanting to hurt the man more the harder Damien grips at his sleeve.
The ex-cop is wearing a t-shirt; Kaden can't hold him back without touching skin.
The ex-cop has a scar on his arm. Its shiny with age, but it interrupts the growth of hair there.

Where else has he been hurt? How much of his body is striped like this?

"You would be an asset to the Black Dogs," he says softly, imagining for a moment a life where Damien is a Black Dog.
A real one.

"But you are passing a threshold, Damien. If you stay much longer you won't be able to leave."

He wants to reach out and touch Damien, somewhere along the slope of his shoulder.
He's done it before, back at Wight's mansion. But that was to restrain him.
What would be the purpose behind this touch?

At his side, Finch's hand opens and flexes shut.

"And that's not because I would keep you here against your will," he explains. That may be... Part of it as well, but Finch will leave that for another time.
He dragged this man here, personally and impulsively. Saying these things feels counterproductive to what Kaden wants, but he says them anyway.
He doesn't know why.

"The longer you stay the more in danger you'll be if you leave. You won't be able to have a real life, Damien."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

At being called an asset, Damien's heart skips a beat. Does Kaden mean what he says? The ex-cop is not delusional, he knows what kind of trouble he's caused the capo over the last weeks. He's been saved multiple times by the man. Hell, the consigliere risked his own life to keep him from drowning when he arguably deserved to suffer for his rashness. A part of Damien can't help thinking he's more trouble than it's worth. Yet, Finch keeps him around, trusts him with truths about himself that probably few people know. Selfishly, it feels good to believe he's useful to Kaden. For some reason. The ex-cop squeezes his fists - he wants to be better, he needs to be better.

Damien almost doesn't hear the rest of that sentence - "to the Black Dogs".

Looking at the big picture, this turn of events is definitively bizarre. The person that dreamt of being a detective in the criminal enterprises division is offering to work with an organized crime group. Could he truly do that? Become a Black Dog? Does he want that, beyond his current objective?

Damien doesn't ask himself such questions often, he doesn't think long-term because there's no point in pondering an uncertain future. All that matters is the present, the urgency of his goals. It's worthless to ruminate on this purported "real life" Kaden is talking about. What are those words even supposed to mean? Is what's happening now somehow less or not real at all? Are they playing pretend?

"Knowing everything you say is true, I want to stay," as much as his mind might be a mess, the ex-cop's words are decisive. He doesn't have all the answers - the sole thing he is certain of is that at this very moment he wants to help Kaden and be helped by him. And that's enough, "Of my own free will."

His gaze is transfixed on the capo's hand, opening and flexing shut. That "real life" he mentioned, it's nagging at Damien. The normalcy that people unlike the two men are allowed, like Natalia and Kim. Has Finch ever wanted something like that? What would it even look like in their case? Is it having dinner together? There's a heat rising to Damien's face.

"I think," when he doesn't have much else left to say of any value, the ex-cop starts talking again. He's ruminating out loud with no particular benefit to the act except for laying out his thoughts, "I think it's never too late to cross back over the threshold. To have a real life, whatever that's supposed to mean. As long as you want it badly enough, you can work towards it."

He's not sure who the 'you' is supposed to be. He's not sure if he believes himself to begin with.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

All his life anything Kaden had he had to fight to keep. Nothing was given. The world owed him nothing.
His only constant, whether that was good or bad, was his boss.

Now Damien is saying he'd like to stay, willingly. It's not unheard of at all, Cade himself is a loyal member and he fought to be here.
But this feels different.
Damien isn't staying for money or power. Supposedly it's for revenge and Kaden still believes that, he does. There's just... Something different about it.

Again, the ex-cop grows flushed for reasons Kaden can't understand. Is there something embarrassing about being with him?
This man is taking Finch apart, one thin layer at a time. He's never been dismantled so gently before. Damien's dangerous. He's the most dangerous man Finch has ever aligned himself with and the capo doesn't have the sense to disengage. Or the strength.

"I think," he says, still feeling the tender touch echoing along his neck.
Usually, Finch would have rubbed at the spot to remove the ghost of warmth marking a place he didn't want touched.
"I like it when you say things like that."

It's utter nonsense, but they sound possible when Damien says it. They sound like something Finch would want.
Kaden softly inhales, glancing at Damien's shoulder again.

Kaden brings his hands together, clasping them together, inhaling deeply.

"It's completely unrealistic and preposterous, but I like it."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien's eyes widen, feeling somehow fuller as they take in more of Kaden, this strange man he's trying to understand. The ex-cop hadn't expected that reaction or the warmth that it fills him with. As dubious as his statement had been - and Finch had acknowledged that fact, of course - for the consigliere to like it means... a lot. That fact makes Damien happy in turn. He smiles, chuckling.

Somewhere deep inside his subconscious murmurs that he doesn't have the right to feel happy, especially at the end of such a night. Especially after what he did.

But the voice is muffled in his head, shut away in some compartment, because right now the rest of the world doesn't really exist, if just for the blink of an eye.

"You like it?" Damien hums leaning on the table, still smiling, "Then I'll make sure to keep saying more unrealistic and preposterous things."

As soon as that sentence is spoken into existence, he cringest internally, closing his eyes and rubbing at the back of his neck. Man was that a bad line. He keeps embarrassing himself in Kaden's presence, doesn't he... Since when does he care how he comes off?

Eventually, he gathers up enough courage to look at Finch again over the rim of his glasses. Hands clasped, the capo is still in his gala eveningwear, cheek marred by tiny scratches.

"I know I'm keeping you from showering... but I need to make a request," Damien sighs, rising up from his seat to go retrieve the gun where he'd left it upon coming in. He'd already made this ask once, earlier, but now his voice is a lot more tempered, "Please, remove the tracker, and then hand it to me."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Damien's attempt at a stimulating verbal parry is charming in it's inadequacy.
Kaden smiles, soft at the man.

That smile drops when Damien leaves. Some small, vulnerable part of him bleeds at the sudden thought he may be leaving and not coming back.
Fortunately, Damien's not leaving but he does come back with the S&W handgun. Finch frowns at the sight of it.
He had hoped the subject of the tracker had been dropped and forgotten, more or less.

The capo takes the gun. The imagery of the fox is clouded over with dried mud.
Finch takes a breath to speak, but doesn't.

He gazes at the weapon.

Pulling back on the barrel the gun clicks harmlessly, empty.
With definitive movement, the capo field strips the weapon.
In a matter of seconds a tool of destruction becomes nothing but a few harmless pieces of well maintained metal.

In the slide, behind a spring hides a tiny pill.
You could mistake it for trash or another mechanism of the gun itself if you didn't know what you were looking for.

"I'll just find another place for it," Kaden warns, but doesn't drop the tracker into Damien's hand.
Instead he lets it rest in his palm to be grabbed.

"Somewhere it can't be found or easily removed, Damien."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Kaden not talking back at the request is reassuring. The ex-cop watches him disassemble the gun closely, following each effortless movement. The capo's obviously done this before, no surprises there. The tracker is out in seconds.

Damien's just reaching out to take the tiny device from Finch's palm when the man's words make him stop. He clenches his hand shut, staring at the Black Dog.

"Why do you feel the need to do this?" Damien frowns, searching Kaden's face - there has to be some reason behind this incessant need to monitor the ex-convict. Or maybe the consigliere monitors people in general. He's reminded of earlier when Finch had admitted he didn't want to risk losing Damien... Given everything that's happening with Delilah, it feels silly to ask if he's lost someone before in order to have such a paranoia. Nevertheless, nothing excuses his current behavior, not when he threatens to put the tracker somewhere else, where it can't be easily found or removed.

Damien's frown turns into a scowl and a scoff as he snatches away the tracker, careful not to touch Kaden.

"You're honestly unbelievable," Damien chides. How exasperating, for this to happen when both had been smiling for once. Yet instead of arguing back at the capo, as he probably should, the ex-cop is about to say something even more preposterous than some ridiculous chance at a "real life".

"I need you to listen to me closely," his voice is clear, almost scolding the capo, "I'm keeping the tracker. But this isn't an invitation for you to barge into my private life as you wish. I'll carry it only when necessary, and as soon as all of the shit that's happening blows over, it's getting smashed."

"I'm not an idiot, Finch. I realize this thing is the only reason you found me tonight. I understand the danger of the present situation and that we might end up separated again, unable to communicate. So, I'm keeping the tracker... As unfair as it might be that only you have a way to find me."

A part of him calls him a moron, tells him he's thoroughly whipped and that this is ridiculous. Damien glares at Kaden, gearing up for the most important part. He needs to set boundaries.

"I don't want to leave, but if you put something on me like this without talking to me first... if you try to breach my privacy one more time, I will leave."

The ex-cop keeps staring, hoping that Kaden is taking him seriously. Because this actually means something to him.

"Put the gun back together, I'm keeping that too."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

The gun's a gift, one Damien would easily have left behind if Kaden didn't surrender the tracker.
That's the only reason he submitted.

Finch scoffs lightly, crossing his arms at Damien's opinion of him.
Kaden's the unbelievable one? Doubtful.
No, before it can come to a full blown argument, Damien back tracks with that soft, condescending voice Kaden loves so much.

"You've lost your phone in the past, I find the notion you can keep hold of something this tiny unlikely."
Finch bites at his lip rather than say anything truly hurtful or immature. It is after all beneath him.

But this is the only compromise Damien is offering.
As much as it burns, the ex-cop is giving a pitiful amount of leeway.
It's an alien and uncomfortable concept to have so little control in a relationship he values this much.
And he does value it, unfortunately. He shouldn't and this is part of the reason why.

Cade would say something crude, something like Damien having Finch by the balls.
It's disgusting and unnecessarily descriptive, but maybe not completely untrue.

He doesn't want Damien to leave. But he doesn't want to be controlled either, held back at a distance. It's a textbook example of why relationships are stupid, pointless things that weaken your resolve.

"People disappear, Damien. The tracker isn't even necessarily to save you it's to find your corpse so I don't have to keep looking for you. I couldn't care less about your private life."

The idea Damien even has a private life is laughable.
Finch is his private life. The public, unimportant parts are everything else.
They should be the ones Damien's putting boundaries on. Maybe not Montesano; she's kind and has Damien's best interest at heart, but everything and everyone else doesn't.

At the moment, the capo has no leg to stand on.

"But of course, I accept," Kaden manages icily.
With perhaps more force than necessary, the capo slams the gun back together again.
When it's in one piece he test fires the weapon, trigger clicking smoothly and quietly.

As peeved as he is, he's still curious.

"Why is it so important to you I not have a way to find you?" Finch snaps in exhasperation.

"What in the world could you possibly be doing in private that is so repulsive I can't know about it?"

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien bristles at the mistrust in him keeping track of the device. The worst part is Kaden is technically right - he did lose his phone before, in his own apartment. However, at the moment the ex-cop is loath to admit his past mistake, so he just rolls his eyes and puts the tracker away in his leather glasses case. He'll find a better spot for it later.

"I feel like you're not listening to me," the ex-cop sighs, pushing up his eyewear to rub at the bridge of his nose, "Do you really not see where I'm coming from? I mean, how would you feel if someone was keeping tabs on you without you knowing?"

"It's not that I don't want you to find me. It's about the fact you feel entitled to these things. Which, let me be clear, you are not. I would have given you my address if you asked. I would have let you hand me a chipped gun if you asked," Damien clenches his jaw at that last point, proceeding after a beat of silence, "Maybe."

That's a big maybe. Is it a compromise Damien would have been willing to make had he been told beforehand? You know, in order to have his corpse retrieved if things went south... Suppose he'll never know, seeing as he wasn't given the choice.

"All I'm asking is that you ask."

And Kaden asks. Kind of. In exasperation.

"Repulsive?" Damien bristles further. What is Finch talking about?

He doesn't appreciate how the capo had said private life. As if the ex-convict didn't have one. Well, the truth is he kind of doesn't.

Kaden cooks, he bakes. He has a cat. He keeps up his appearance and knows how to dress, to apply makeup to enhance himself. The consigliere has things that make him seem human - these hobbies, even more probably. In contrast, Damien has nothing, and it makes him seem deficient, like half a person if even that much. The realization is unsettling. What does he do in his "private life"?

"I jog," he says after several seconds too long, "It feels freeing. Used to also watch movies, but I haven't properly done that since they screened The Shawshank Redemption in prison..."

He crosses his arms in front of himself.

"Either way, nothing "repulsive" I'm afraid. I'm not trying to hide anything. It's the principle of things, Kaden."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Kaden shrugs at the question.
"I would feel secure," he says, but his certainty drops halfway through the sentence. If it was someone he trusted that was above his station the answer would be obvious.

Or would it be?

Tracking wasn't usually necessary with Kaden. He wasn't attached at Delilah's hip, but he wasn't far off either.

The capo's struck with the sudden realization Delilah never made attempts to track him.
Or at least...not to his knowledge.
Kaden doesn't typically let his targets know, why would she?
But at least he only does it to the ones he intends to keep.

Finch would never have questioned the violation of it all unless she left.
It's not that she collared him and made him her own, it's that she left.
That's being violated.

For all he knows he's still chipped. She's aware of where he is and to get away from him if he draws too close.
She's able to grab him again, if she ever wants to. The relationship is on her terms, not his.

The thought makes his stomach hurt.

Rather than lie about asking permission again, Kaden elects not to speak at all.

The answer to what Damien does in his free time takes a beat too long to come.
"You... jog," he says, haltingly. "That's nice."

Is Finch the only one who thinks playing ShawShank Redemption in a prison is cruel and unusual punishment?

"...So it's the absence of consent that bothers you, not the act itself?"
He hadn't considered that. As obvious as it is and as often as Damien has repeated it.

It had never occurred to him to even ask Delilah not to do the things she did. Ever. Question, maybe, but not request she stop.

"What if you say no?" He queries, and he understands how childish and pathologically evil that makes him sound.
"I have to do some things to you for your own benefit, Damien."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien nods when Kaden gets to the crux of what actually bothers the ex-cop - "the absence of consent, not the act itself". That's a good way to put it. He allows a tiny bit of contentment to surface - it's a relief to finally be heard.

Yet, Finch is seemingly still not fully convinced, holding onto certain trepidations.

The idea Damien needs to have things done for his own benefit makes him quirk an eyebrow. He's not a child or a pet to be looked after due to being incapable of knowing what's good for his own person. Hell, the ex-convict is older than Kaden, yet the capo still patronizes him. That's what this is. However... would it really be that bad to allow himself to be cared for, even if just a little bit?

The muscles in his crossed arms tense at the ridiculous thought, tightening their hold. His mind is misinterpreting Finch's words. Damien's frown returns, irritatingly not as deeply as before, "Things like what?"

He considers stating that regardless of what they might be, Kaden needs to respect his right to refuse. He bites down on such a retort. So far this conversation has been productive, if somewhat exasperating. He's made progress towards feeling more equal to the consigliere, and there's a certain gravity to that he hadn't anticipated. Damien won't rush things, he doesn't want to just push his worldview onto Kaden.

After all, this is a man that had second ago claimed he'd feel secure at the prospect of someone monitoring him, even if that sentence hadn't ended as confidently as it'd started. The ex-cop again has to wonder what led to Finch possessing such an opinion on the matter. None of the answers he can come up with bring him any comfort.

"We'll find a compromise," Damien finally relents with a sigh, letting his arms drop to his side, "But let's cross that bridge after you actually let me say 'no' for once."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Damien follows up Kaden's question with a productive one of his own.
What would qualify as something Damien couldn't decide for himself? He has average intelligence and possesses full motor control; there's little anyone would need to micromanage for him.

"What if..." He legitimately has no answer. If Damien's wounded or unconscious or otherwise unable to speak for himself obviously it will be Kaden's responsibility to make sure he gets care. That's not what they're talking about and using that in this argument would be cheap.
Damien is, however, impulsive and reckless. He's prone to rushing in head first. Is it Kaden's place to keep him from following his own judgement?
Categorizing these thoughts, Kaden comes to a possible understanding.

Damien isn't his.

It's an unsettling truth.
In addition it makes him irrationally angry. Its a baseless, infantile anger. Has he bought Damien with the things he's given and done for the man? Perhaps Damien is just something Kaden likes and wants and he's not accustomed to being told no? Is he truly that childish? That disillusioned?
He can't be sure.

"I acquiesce," he says, staring intently at Damien. This is just some...man in his home that he has no control or understanding of.
This is a stranger. He doesn't even have a background in crime.
Does Kaden appear as bizarre to Damien?
Finch could have the man killed at any point he likes, and Damien stays in his company.
Kaden held a gun to his head. He's insane.

"Follow," Kaden says, stepping by Damien. He pauses, looking over his shoulder. "If you will."

Nope. Finch doesn't like that.

Pawl is in the living room sitting on the book shelf, looking on in slit eyed pleasure.
Finch holds down one of the buttons positioned on the wall by the light switches. With a quiet mechanical groan, the Murphy bed leisurely unfolds itself from the wall.
The hidden bed is flush to the wall and right next to the windows. With a second tap, the glass goes opaque and the shine of the city is blacked out.
"This will have to suffice," Kaden utters, smoothing down the sheet with a hand.

"Unless you want to tell me no and pay for a hotel room yourself," he suggests thoughtfully.
"Although I suppose if we're equals than you probably won't have enough money for a night elsewhere after you pay me back for the suit. I would never want to make you uncomfortable by paying for it myself, Damien."

Kaden bemusedly picks at a fingernail before his eyes flick up to take Damien in.
"Its the principle of things, you understand. Or...maybe there's some sort of compromise you would like to suggest, I'm open to any solutions."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

If you will.

Damien decides that he indeed will, following Kaden. This is what he had requested, being asked instead of ordered. The small gesture carries more significance than it should, given how mundane it would be coming from anyone other than the capo. In his case, however, it's progress, and Damien will take what he can get. Just like he'll take sleeping on that retractable wall bed. Tragic how it's definitely of higher quality than the actual bed back in his apartment, but at the end of the day both are just surfaces to sleep on, nothing more. His shoulders sag slightly, the exhaustion of the evening catching up all at once with the finish line in sight.

Damien's in the process of saying something when Finch beats him to it. The ex-cop's eyes widen - his hopes that the two had reached some type of understanding are dashed in five sentences or so. What else was he expecting?

The Black Dog is mocking him. He tried to have a genuine discussion and now his words are being spat back in ridicule, Finch dangling the ex-convict's current dependence over his head. It's demeaning. His jaw clenches.

"What, the suit it was necessary for me to have in order to attend the gala? The event you got me into as a debt for letting the Siren get away and leaving me tied up in fucking prison showers," summoning back some strength, Damien stabs an accusatory finger in the gangster's direction. Well, they weren't really prison showers, but they certainly looked like ones, and the fact remains that Kaden left him there.

And now, bizarrely, he's volleying Damien between saying he didn't want to risk losing him and then doing... whatever this is supposed to be.

"Didn't realize the Black Dog's consigliere reneged on his agreements," the ex-convict grumbles under his breath. Technically, they never made that specific arrangement. Even setting that aside, it's unfair for him to be trying to guilt the man like this. Kaden owes him nothing anymore. Given recent events, it's the other way around.

Yet, Damien can't help snapping back, angry and indignant.

"But, no, I completely agree! Principles and all," he throws out his arms, tone filled with sarcasm.

This isn't Finch legitimately giving him the option to say 'no'. It also isn't legitimately expecting a compromise to be suggested. It's bullshit and it's petty. Furthermore, it feels... transactional, and that creates an added layer of sharp irritation in the ex-cop. It bothers him, a lot. He doesn't want this relationship to be transactional. But that's where they stand, isn't it? Damien sought out the capo's help from day one, not for free. Not caring what he had to do in return.

"I'll pay you back. Unfortunately, I don't have the money to spend on things like a tuxedo or a night's stay," Damien lowers his voice, holding Kaden's gaze, "So, what do you want from me, Finch? To beg, to sleep on the floor? What's a worthwhile exchange I can offer? And if I can't, then just shoo me away."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Kaden's aloofness succeeds in making Damien feel like dirt. There's some bitter satisfaction to be gained from it; Finch has shoved him back into place where threats and acts of control never worked.
Finch is the rich, dangerous Mafia boss. Finch is the one who worked hard to have anything he wants.
Damien's the cop who got stabbed in the back for working in a backwards society. Kaden's powerful, inexorable and Damien isn't.
If that pushes him away emotionally then... Kaden can deal with that. That's something he understands at least.

When Damien's upset with him he uses his last name.

"On the bed is fine. You can beg if you feel you need to, but it's not something I enjoy personally."

It's shocking to think moments before Damien was so gentle with him, helping him with something he never could have dealt with on his own.
The mouse removes the thorn from the lion's paw and the cat eats the rodent.
Not because it's hungry, but because the mouse can't have the impression the lion's weak.

Which makes the lion weaker than the mouse tenfold.

He glances away, jaw clenched. The action irritates the raw skin on his cheek. The debris didn't even draw blood for the most part, just left dozens of little red streaks.
"You've seen how I treat Cade. This is me trying, Damien. I know it doesn't look like it, but it is."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

How he treats Cade? The ex-cop's only ever seen the two men interact for longer once, back in the limo when Finch had forced his second in command to come along against his will. Nevertheless, that doesn't alter Damien's disposition - the present situation has nothing to do with anyone outside of the two, and the simple truth stands that it's painful to have his rhetoric used against him when he was trying to be honest.

"Yeah, it doesn't look like it," he does his best to maintain his harsher intonation, not allowing himself to buckle under Kaden's words like he usually does. It's troublesome how the slightest actions from the consigliere can make him fold, yet if the ex-convict decides to pull back now he'll be actively working against the boundaries he's trying to set.

Still, Damien hates the fact that every day he spends with Kaden has to end up souring somehow. Now over something so petty. Honestly, he is partially to blame - he could have reacted better, but the ex-cop's been plenty patient as is.

"You're not the only one that's trying," Damien notes, looking down at the bed.

A beat of silence later, he sighs and sits down on its edge. He's sore and exhausted.

"Thank you for letting me stay," that's what he'd meant to say earlier, before Finch had decided to antagonize him. The gratitude is genuine, even if tinged with agitation due to their bickering. He throws the Black Dog a look.

"Should probably go shower finally. You stink of seafood and gun smoke," it's an exaggeration, but Damien says it anyway, "Good night, Kaden."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

You're not the only one that's trying.

That slams Kaden's mouth shut with a click.
As confused as he is, Damien is too. Probably more so. The man spent half his life in a competitive family and then the other half in prison and he still knows how to treat people well.

He knows how to treat himself well.

Saying Finch stinks is fair and it's less than he deserves.
It's a definitive period on this interaction; Damien is done with him.
He nods awkwardly before stepping away.

---

None of his products have been used.
None, but a bar of soap. Damien was probably lucky to access even that while he was in prison.
It's no wonder he takes such poor care of himself.

And Finch is contributing to that now.

He swipes the steam from the mirror, eyeing the man who has his hand pressed to his.
If people felt like flat pieces of cold glass, they'd almost be pleasant to touch.

The sensation of Damien's touch along his neck makes him shiver.

In the end he only does half his night routine. Every exfoliate and lotion stings a cheek that has no right to hurt at all.

Damien's tux is sitting in a muddy pile on the floor and Kaden can't find the ire to be upset about it. Some of the mud is supposed to be blood. Moore's blood, by Damien's account.
He'll have it cleaned and ironed tomorrow but Finch doubts he'll ever want to wear it again.

The capo nearly turns on the living room light out of reflex.
When was the last time he had someone sleep over, if ever? His mother comes to mind, but you don't really sleepover with your mom. You live with her.
Every other poor woman that has shared his bed he's removed afterwards.

Damien is a round lump with his back to Kaden as he passes. It's hard to tell if he's truly so oddly shaped or if Pawl is draped over his shoulder.
Traitorous feline.

---

Finch takes Delilah's jacket and holds it over his nose once again. The cologne is fading.
It smells more and more like him and not her.

She took up smoking again.

He tosses the leather aside, letting it smack into a wall and fall into the hamper.

The capo shakes out four milligrams of Lorazepam into his palm.
Growing up Finch had one rule and it was that he'd never become reliant on things like these. Whether it was something as trivial as anti depressants or as hard as blow, he would never indulge. There was nothing his own brain couldn't overcome with training and discipline.

He downs the tablets dry.

What would usually be a necessary ritual of stretching, meditation and rolling ceaselessly in bed for at least three hours is gone.
Kaden's out in half an hour, maybe less.
If Damien the stranger comes in to slit his throat with a kitchen knife, Finch won't wake up at the sounds of his footsteps or the soft bubbling of his blood leaking out onto his pillow.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

----

Usually exercise burns the adrenaline right out of Cade. He leaks his poorly maintained attitude out with the sweat boxing or lifting.
Not tonight though. Tonight that restlessness is buried deep under his skin and he's going to drive himself nuts trying to scratch at it.

Kade laid him out with one hold, and the pathetic part is Cade was familiar with it.
While he was down, being dissected by the cold bastard's eyes the old drill instructor in his head was screaming to lift his other arm up.
Protect his head, attack his opponent, anything.
Kaden's voice was smooth, icy, like a machine's.
Most people don't get the lock right. The angle's off or they don't put enough pressure behind it.
Not Finch, the man who up until recently has always gotten everything right.

And then an hour later the fucker comes back with his little pet, completely oblivious to how it looks taking someone up to your room this late.

Cade doesn't stick around to see if Damien comes back down.
Part of him wants to, but it would no doubt end in a fight Dame is too fucking self righteous to take part in.
No, Cade would get into deep shit with Finch. And not the fun kind either.

So he takes his bike and fucks off for a while. You know, because he's a productive, well adjusted human being.
Somewhere in the weeds of his higher thinking he knows biking in late November is a bad idea. He won't crash, but someone else will and he'll be some colorful paste frozen to the road that doesn't get chipped off untill February at the latest.

He saw a lotta shit like that on the force; idiots trying to get away on a bike. They're faster than cruisers and go in narrower places.
It would be manslaughter, or if you're generous, just cause to put out some road spikes, but cops don't actually need to bother. A biker will split his head open eventually. There's no other way to stop a perp on a bike without killing him and that's the point.
The job is just causing as little damage as possible until it happens.

Cade's heading to one of his usual haunts until he isn't.
He doesn't want to be around people that know him, or what he's like. He could terrorize Martin at the Moonlit for a free drink, but it's just not worth it.
Some place new where he can sit in brooding silence and disappear, that's the plan.

The bar he settles on is seedy, a little dingy. It lines up with Cade's mood pretty good, actually.
It's almost the kind of place you might feel inclined to bring a gun to, but Cade gets a little trigger happy when he's drunk.
No, the gun stays locked in the bike compartment, along with his helmet.

The bouncer letshim in without a hitch and Cade thinks about how he caved in a guy's face a few hours ago.
He's living his life on high octane and no one knows about it. Everyone else here is an accountant with marriage problems and hair loss or a cashier at Walmart.

Cade could buy this place.

He settles for buying a drink, then two and then slows down to nurse on the third one. His oasis of a booth is as good as advertised; no one's come over to say hi, no one knows him.
Cade can't decide if he's happy about that or not. Putting his knuckles into someone's face right about now wouldn't be too bad, but he left so he wouldn't do that.
And the alcohol is helping. Instead of pissed he's just vaguely upset.

One or two men at the bar outweigh him.
One is particularly dangerous looking, hair slicked back and wearing a jacket that does absolutely nothing to cover up the broadness of his back.
The guy glares into space like the air itself has somehow offended him.

Yeah, that's the kind of guy Cade would pick a fight with if he was the kind of person who started fights with people that look like his boss.
Taking his drink, Cade finds a spot at the bar.
A fight would get this tension out, like a good massage.
A fuck would do that too, maybe, but there isn't a worthwhile chick he can summon any charisma for here.

No, unless a drop dead gorgeous blonde walks through the door right this instance, Cade's best option might be home and a cold shower.

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

---

Neil steps over the threshold of the seedy bar with a burr, hands messing with his blonde hair to shake out any snowflakes that managed to stick to it between his car and the door. It's freezing outside, so the temperature change is much appreciated. Could be warmer, though, if there were more bodies inside. It's not like the establishment is barren, but it simply isn't the place to recieve massive traffic. Not that Neil can know there for certain, he's never visited before. Yet the brief about it coupled with its present state confirm his assumption.

The man starts walking languidly, headed directly for the bar - this place is longer than it is wide, with windows only out front and two exits, one he just entered from and another in the back through a storage area. Neil takes off his gloves and puts on a placid smile like an old piece of comfortable clothing. He's dressed down, for all intents and purposes nothing more than a civilian - the mantle of a cop is unnecessary for this next job. The one he's been sent on as punishment.

MacDarragh doesn't fail assignments, ever. He's got a spotless track record, not only as a policeman. Tonight was his first fuckup.

Moore has been dealt with, that imbecile the High-Rise let do as he pleased for too long until he left their sights unannounced and suddenly they decided he was too much of a liability, a risk. Same for the person that'd taken him, the one Neil had failed to eliminate. That's how his employers view it, anyway. A smear on his reputation. The officer couldn't care less. It's been nothing but inane assignments from them for months, even longer - go there, threaten this person; go here, kill this person. All of it expected to be done cleanly, efficiently, without wasting time. It's all so sanitized and boring, but that's how the High-Rise function.

It's the reason he elected not to share with them everything that'd transpired earlier - the fact he recognized the eyes behind the fox mask and the all too familiar panic in them. Now that's an assignment he never finished. Damien's out of prison. Not only that, he somehow snuck his way into the gala, where the shootout between the Black Dogs and the Nakurra went down. It's possible that the ex-cop's presence there is a coincidence, yet the detective in MacDarragh disagrees, tells him to dig deeper.

Hah, that's a funny though. It's the first time in a while Neil is trying to solve something instead of covering it up. It's exciting.

What he's about to do isn't.

His target sits at the bar, hair slicked back and with a very intense expression. Ooo, scary. He's the owner of this place as well as the head of one of the minor gangs the High-Rise assimilated years ago, a gang that's been acting up recently - not following directives, shortchanging their owners, pulling at their leash because they're a dog that's never been shown the sting of a belt. With tensions high as they are, this is the wrong time to be rebelling. How annoying, that MacDarragh has to be the one to teach them this lesson. It's beneath his station. Still, the sooner he gets it over with, the sooner he can get back to what's actually fun.

The guy's henchmen aren't far from their boss, 4 in total... That can't be right. Should be 3. Neil does a head count again until he realizes there's a man whose face wasn't in the brief for the mission, a couple of seats down at the bar. The first thing Neil notices is that he's built. The second is the wolf tattoo on the side of his neck. Makes sense MacDarragh was initially confused - he has the air of a gangster.

Wonder what he's like in a fight.

Neil walks to stand halfway between this unknown element and his target, leaning on the wooden counter. "Good evening," the cop greets the bartender, voice soft and amiable. He ponders over the liquor shelves on the wall, humming to himself as if in thought before grinning, "Bartender's choice. I'll have whatever you recommend. Something sweet... And a Dark and Stormy for the gentlemen over there."

He whispers that last part, subtly gesturing at the man that caught his attention.

Out of the corner of his eye, Neil keeps glancing at him, trying to catch a glimpse. He observes the wolf tattoo shift with each gulp of the drink the stranger is nursing. Not his first one, probably. MacDarragh's seen people drink their worries away, it's a common occurrence. Yet there's an added irritation with the man, a tension contained beneath the surface. The detective in him speak up again - this one could be interesting. Maybe he can turn this boring night around.

The two drinks he ordered arrive. As the Dark and Stormy is slid onto the counter in front of the stranger, Neil turns to look him head-on, locking onto blue eyes. He nods his head, smiles, then takes a sip of the sugary abomination he's been presented with. Usually, alcohol does little for the cop, considering how much smoking has dulled his taste buds, yet he can still feel the overwhelming sweetness on his tongue. Yeah, the lacking quality of the beverages matches the vibe of this place.

What follows next happens in a flash - MacDarragh turns away, seemingly to retreat from the bar when he bumps his elbow into the shoulder of the owner. The drink spills all over the guy's head. It takes the idiot a second to catch up with what's happening, but then he starts cursing. Neil tries apologizing, saying this was an accident, but his voice is drowned out by shouting, hands grabbing onto his clothes to shake him and pull him away towards the back exit, being roughly shoved every couple of steps.

Neil throws the tattooed man one last look over his shoulder.

---

The back door is slammed open via Neil getting thrown into it, out into the cold of the night. The alley he is herded into is narrow, filthy, hidden from curious eyes.

"You stupid fuck," the boss comes out huffing after his men, wiping at his wet forehead. That can't be a pleasant sensation, it's probably getting sticky by now. His suit, as shitty as it was to begin with, is thoroughly ruined and he seems to take great offense to the fact, "How you gonna pay for this, huh? How, motherfucker? Where's your wallet-"

The guy goes to shove MacDarragh in the chest again, hard, wanting to make him stumble and fall flat on his ass. Can't have that happening.

Neil shifts to the side, blocking his assailant's right arm. The guy is taken aback, and that brief moment of confusion is enough for the High-Rise's hitman - with the back of his forearm at the guy's elbow, he raises his other arm to wrap around his target's wrist on the opposite side. He pulls it towards himself in one fast, sharp movement.

A loud crack pierces the air at the same time bone pierces skin. He breaks the handsy fucker's arm.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

It's not a long legged blonde that walks through the door, well, at least not the one Cade was picturing.
As soon as the stranger's there, he takes possession of the scene like he owns the place.
He's cocky, leaning over everything and speaking with the fakest voice Cade's ever heard. Guy has to have a history in customer service to be putting on the dog like that.

He's not nearly cute enough to be acting like that.

Cade can count on one hand the amount of times someone has bought him a drink.
It's usually his move.
The gangster takes the glass in hand, eyeing the new comer. He has a grace to him, despite the confidence.
He's too full of barely contained energy to be like a cat stalking prey, but Cade sniffs that vibe anyway. He's hunting, but Cade doesn't know what for.
Trouble, maybe. Just like he is.

And then on purpose, and Cade knows it's on purpose because spilling your drink on someone is B movie material to get someone to fight you, the blond pisses off the scariest guy here.
A chuckle blurts from the Dog's chest as the guy is swarmed and dragged away.
Honestly, if there'd been no intervention Cade probably would've fucked with the guy instead. This is the universe telling him to chill.

Cade watches him leave, taking a sip of his gifted beverage. It's sweet, just how he likes it.
He gives the man a wink before he disappears from view.

For the moment, he's content to leave it at that. Call him a sick fuck but he likes the idea of going out there twenty minutes from now to see what happened. Morbid curiosity, and all that.
The guy's going to get what's coming to him acting like that...

The Black Dog has had a suspicion all bartenders live as a hive mind.
They're all shifty fucks who consistently clean mugs that are already clean. Or overreact to a situation they have no right to sweat over.
This one makes no effort to break the hypothesis.

"Oh fuck, really? It's three on one, their biggest problem at this point is going to be deciding who gets his mouth first."
Cade huffs, drawn to the bar keep by the actual shotgun he pulls up.
Cade shoots over the counter, wrapping his hand around the barrel. With perhaps more force than necessary, he jerks the gun back into the man's face. It's a meaty thwang sound, one you hear and cringe to because, yes, that would hurt.

The bartender surrenders his hold on the gun, bouncing back into his shelves of alcohol to cradle his hurting face.

"I barely touched you." Cade rolls his eyes, sitting back on his stool to admire the weapon.
It's loud, short range. There aren't a whole lot of opportunities for him to use the human hamburger maker in his day to day.

"That's - that's, it's gotta be him, they said they'd send someone if we didn't shape up," the bartender stammers, muffled.
"Him?" Cade snorts, with a raised brow. How ominous.

Apparently Cade can't take one step in this skeevy city without stepping into a puddle of crime shit. The big scary one who overreacted having his ugly suit dowsed was apparently another gangster. Hell if Cade's ever seen him.
Kaden would've known. Kade knows everyone.

He might even know the big scary him.

"Well," he breathes, downing the last of his drink and wincing. Cade drops the shotgun across a shoulder like he's a mountain man leaving for a hunt, abandoning the worried bartender behind.
The bar swims pleasantly around him. Yeah, he's a little tipsy, maybe drunk.
"I'll check under the bed for your fucking Boogeyman. Don't wait up."

The Dog just has to follow the sounds of muffled screaming and grunts. It's not a hard ask.
Something about cold air let's sounds travel so much better, even in a city like this.

Him is easily found.

He's framed by two lumps on the ground in a shitty alley architecturally designed for horrible things like this to happen in it.
Cade's barely turned the corner when the last of the three scary gentlemen jumps at him.
In the Black Dog's defense, he really did think he was going for him.

Not running away in a blind panic.

Cade side steps and using the shotgun like a bat, clocks the shit out of the guy.
He goes down hard, like one of the crooks in a Home Alone movie.

The thwang sound is a hell of a lot more satisfying.

"You're a bit of a performer, huh?" Cade challenges, once the dust settles. He's not exactly pointing the gun at the guy but if he did make a move he very quickly would find himself without a stomach.
It's hard to tell if the other two dudes are dead or not. Cade sees the white glimmer of a bone or two.

"I bet you put severed donkey heads in people's beds too."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

The boss' screech of pain is shortlived as Neil decks him in the head, letting him drop face-first on the ground when he goes limp. The shocked silence that follows gets disturbed by the man's subordinates rushing in to retaliate - a bit delayed, but they're putting in the effort. Not that it'll be enough. MacDarragh bats away any attempts at restraining him, or more so dances around them. These people can't touch him and he makes sure they're well aware of that fact. One of the guys trips over himself trying to grab the hitman and his head gets acquainted with Neil's boot on the way down - a couple of teeth clink onto the snowy pavement. Another of the goons decides it's smart to take out a switchblade and that immediately draws the hitman's focus. A second later the knife finds its way deep into its owner's temple, then into the same spot on his buddy.

Really, the fight was over before it began.

And the tattooed stranger didn't make an appearance throughout all of it.

Neil huffs. That's disappointing. He was hoping he'd convinced him to follow - he wanted to see something fun tonight. Should he have stalled for longer? Hell, the cop even fought hand-to-hand with these second-rate mobsters.

The brawl isn't even worth lighting a cigarette after. MacDarragh visibly pouts. It's a bizarre expression to have standing over corpses. Well, one of them is still alive and kicking. The one missing some teeth is stumbling back onto his feet, gathering up enough balance to go sprinting back into the bar in a bid for safety. MacDarragh exhales a long-suffered sigh and is just in the process of reaching into his coat when a figure rounds the corner.

The escaping gangster receives yet another hardy hit to the face, several more teeth going flying as he collapses.

"Oof," Neil cringes, though his put-on grimace does little to conceal his grin. So, the tattooed stranger did follow. MacDarragh's mood is back, and he pockets the switchblade he'd disarmed earlier.

"Thank you," the hitman chuckles at being called a performer, giving a shallow mock bow, "Very flattering to be acknowledged. 'If you do what you love you'll never work a day in your life'."

"No severed donkey heads, though. That's a bit old-fashioned, wouldn't you say?"

Yeah, this guy is a gangster. Either Nakurra or Black Dog, there are no other options left in this city. Question is which - Neil eyes the inked wolf again before his gaze falls to the shotgun the man is brandishing - in a way that reveals a familiarity with firearms despite the likely tipsy state of the wielder. The handgun MacDarragh carries on the inside of his coat - the one he'd felt no need to unholster during the brawl - makes its constant weight known.

"Don't tell me, bartender with a shotgun under the counter?" he keeps smiling, talking like he isn't where he is having done what he's done, all very casual, "Would have been useful a couple of minutes ago."

"Vincent," MacDarragh beams, extending an arm for a handshake, "So, how'd you like the drink?"

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Okay, so there's two things Cade can't stand.
Cheesy nice people and overconfident dicks. One he feels pandered to and the other makes him want to bash their teeth in.
There is one condition on the last type; if they can prove they have a right to be that asshole-y in the first place.
This quite possibly qualifies. Cade didn't hear a gun, meaning this guy fought off three dudes himself.

"I think you cleaned up just fine. I'm sorry I missed it."
Cade smiles at the man as he gives him an obviously fake name.

"Neal," he says, stepping over a body to take the man's hand. He's got a good grip.
"Bartender went hard on the syrup, but I kinda like things sweet anyway."

He's gotta be careful where he steps. He'll have to wash these boots when he gets home if he's not careful.
The guy got a little comfortable with a knife and there's little puddles of henchman solidifying into goo in the cold.
Being too close is a bad idea for multiple reasons.

"So am I next, Vince?" He asks because he has no sense of impulse control. This guy is a bag of cats and the normal human response would be to say goodnight. The guy who ran had the right idea, more or less.
The assassin kept himself clean too. Cade can rarely do that. He has to be Nakurra, but he's white as fuck. Like mayo and sandals white, with green eyes.
Maybe he's a mercenary? He'd be the first fun one Cade's ever bumped into.

"I'll warn you beforehand I can get pretty nasty. I bite."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

"Neal," the other Neil tests out the name slowly like he's committing it to memory, tasting the letters. Well, it's Vincent right now. Vince. His work "persona". Other work. Neal is obviously a fake name too - an interesting choice of one. Does he recognize him, then? But if he does, and if this guy is a Black Dog like MacDarragh suspects, their interaction should have already gone tits-up, whether it's because he's a cop or because he works for the High-Rise.

Or maybe the gangster's just interesting like that. In that case, the hitman's instinct would prove themselves to be right.

Vincent shakes Neal's hand for a bit too long - the skin there is rough, the knuckles having scabbed over multiple times in the past. He likes working with his hands and is skilled enough to keep using them, then. Good to know.

"Sweet things, huh? I'll make sure to remember that," Vince notes, still all smiles.

This is a cleanup job, one he hasn't finished yet. The goon Neal knocked out cold with the shotgun is still breathing, and the main target - these chucklefuck's leader - is alive also, if passed out and with a broken arm. MacDarragh should get on with it, but then the stranger offers himself up (well, not really, but that's how he takes it) and Neil feels giddy for it. This isn't what he'd planned - he'd wanted to see the supposed Black Dog fight, observe what he can do. Now he's given the chance at something even more entertaining.

Vincent is going to get himself into a fight with some random in an alley. Man, it's been years. Hope Neal- no, it's confusing referring to him as that in his head. Hope Wolf can back up his bark. Either way, it's fun to beat up on cocky types.

"Bite?" the hitman hums, "Don't threaten me with a good time."

The switchblade from earlier comes tumbling to the ground in a flash, as does Neil's handgun. He's not using a weapon for this one - his fist aims for Wolf's nose.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Usually flirting is enough to shake most guys up. Half the fight is won before it starts, but Not-Vince flings it right back at him.
He doesn't even flinch.

Cade fucking with fire was more or less an invitation to get burned. On some level, he knew what he was getting into. Not-Vince is like him. It strikes a thrill down the Dog's back. That itch is going to get scratched one way or another. In good sportsmanship, Cade lets the shotgun drop.

The Dog catches the fist in his hand. Now that he feels the genuine purpose behind that hand, Cade gets his first taste for who this man is, more than a handshake could ever tell. Who he really is, smiles aside.
If he had his wrist, he could snap it, truly neutralize his opponent. Kaden slashes through his brain, his hand forcing Cade into submission. His boss wouldn't do it. Cade's his favorite working animal. Damien's the luxury pet that fills someone's lap after a day of nothing, Cade is the half wild thing that does all the hard work and gets left outside.

Cade wouldn't break this not because Not-Vince is a machine that needs to be in working order, frankly he couldn't care less. He'd hesitate breaking it because its beautiful what he can do with it.
It'd be declawing a cat, clipping a bird's wings.

He's in the glow of being a badass that sinks a punch with his bare hand when NV slams a knee made of granite into his gut.
Cade wheezes, folding over himself.
What a fucking bitch. Oh, he won't ruin him, but he'll leave a mark.

With renewed rage, Cade slams into this guy like a bull. They meet a jarring stop when Fake Vince presumably hits the brick wall of the alley.
Cade has muscle on this guy; he doesn't want to say wiry but the assassin is someone he could snap like a toothpick. If he can hit him in the right place, this fight is over.

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Having his punch stopped by Wolf's palm sends a rush through Neil's body. So this is what the man is like in a brawl? It's exhilarating, powerful, something actually worth fighting. The Black Dog is a solid wall of muscle, one that the hitman finds himself gladly leaning into, almost going in for a hug. Almost. Maybe if a hug ended with a knee to the gut. Well, it is its own gesture of respect in a way. The gangster reacts to it as expected, doubling over, and MacDarragh feels satisfaction at making someone strong buckle under him.

He's not allowed to bask in that sensation for long, though.

Wolf almost lifts MacDarragh off his legs when he rushes the two backward, and the cold alley wall Neil slams into is definitively not something he'd lean on. The contact is harsh, unexpected, enough to make him grunt. It's an unfamiliar position - he's usually the one pinning others to walls.

The surprise lasts but for a second, and in the blink of an eye, Neil refocuses, grasping the gangster's clothing with one hand while the other rises above his head. With Wolf still buckled over and with the two's height difference, MacDarragh finds it easy to slam his elbow down onto the back of the man's head with a crack. This is fun, but he's not going to tolerate his opponent having the upper hand for long. That should be enough to daze him and get him to let go.

When Wolf's hold on him doesn't relent, Neil quirks an eyebrow. Wolf has a thick skull, apparently. That and he is a dog that knows the sting of a belt well, has become stronger for it over time.

The sharp pain that shoots through the hitman's nervous system a moment later is nearly nauseating, making him double over, leaning on the Black Dog again. The little shit hit him below the belt. He almost feels cheated at the fact before remembering that, no, this is how it goes in such things. The High-Rise has simply sanitized him over time.

"You're nasty, alright..." Neil manages to mumble through clenched teeth.

If they're gonna fight dirty, they'll fight dirty. It's a shame Wolf's hair is shorn so it can't be yanked at. Instead, MacDarragh's hand snakes towards the base of the gangster's jugular, intent on jabbing into it.