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Realistic or Modern LOVE, LOSS, REVENGE

Cade went to see his little sibling. That's why he took so long.

"Better late than never," Neil murmurs, half-smiling.

That's right, the two had been too busy - in a very fun way, if you discount the morning after - for Wolf to call his brother directly after getting released. That nearly could have tarnished the captain's rep with the kid, considering that he promised to let his big bro off the hook.

Neil nearly asks how Oliver is doing, before deciding against it. Sure, the gangster told him not to talk to him or touch him, not that he couldn't bring the kid up, but MacDarragh doesn't feel like potentially getting decked in the nose again (or having a wound dug at) because Wolf is overprotective of the cub. Honestly, the two brothers are equal parts ridiculous and adorable. Ollie, in all of his oblivious innocence, had spoken so highly of his personal hero even after he did punch the "nice policeman".

MacDarragh snickers - he was never nice, and he's hoping he won't be a policeman anymore either.

With the brace securely on, Cade extends a hand to help him stand and the hitman actually accepts it, grabbing onto his forearm to pull up against the solid anchor that the gangster offers. Usually, this man's strength is being used to try and keep him down - to varying degrees of success - and though their fights are extremely entertaining, this change of pace isn't so bad either. Plus, considering what he's already let Cade do for him, this gesture is really not the pinnacle of humiliation, so Neil holds on just long enough to find his balance. He lets himself enjoy the feeling of the wooden floor beneath his soles, tensing the sore muscles in his calves and thighs while breathing in as if he's been kept tied down for days and not mere hours - fuck, does it ever feel good to be back on his own two feet. It feels even better to actually move, even if Cade shadows him the entire time like he's going to take a tumble or something. Oh, how considerate.

"Ugh, you did food shopping for your boss?" MacDarragh's sentence is stuck somewhere between surprise and disgust, nose wrinkling with a grimace. Not at Cade for bringing up the Butcher this time, but at the fact that the guy had him running around doing such menial errands. If Viv tried to pull something like that he would kill her... if he could. Or, well, he'd put thumbtacks in her food. Or maybe he'd spit in it.

Neil gazes at Cade out of the corner of his eye, sighing before giving a fair warning, "Don't let your new one know you're willing to do something like that or you can expect to turn into her coffee boy."

At the very least he can be thankful that the Butcher apparently has good tastes in cuisine - Indian is one of his own top choices. And now seated in the kitchen the aroma from earlier is even stronger and more enticing. Kind of overwhelming even, despite his portion of the food being a very small part of all of the garbage Cade has bought. And garbage is the right word for it. Looking over all of the junk food, Neil reaffirms to himself that, yeah, the guy is painfully white American.

He chuckles when his captor pops a mini donut in his mouth, powder left on his thumb and index finger, "Are you having a party later or are you going to eat all of that by yourself?"

Truly, what a weird ass situation to be in, one as far away from the authentic kidnapped experience as MacDarragh can imagine. Not that Cade has been all easy on him, but there's been no torture, not really, only a ridiculous proposal and medical aftercare. That being said, Neil hasn't given him the authentic kidnappee experience either. He leans back in the seat smiling, free of his binds yet making no attempt at striking back for now.

When Cade directs an all too easygoing question at him in this laidback atmosphere, neither the hitman's expression nor languid position falter, though his eyes instantly go sharp. Accent? Shit, did he say something earlier? He's usually careful with that.

"That's because I don't have an accent," Neil shrugs. And it's the truth - when he was first brought over to the States he worked hard to make sure he spoke like any native speaker. It was something pointed out to him as important to blend in, so he took it to heart, and realistically he was young enough that the switch over to English wasn't too difficult. Hidden underneath the table his foot starts tapping restlessly, "I grew up here and there, mostly in NY."

And that's the truth as well. He knows it's not what Cade's asking, not really, but that's how the question was worded, so he gives an honest (if purposefully difficult) answer, which is already more than he usually lets others in on. Because there's no reason for anyone to be in on anything about him. He likes keeping things mysterious.

"Where I'm from, on the other hand, technically doesn't exist anymore."

Not in the state it was in in the past, anyway.

The soft whirl of the rotating microwave comes to a stop with a beep.

Neil's jaw tenses around his smile, and he forces his leg to stop the incessant bouncing. His eyes sweep over the open interior of the villa, giving it yet another inspection like he didn't already do one immediately upon exiting the bedroom. His attention lands on the ridiculous chandelier - if you're going to decorate with antlers at least have some taxidermy trophies on the walls. But this isn't a real hunting lodge or anything, that much is obvious.

"I didn't take you as someone that grew up with all this," Neil throws his good arm out to gesture at 'all this', tone casual, "Rich family?"
 
Neil's disgust at the whole, delivering food thing really puts it all into perspective. As if Cade needed more.
There's going to be a beast of fucking rage he's gonna have to wrestle with after this over. More shame, more self loathing, the whole bit. Knowing he's got Ollie on his side might help this time around but, who knows? He's never really been Dr.Phil with his feelings.
And then Neil says not to let his next boss know about how he played secretary and Cade feels a ball of worry sink down to his stomach to say hello to hunger.
Fucking hell.

Cade looks down at his treasure trove of diabetes. The immediate response is to tell him to fuck off, that he can eat whatever he likes. But right now Cade's hot. Generic, rough around the edges, scary bald dude hot. He doesn't need to feel defensive.
Yeah, he's getting a little pocket of fat where his abs were just three months ago, but that's fine.
The hot girl summer is over, the fat girl winter is here.
"I'll share if that's what you're asking. Even though you're supposed to be on premium dog chow."

It isn't long after that Cade gets another breadcrumb of Neil's past.
It's almost next to nothing, but it's everything with a man like this. Neil tenses, sharp as a whip. You could almost forget he was weak like a puppy and twice as helpless with the tone he uses and the way he holds himself.
He's unsettled Cade knows about his second language.
Or first, actually.

Before, Neil had Cade handcuffed with a tasor pointed at him.
Now Cade has Neil in the middle of nowhere, completely dependent on him for everything.
The hitman tries to turn over the conversation on Cade.

"Oh, I didn't," Cade answers after another mind melting donut.
"My parents got rich after I moved out pretty much."

His mother loved the outdoors, but not bugs, mud, poo, thorns, rats or dead things. So basically, she didn't like the outdoors and the house has no animal trophies.
Cade takes the plate, cursing softly when it singes his fingers. The world is a cruel place when the ceramic heats up more than the shit on the plate. He glares at it, like it's personally wronged him before taking a dish cloth as an oven mitt to deliver Neil his mountain of pain food.

"Bone apple tea," he says, sticking a spoon in the center of the pile.
Neil hasn't won Cade over enough to be given a bread knife yet so he can suffer for now and use the naan to scoop up.

After throwing a cookie sheet of tater tots into the oven and taking a pair of cups, the gangster joins the hitman at the table.
He gets into the choccy milk, pouring a generous amount before topping it off with amber liquid.
The rum brings out the smooth chocolate and the milk makes the rum go down smoother. It's bomb ass.

"I can't remember if you can mix alcohol with Percocet or not," Cade says, licking the milk from his upper lip.
So he pours his captive buddy a virgin.

"So Whaddya mean, it doesn't exist anymore?" He says, getting into a box of Oreos.
He twists each cookie until it comes apart, licks the cream filling and then squishes it back together to dunk in his drink.

"That's pretty fucking vague, man. How'd you get all, 'John Wick-y'?"
 
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Wolf effortlessly brushes off Neil's admittedly flimsy attempt at redirecting the conversation away from himself. He does provide a sliver of information about his family, but it's woefully little, and instead the guy puts the spotlight back on his captive. Normally Neil would revel in receiving attention, but this is an unwanted kind that makes him click his tongue in annoyance. His foot threatens to start tapping again.

The meal that gets placed in front of him is a decent distraction that makes MacDarragh's stomach grumble in a reminder that he hasn't eaten since breakfast, after which he got got. The type of got got Percocet alone won't make go away.

Probably as some form of precaution, Cade has given him only a spoon as an eating utensil, and that's more than fine. Using it he stirs the curry into the rice until the whole thing is more or less homogenous and evenly heated (because microwaves don't really do a good job of that), then he starts tearing slivers off of the flatbread - it's not the most comfortable thing to do with one hand, but he goes through with it anyway, folding the naan pieces to use to scoop up the butter chicken without making a mess. This is how you eat Indian cuisine right, with your hands.

And it tastes fucking great, just the right amount of spicy. It would taste even better if Wolf would shut his trap and stop poking his nose where it doesn't belong.

"Oh, c'mon Cade, are we really doing this? Are you that curious about me?" Neil goes for a wink and a half-smile even if his jaw is still tense, "Read a history book, I'm not gonna educate you."

The hitman focuses his attention on the way Cade dismantles those Oreo cookies - "twist, lick, dunk", didn't the brand use that as a slogan at one point? Or maybe it was just a commercial. He watches with some morbid curiosity to see if the gangster will keep a cookie submerged too long in the milk and have it fall apart in his hand from getting too soggy.

"How does anyone get John Wick-y?" Neil's expression remains frozen in that half-smile. If he goes quiet for a while, it's because it's a stupid, ridiculous question to ask. If a short laugh then rips out of his lungs against his will, it's because he's about to give a stupid, ridiculous answer, "Someone killed my dog."

Shit. In a blink, his neck cranes down, eyes staring at the plate instead of any part of the other man. Suddenly, the creamy butter chicken with the fresh naan looks like the most disgusting thing the hitman has ever seen and he drops the piece of bread in his hand. He rolls his jaw. Cade is digging at old shit he doesn't even realize is there, and worst of all Neil is letting him do it. For some reason. It's like falling asleep next to the fucker, but worse. At least that feels nice while it's happening.

Pushing the plate away, the hitman grabs at the spoon to point it in his kidnapper's direction.

"I could gauge out your eyeballs with this. Or more like scoop them out - wouldn't even tear anything."

Not a second after the utensil gets buried back in the mound of rice, and Neil extends his arm to reach for some of the Oreos - Cade offered to share, so he's helping himself, biting into cookies only to wash the crumbs down with chocolate milk. The gangster has the tastebuds of a child to be into this much sugar. The only thing ruining that perception is the rum in his drink. What a shame pain meds generally do in fact not mix well with alcohol. MacDarragh would have appreciated something strong right about now.

He finishes the chocolate milk before leaning back in the chair, licking at his upper lip.

"For your information, I know several languages. Guardian thought it was an important skill to have," if the nosy fuck is going to try and dig at his past for whatever reason, this part of it feels like a safer bet. It's not something that can be used against him later. Back under his control, Neil's face is split with a shit-eating grin as his voice drops into a lower rumble, "If you want to I can whisper sweet nothings in your ear in something more exotic, Cadence."
 
He does like it stirred in.

From the looks of it the leprechaun approves, though Cade's friendly dinner table talk seems to be putting a dampener on it.
Neil acts like it isn't, showing teeth framed with lips that'll maybe go a shade darker soon. He's never seen this guy eat before. Cade's not sure what he was expecting. Maybe it's just weird doing halfway normal shit with him.

Holding the soaked Oreo in his mouth, Cade fishes out his phone to Google dissolved countries. He's going to feel really fucking stupid when the answer's obvious.
He gnaws, scrapping the soggier bits off to swallow as it loads.

Neil is staring daggers at him.

Wounded dogs are often the most dangerous, but it's hard to take him seriously. He has dirt in his hair. Under the fingernails of the hand he's using to point a fucking spoon at him.
Cade can't say he has any experience carving out eyeballs. Shit, if anyone could do it, Neil could.

Halfway through his dinner, the menace sets down his eye-scooper to have a cookie. And a whole glass of chocolate milk.
The cookie gives a quiet snap as Cade crunches through, half in an effort not to smile.
Oh, it's bad news to dance with crazy, but it's worse to think it's almost kinda cute.

A bit of tongue slips out to lash along Neil's lip - the same one Cade touched.

If you want to I can whisper sweet nothings in your ear in something more exotic, Cadence.

A chill goes down his spine, flushes his skin. He resists shivering like a bitch, but it's a near thing. It's the fucking tone he uses, his damn pervert voice.

And it's just another attack. A mean one, but nowhere near as mean as Neil could be.
Cade snaps his head away, rubbing at his throat. If he pushes, Neil will shove him back without a shred of mercy.
"Shut up," he grunts, feeling childish and stupid.

He eats another cookie, to stay sane more than anything else.

"You know I could-" his voice catches, he huffs like a bull but feels small like a calf. He forces himself to meet the sparkling green cesspools.
"I could fuck you. You're not more man than me."

He clicks his phone off, crosses his arms.
"It sounds like you were some fucking Russian child assassin who cried himself to sleep every night, but I won't pry if you're going to be a bitch about it."
 
The gangster flushes and looks away, and Neil's chest expands with a self-satisfied sensation, eyes gleaming. It makes him greatly pleased that a simple sentence can elicit a response like this - it's the most effective way to shut Cade up, with the added bonus that he gives the best reactions. It's cute, really, the way this bashfulness contrasts his tough-guy appearance.

Cade is the type of person just begging to be bullied, isn't he? He makes it easy... maybe to an extent he even enjoys it, or at least welcomes it. What else would explain his willingness to be subservient to someone? Like a desperate chick after a bad breakup, he's all too eager to find a rebound in the face of the High-Rise and get tied down. If he was like this as a kid too, MacDarragh can't imagine he had a good time in school.

But Neil? Now him, Cade fights. He struggles against the hitman at every turn, including now, even if his cheeks are still slightly red when he forces his eyes up and proclaims that he could fuck him.

Neil snickers, lightly shaking his head. He refills his glass with more chocolate milk.

Funny. Is that what Cade wants? Yeah, technically he could. And technically he is no less a man than MacDarragh. If an outside observer had to compare the two they'd judge their masculinity in the opposite direction, actually. Not that Neil is particularly effeminate, but Cade is simply particularly masculine - the stubbled jawline; the shaved head; the large, rough hands. A stereotypical man's man, the hot kind. The only thing Neil has on him is height, and that Wolf compensates for with sheer build, oozing testosterone.

However, that's just surface stuff - the crucial component the gangster lacks is confidence, and it's equal parts hilarious and frustrating that someone like him doesn't have it. His issues begin with the mere fact he needs to compare their manliness. MacDarragh muses if that attitude has something to do with his regrets back at the hotel.

If only Cade could overcome whatever has him so pressed on the topic, he'd be a beast. That's the thing with him, isn't it? What he could be.

Neil blinks slowly, humming in thoughtfulness as his gaze trails over the seated man, slowly, appreciatively. When he lands on bright blue eyes, he notes, almost softly, "I'm not sure you believe that."

He could probably press more, but that feels like that's more than enough for now. Apparently, Cade's done pressing too, though he throws out a very movie-esque guess as to the hitman's origins, and Neil has to huff and roll his eyes. He's way off in some ways, close in others. The hitman purses his lips in thought for a couple of silent moments.

"Tell you what, let's play a game," Neil reaches for another Oreo, twisting the two halves apart like his dinner buddy had done, "Two truths and a lie. You gotta play as well. But since I'm such a nice guy, I'll go first."

He doesn't lick the filling, instead scraping it off with his teeth to eat, before eating the two cookie halves separately. Relaxing his shoulders, Neil adopts a poker face, which in his case means a placid smile. It's the mask he's most comfortable wearing, "I was 8 when I first killed anyone. I used to be in the military. I was purchased."
 
The freak eyes Cade up in a way that makes his skin itch. He does that, to girls mostly.
It's not fair Neil can just say anything he wants, do anything he wants and Cade lets him. Does he really have that little self respect or is he just that fucked in the head? Damn, he doesn't know...

"Don't make me fucking prove it to you," he spits through his teeth and what the fuck is he saying?
Cade tightens his crossed arms, tenses his poor broken finger to feel a twinge through it.
Telling the jerk to shut up again feels like losing ground so Cade settles for glaring at him instead. It's not much, but fuck 'em, he'll take what he can get.

And, merciful angel that he is, Neil gives him a bone while eating an Oreo like a lunatic.
Cade's played the game before, usually lost it.

"Holy shit," he blurts, like the most emotionally sensitive person in the universe.
Childhood murder and human trafficking. That's the stakes on the table. One of those is true.
Military has to be one of them. It has to be because taking a life at the ripe age of fucking 8 and enslavement at the same time is too much.

It would make some kind of sense though, wouldn't it? Those things go somewhere hand in hand, right? And Neil is insane...
That's one thing the Black Dogs never really did. Except the Black Bitch herself. It's hard to hate Kaden when you know the scary fuck used to be a little kid brain washed by a psycho bitch. And still is, in a lot of ways.
Cade spent so much time looking up to him and the Butcher was just as lost as he was.

Fuck...Maybe everyone is.

The gangster takes a sip full of liquid courage before answering.
"You weren't bought and sold. That's gotta be a lie."

If he's wrong, he'll never know if Neil was just an army brat or in fact a child murderer.
Cade grinds his teeth, taking Neil's stupid little smile in stride.

He rubs his neck. His turn.
"I have a dead sibling. I was held captive and tortured for two years. I...once force fed a garden hose down a guy's throat to see what would happened once I turned it on and left it on."
 
One corner of Neil's smile twitches up at Cade's immediate retort to his three statements, probably more taken aback by two of them than the third. It's about what the hitman would expect in terms of a reaction, though he's never really gotten to test it out. Only one person knows anything about his past. Now, this fucker he slept with twice knows slivers of it too, offered freely, even if in the context of a game. That's funny, in an absurd way that makes MacDarragh question why he even proposed this.

At least the information he provided is nothing that can be used against him. Based on the disbelieving way Cade gives his answer, though, you'd almost think it could be.

MacDarragh shrugs his shoulder, the one that isn't bound. It's really not that deep, "You say it like it's the most horrible thing ever."

Still maintaining the same smiling expression, Neil raises his good hand in a thumbs-up, leaving the gesture to hang in the air. He holds Cade's gaze.

"Wrong," with a simple motion the thumb points down, and the hitman chuckles.

Maybe what the gangster was imagining was indeed the most horrible thing ever. In some alternate world, it potentially could have been, but Neil's situation is much simpler. There are certain circumstances where you can't adopt children internationally, not legally. But there are also certain people who live above the law. Either way, Cade's answer i wrong. Technically. It's a bit of a dick move - Neil gave him two truths and a half-lie, yet it remains that he chose incorrectly.

"If I get your lie right, I get a reward," the hitman places his arm down on the table, rapping his fingers along its wooden surface, "Or we could go best 2 out of 3, and then choose a winner."

It's kind of delightful that Cade even agrees to play along. Neil listens intently to him give his own three statements, but his smile drops a bit at the second one. Not into a horrified or surprised frown or anything, he's just...

"You were tortured?" MacDarragh's brows furrow before he clamps his mouth shut. That's not his guess, not yet anyway. It could very well be false - the hitman for one believes that the correct answer is between this and having a dead sibling. The last one is too specific and he can picture Wolf testing out some ridiculous shit like that, even if the sentence started off with some hesitance.

Question now is whether Neil wants to play to win, or if he wants to guess the thing he's interested in figuring out the validity of... He chooses the latter, "You haven't been captured and tortured."
 
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"Because it is."

Treating humans like cattle, especially children, is pretty high up on the worst things you can do to a person.

The weird tension in Cade's shoulders grows into a near presence when Neil smugly tells him he's wrong in the most dramatic way possible. Like it's some victory.
The sting of losing a kid's game is lost in the confirmation that Neil was bought and sold.
He was abused at the most vulnerable time of his life and he laughs about it.

Was he just a baby?

Cade is so busy looking at this child soldier under a new light he doesn't clue in Neil's talking to him for a solid ten seconds or so.

The guy's guardian must be a real piece of work.

"Huh? No, I haven't been tortured," Cade agrees, scratching the wolf with the edge of his thumb.
He grimaces, an obvious full snarl of cringe.

"No yeah, that's true," he says in a sigh, "I haven't done the hose thing, but I have thought about it. You'd drown, right?"
He says these things to catch eyes, particularly Neil's. He doesn't know why, particularly when Green Eyes has him beat in every category there is anyway.

It's a surreal moment.

Sometimes things you swore you'd take to the grave because you don't know where to begin dealing with them just come out while you're playing two truths, one lie.

He should be dead. He should be dead a thousand times over. Delilah wanted him dead.
He tucks his hand (the one with the broken pinky) between his thighs. He can squeeze it there, but he can't cause any real damage. Maybe.

He holds out his other hand, giving his middle finger. It's a pretty common gesture for him, all things considered but Cade curls the finger in to rub the nail over with his thumb.
The light shines on it in a weird way, showing the uneven texture.

"My nailbed is fucked up from how many times it was pulled. It's all bumpy, you can feel it if you wanna. He said he'd put some kind of ointment on there that would kill the cells or whatever to keep it from growing back... I think people use it for ingrown toenails and that kinda stuff. Clearly that was psychological bullshit because I still have all ten fingernails."

Or maybe it was just chance.

Tears gather in his fucking eyes again and Cade pulls away.
Neil's going to hurt him. Not now, but eventually. He'll wait until it can carve the most out of him.
If he knew who it was... If he ever connects the dots...

Neil would hate him. Or laugh at him. Both, probably.

Why is he like this? Why is he such a stupid worthless piece of shit? No one else is like this, no one else has issues like this. Neil doesn't, Damien doesn't. Not even Kaden.
Oliver wouldn't love him if he knew who he actually was.

It's no wonder no one can stand Cade.

The warm pain in his hand keeps him here, keeps him breathing. It holds him down like a hug, but more intense and more demanding than any embrace ever could be.
His brain drops it's train of thought and it goes straight to the source of pain like nothing else matters.

Everything else just melts out of focus.

The oven beeping is a god send. It frees Cade from the table, and it gives him some space from Neil's smile and the eyes eating him up.
He knows, doesn't he? Can he see straight through him?

The tater tots in all their potato glory give off whiffs of grease and hazy tongues of steam. Cade tries to grab one, and deservedly burns his fingers again.

"I'll play one more round. For all the marbles," he says, sucking at a finger. He's not chickening out of a kid's game. He's better than that, at least.
At the very least.

"Whaddya want as a reward? And what do I get if I win?"
 
Neil relaxes a little bit at having guessed the lie correctly - partially because that means he won, partially because it means Cade did not in fact get abused for two years. Not that MacDarragh is fazed by the idea of torture or the purported length of it, not at all, but... it's simply wrong thinking of Wolf in that situation. Like witnessing him bleeding out in the trunk of some scum's car, or like breaking his finger without necessarily wanting to. It makes MacDarragh feel weird inside, but fortunately such an occurrence never transpired.

A grimace from the gangster puts a damper on Neil's growing smugness. He inhales a short, sharp breath.

The hitman got it wrong. He got all of it wrong, incredibly. That... hasn't happened before. Cade has a dead sibling and he did get tortured. Of all three statements, the only one Neil felt certain about is apparently false. Why is the gangster even revealing all of this? Has he never played this game before? Neil lost, Cade doesn't need to clarify anything. But he does it anyway.

"If you left the hose on, yeah, eventually the person would drown," Neil nods his head in confirmation. His smile has completely disappeared at this point.

"It's called water cure. That's waterboarding's much less famous cousin," but just like it, it's a from of torture, a pretty archaic one. It's also a method used once upon a time in third degree police interrogations, which are highly illegal nowadays in the US. Or at least they're supposed to be. Neil has seen it be done, in several different environments - work, work-work as well as before that. He's done it himself. However, Cade hasn't, he's only though about what would happen.

He's been on the receiving end of torture instead.

Cade flips MacDarragh off, but not really. Denailing. Yeah, he's intimately familiar with that one too. The hitman makes a quick grab for the gangster's hand, the fast movement not matching the gentle hold with which he takes his wrist, or the soft way his finger traces over the uneven, somewhat off-texture nail. The fact it was pulled out multiple times and still grew back mostly fine is either lucky, or the procedure itself was done painstakingly carefully. Surgically, so as not to disrupt the nail matrix. Anger surges in Neil. Who the fuck did this?

He - a man did. The hitman's mind immediately goes to a person with quite the reputation - the type of guy to pour liquid nitrogen on some shmuck's dick before snapping it off. His eyes pierce Cade, intense and dissecting. No, surely not... His boss was an asshole, but the gangster was attached. If the Butcher put him through something like this, and he remained by his side...

Cade's eyes are misty.

Neil's still angry, but he also feels at a loss for words, which is something he never ever feels like. He's seen the gangster on the verge of an emotional breakdown several times over, and each time he's though 'what would that man do' before trying to say something to calm down the situation. In this case he genuinely does not know how to react, he's still processing a lot of implications. A lot of uncomfortable sensations too. Something old aches in his chest - it's the same part that's been aching way too much when he's around Wolf. Truly, there's nothing more admirable and pathetic than a dog's loyalty.

Before he can do anything Cade breaks the touch and walks away from the table, leaving Neil befuddled and frustrated. Maybe more - he can't find words for the more and he doesn't want to. He clenches his fist shut.

"Don't know," MacDarragh's voice comes out distracted. He always knows. He had known now too, a couple of minutes ago - the hitman was going to ask for a kiss as a reward. He was going to ask for a kiss to be a bully and see Cade get flustered again, but now he's not sure and it makes his lips twist, eyes narrowing, "As a reward you're going to let me have a look at that broken pinky."

The one he felt forced to break. The guy burned himself on tater tots... Cade has been putting more effort in with his left hand since he cleaned Neil's face way earlier, and unlike the hitman it's obvious he isn't exactly ambidextrous. Has the guy even gone to have it looked at properly? Even if he did, after the raid and the explosion and transporting his captive here, it might not be in the best condition. He had a med student over, surely he took advantage of the fact... Right?

Neil sighs, "Pick your own reward. You can ask me anything. Or ask me to do anything, your choice."

Another round. That's what Cade agrees to. This time Neil adopts a true poker face, "I have an adoptive sibling I wish were dead. I once had to pretend to be a girl for several days to stay safe. I grew up filthy fucking rich."
 
It seems like misinformation to call something like that a water cure. If you didn't know any better, you might think it was refreshing.
Well, Cade doesn't have to think about that anymore.

What else has Neil seen and done?

He takes Cade's hand like he's being given something to hold, like it isn't actually part of Cade's body.
In a lot of ways it feels like it isn't and that makes it easier to treat it like shit. Mr perfect has never made a mistake in his life so he gets a little pissed again.
At the abuse itself or the fact Cade couldn't avoid it, he has no idea. For once, the guy's not smiling. He has the same plain voice he had when he commented about Cade's leaking insides.

He offers to look at the finger he broke, as if Neil wouldn't just twist it once he had it and force Cade to let him go.
Honestly, he can put up with a lot of pain but he can't lose the finger. It's already throbbing, still swollen with a questionable color.

"Oh, I really wanna believe you had to be a chick," he says through a cheesy grin.
It wouldn't be unbelievable, would it?
How many men would get confused? Maybe Cade isn't the only one who's fallen down the rabbit hole.
And frankly it'd be kinda funny.

"But I think it's a lie," he comments, based on nothing but the fact things that are too good to be true usually are.
"You were bought by someone rich who probably wanted more than one psychopath around. I think you do have a sibling and I do think you had a silver spoon in your mouth."

He'll be fucking wrong again because he sucks.
Popping a tot in his mouth, Cade eats it half open mouth'd, exhaling steam. It's a horrible mistake because apparently he picked up a coal instead of a potato and he can't just spit it out.
And, not that it matters while he fights for his life, but its not the best without ketchup. Which he didn't get.
Eggs, he got though.

He swallows with a cough and decides not to do that again.

"My dead sibling was a girl," he blurts, splitting his next pocket of potatoe chemicals into a smaller piece. He tosses it into his mouth, and this time it's more bearable. Still hot though. Still potentially a misjudgement on his part.
"When I was a teenager I thought I was a genius mixing my ex's deodorant with eggs so whenever I thought of her I'd barf. Can't walk down the women's aisle without getting queasy and horny. And... I had an axolotle named Axo-little."

He parks his ass against the counter, arms crossed.
Asking Neil to do something gets his brain going, mostly in weird directions. This isn't an eighth grade party, chips and chocolate milk aside so getting Neil to do something stupid and humiliating is out of the question. Especially considering he's been wounded. Cade's not a complete monster.
But Neil is.
"If I win... "

If he asked for something weird, would Neil actually give it to him?

"I want you to show me how to be a bad motherfucker," he says, not able to meet Neil's eyeline. Whatever, he can admit he's not as strong as he wants to be, right? There's nothing wrong with that.
"Nothing bothers you, man. Nothing matters either. You're just...doing your thing. And actually happy while you do it. Just give me the twenty minute Ted talk. The MacDarragh seminar in not giving a fuck."

Cade scratches briefly at his arm. It's a joke, so he smiles, "Or if I don't like what you say you can suck my dick as an alternative."
 
The dumbass grin that spreads on Cade's face at the suggestion that Neil cross-dressed as a chick causes the hitman to half-smile and exhale in return. What could this guy be imagining now? Does he find the idea funny, emasculating? Or maybe he wants to believe it for a different reason? Very interesting. Not that MacDarragh cares either way, but he wasn't referring to his current self in women's clothing. He used the term 'girl' very purposefully.

"You're wrong, again," MacDarragh states, voice casual and light. He still isn't grinning, but at least his face isn't dead blank like a moment ago, a faint smile on his lips.

It takes him a second to start talking again, still in a sing-songy tone, "Some active warzones are fucky like that. If you're a boy or a man there's a bigger chance you're getting shot on the spot. If you're a girl or a woman there's a bigger chance you're getting trafficked. Or abused, but trafficking brings profit to certain groups that take advantage of the chaos. I was 9 and didn't feel like dying, so... Got lucky enough to be one of the brats picked up to be sold by the mafia."

It was infinitely better than being lugged about by radicalized paramilitary like some mascot. Or ending up in an internment camp... Got even better when a foreign associate of the group's boss reached out wanting to adopt a kid. Buy a kid. You can't adopt a kid out of a country with an ongoing armed conflict. That's some stupid breach of international ethics or whatnot, because first priority is to reconnect displaced children with blood relatives, often times without considering who those blood relatives are. Fortunately, that wasn't even an option in Neil's case.

"You were right about the other two statements, though. I do have a... sibling," the word feels weird in his mouth - he doesn't use it, ever. Just like he doesn't call his guardian dad, "And I did grow up affluent, for at least most of my life. So, all three were true."

The only reason Neil is telling Cade all this is because the gangster had been stupid and honest with his earlier answers, and now the hitman feels like he owes him to make things equal. He's being stupid and honest as well, but none of this is that deep still.

He did just admit to cheating, however. MacDarragh's smile widens and he snickers when the guy is too impatient and wolfs down a tater tot that is obviously way too hot, "I think we can count this as a win for you."

In which case Neil owes him a reward, and what does the gangster do with that privilege? He asks for the most ridiculous thing imaginable.

"You exploded a fucking building," Neil grumbles, rubbing at the back of his neck with his good hand only for it to come away dirty from the shit he still has in his unwashed hair. He cleans it off with a napkin, frowning - it's truly frustrating that the gangster lacks confidence like this, but... at least it sounds like he's open to gaining some. MacDarragh eyes him closely, before getting up from his seat at the table, "It's not something I can give a lecture on."

Languidly, slowly, the hitman begins stalking to where Cade has propped himself up against the counter.

"It's about realizing that there are only two kinds of people in this world - people beneath you, and some people, few, on the same level as you," and those few you can respect. Neil keeps walking forward. His gaze is hard as he looks at the man, not in a mean way, just... cold. It brings back memories, the words do too - the essence of them, at least. He's been on the receiving end of such a talk before, "And no one's opinion matters but your own. Call it cliché, I don't give a shit. Get that idea through your thick fucking skull, and that's how you move through life like a "bad motherfucker". That's how you live without regrets, cause otherwise you're just surviving without enjoying it."

"I could probably help you, with time..." because it does take time, and experience.

Neil's never helped anyone. He breaks down people - that's what he's good at, that's what he revels in. Revealing things, poking at all to sensitive places simply because he can. He's never had someone come to him pre-broken, definitely not like Cade is. The hitman has never had to put a person back together, but... he likes a challenge. He could feasibly do it. Then again, Wolf is planning on joining the High-Rise...

"Anyway, I can't give you your desired seminar," he's right in front of Wolf at this point, and one more step places him directly in the man's personal space, enough to feel body heat. Or maybe it's just the still-warm oven tray nearby. Neil finally grins again, eyes half-closed as he looks down at the man, lingering on his lips. His finger finds Cade's waistband, hooking into it, "I could definitely suck your dick, though."

But first, he hasn't given an answer to the second round of statements he was presented with. Neil's eyes land on the gangster's injured hand while he unhooks his finger for the moment.

"I certainly hope you don't get queasy and horny in the women's aisle, as hilarious as it sounds, but... I don't think you had an axolotl."
 
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The gangster's smile feels like it drops in half the time it takes to blink.
Oh shit.

Cade is such an asshole. He stands there, an actual dick, listening to Neil talk about being caught in a warzone and disguising himself out of necessity. Being interfered with at nine years old was a better alternative. What the hell does that do to a kid?
Cade feels like sinking into the floor to disappear.

And it's all true.

If Cade hadn't made the biggest social blunder of the century he'd ask Neil if he actually knew how to play the game or not.
Or be mad at him for being a cheater, as if that wasn't half his personality. But his life has been hell so maybe he deserves some slack for crying out loud.

So he stays quiet, partially because he'd have no idea what to say to it anyways. He shouldn't have asked.

Neil let's him off the hook.

That's right. He did blow up a building.
That's how he caught Neil in the first place. He'd be dead and buried if Cade hadn't found him.

Neil leaves the table and Cade's heart leaves his chest.
His voice is smooth, low. It brushes down Cade's nerves and spikes them up all at once. That's part of what makes this so difficult, but so horribly electrifying too.
It's like eating jaw breaker; it's a challenge, a giant pain if you eat it wrong but it's sweet too. Worth every lick.

What happened to his back? Was it some kind of fucked up corporal punishment?

Right.
Neil's talking to him. Not flirting with him.
Threatening. That's what he's doing and Cade definitely feels fenced in. Trapped.

No one's opinion matters but his own.

He looks at Neil's face, and not at his chest.
He has a graceful neck, that meets in a gentle slope to his collarbone. You can trace the entire curve until it disappears into the meat of his shoulder.

Their first night together Cade couldn't have been that much fun.
Yeah, he wanted to touch, rove over the plains of skin and pay it due worship. But he'd never been touched like that, he didn't freeze but he sure as hell didn't know what to do with himself. He'd made more than one mistake and Neil layered him with barbed laughter for it.

His stupid fucking laugh.

So yeah, he couldn't have been much fun.

Blood goes south, leaving Cade's already understaffed brain to wheeze and sputter.
Why does the gangster always set him up to knock Cade down? All it takes is a little foxy exhale from the assassin and Cade wants him.
He's straight until Neil opens his mouth. Or his eyes. Or his mouth.

Cade turns his head down, finding some kitchen tile pattern to stare at instead.
Neil literally didn't have a childhood. He was a victim.
He's standing here beat up.
There is nothing about this scenario that's steamy in the slightest.

"I did," he breaths, and after a swallows adds, "And I really hate Dove care deodorant."

It's a huge abuse of power.

He's not gonna fucking do it.

No one would stop him, no one would know.
Did Neil have to do so many awful things he just packed up his soul and dumped it? Was it that awful he couldn't be human anymore? Is that why he's the way he is?
Does Cade's life explain why he is the way he is?

His hand finds it's way around Neil's throat.
He doesn't grip, he just holds him. Feels him. Its as smooth as it looks, coming out a little to shape his Adam's apple. There's a smear of dirt here and there, stripes. They remind Cade of the marks down his back and he has to shut his eyes against the thought.

"What if my opinion was that you were under my boot, Neil? How would that work into your theory?"

He brings Neil in, dragging his head back by a handful of hair. With his teeth he scapes a gentle kiss into Neil's skin. He still smells like burnt rubber and ash.
He follows down the line of Neil's throat, over the cute jut of his collarbone to grab a handful of chest. He'd felt too fucking weird to grab him here any other night. The neck and the chest are his mains for letting a girl know she's appreciated, aside from the obvious.
But the latter just isn't something you think about playing with on a dude. Well. You think about it, but if you're Cade you're too chicken shit to.

"I'm not saying you are necessarily," he whispers into another kiss before Neil can come after him for it. It's exhilarating doing this, like jumping over a bear trap.
"I just..." He exhales hot air.

Dressing up as a little girl saved Neil because people that have Cade's job thought they could make money wringing his innocence out of him.
It's a mood killer, if anything. That's for sure.

And Neil changed the subject like it didn't fucking matter. It was just life, it was just what happened.
Like it was spilled milk.

"You fucking drive me nuts. And you like doing it and you're my prisoner. You have had the shittiest life someone could have and you're still...okay with yourself." In fact, Cade would argue Neil is the only thing Neil actually does love.
Cade is the only thing Cade genuinely really hates. They're on opposite sides of the spectrum.

"You would choke on my dick and it wouldn't even fucking matter because somehow that would be me who wasn't enough and not you. It's- it's always my fault."

All at once, somewhere between the scraping of his teeth and the tugging on Neil's hair, he realizes he's been trying to play his game when he's a damn master at it.
He knows what peeves Neil.
He knows this guy isn't bulletproof.
And because of tonight, Cade knows how much it hurts because it has to hurt. It can't not.

"We're not going to fuck. But you are going to sleep with me tonight," he says, and even after doing nothing but some kissing his voice has gone to shit.
Some tiny human part of him is anxious, or embarrassed, he doesn't fucking know. Like as if the wounded man he has in his power will judge him for the cruel and unusual punishment, and as if that judgement will actually matter.
No, he doesn't want to torture Neil, but he does wanna hurt him a little by not hurting him at all. And maybe this will.

He's so sick of the cheery facade and he doesn't care for the cranky brat underneath it either.

He grips the locks of hair, rubbing the dirt between his fingers.
"And I'm going to do something about this too."
 
Neil got it wrong. He would have gotten it wrong no matte which of his two choices he said. Damn.

Cade has a dead sibling. A boy, though. The gangster opens up about being tortured (and about other much more mundane, adorably hilarious shit), but this he has remained obstinately quiet on, not providing any clarifying details. What happened to him? When, before or after his family got rich? How old was he when it happened? Was he older than Cade? Or maybe a younger sibling, like Oliver... It feels wrong to ask about it all now - as honest as he's been with some things, the hitman doesn't believe talking about this will come as easily.

Plus, he's too busy pouting.

The loss stings and Neil can't stop himself from feeling peeved over it. He can read people like it's nothing - he can read this guy as well, but for some stupid reason he can't catch him out at two truths one lie, a fucking children's game. At least there's some comfort in the fact Cade wouldn't have gotten a victory either if Neil hadn't basically handed it over of his own volition, but then he has the audacity to suggest he views the hitman as lower than him and that gets MacDarragh to chuckle.

It's a rumbling sound that comes out around teeth scraping along his neck, not to bite but to kiss. Wolf's hands are on him again, exploring, paying very pleasant attention to his hair and chest. The former reminds him of this morning, of pulling and tangling in his locks rather rudely. The latter reminds him a bit of their first time together when the gangster had torn his shirt open only to poke at ribs he'd kicked himself. Cade had been such a deer in headlights that entire night, but now he seems a bit more oriented. Purposeful.

Neil's good arm snakes around and his palm finds the back of Cade's head, brushing at the bristles there - if he could pull at something to return the gesture he would, but considering the fact he can't, this will have to suffice. The texture is satisfying.

He doesn't believe for a moment that Cade thinks he has him under his boot, and with a snarled grin he's ready to argue, but the gangster himself beats him to it.

It's always my fault.

Neil means to scoff but with his neck still craned back it comes out more like a low growl. His hand begins to trail down Cade's nape and along his solid upper back to rest on his right shoulder, where it squeezes. It's flattering to hear he drives the guy nuts (like he doesn't know it already), but... Fuck, Cade drives him nuts too. He pisses him off - in a very unusual, surreal way. Why is Cade like this? What made him think so lowly of himself? How far does this always go... Maybe it would have been better if Wolf did think he has the upper hand on the hitman. MacDarragh would have had to put him in his place, but the gall would have at least been a show of some self-esteem. He is his prisoner, damn it, even if this is as far from what you do to someone you've captured as it gets. And in confirmation of the idea that he is the most unconventional kidnapper in existence, Cade decides to rely on the most unconventional torture too.

It's not force-feeding his prisoner water or removing his nails - it's much more effective than that, personal. Neil's eyes narrow as he takes in Cade. He's given him information on his past, things almost no one knows, but instead of using any of that, he relies on a truth MacDarragh revealed unwittingly. Stupidly. Neil doesn't care about the fact he grew up in a warzone or that he was purchased, but Cade sounded disturbed by it, yet instead... he actually lands on something that genuinely hurts. The hitman's eyes grow sharper.

"You're an ass," he hisses through clenched teeth, leaning towards the gangster's ear to speak in it directly, an almost whisper, "A dumbass too."

The hand leaves Cade's shoulder to wrap around his wrist instead, and with one small tug, Neil presses his hips flush with the gangster's, lips nearly brushing his earlobe.

"You sure about not fucking, Cade? You'd rather share a bed with me as your reward?"

He kisses his ear. Kisses his temple too, leaving a feather trail across his cheek before finishing at his mouth's corner. Worst part is, this would be Wolf's reward, technically. And MacDarragh promised he could ask him anything, or ask him for anything. Part of him is impressed at what Cade has chosen to exploit. Another part of him is... some emotion he can never quite name. It's not fear because he doesn't do fear, but it's discomforting nevertheless. Neil sucks in a sharp breath.

"Fine, have it your way," the hitman pulls away. If nothing else, this could at least prove to be a good learning opportunity, if he is to help him. He forces himself to smile, but it's an uncertain, frail one. What do his eyes look like? In Cade's bright blue it's difficult to see his reflection to check.

"I'm going to feel like shit waking up, but you know what? It feels great while it's happening, so fuck it. Why not?"

There are a lot of reasons 'why not', a lot Cade should be worried about before inviting a hitman into his bed. You're most vulnerable when you sleep - the person next to you could kill you and you wouldn't even know a thing. They could incapacitate you, hurt you. Or...

"Living life without regrets."

There is a persistent memory nagging at Neil's mind, a warm, dark shape. He remembers most of his early years, in vivid detail, but this recollection trumps all of them with how much it feels like yesterday. He gazes down, not able to look at Cade right now. This is why he never thinks about yesterday, but the gangster brings it out of him. It's... disturbing.

"You should do something about this first," to distract himself, Neil brings up the hand he has his own clasped around the wrist of. The state of Cade's pinky makes him furrow his brows - by appearance alone, it's been realigned, yet persistent pressure has made it swell up and turn an unnatural shade. Technically he didn't win getting to have a look at it, but at least he can give some advice, "Put ice on it to make it go down for now and get a splint or a cast as soon as you can. And stop fucking around with the thing, or it'll become permanently disfigured and you will lose it."

Neil lets the hand drop with a sigh. He's responsible for this, he broke that pinky. And now the gangster will repay him by washing his hair. It's funny, really. Too bad he can't quite find it in himself to laugh.
 
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Neil teases him without mercy. It stokes the fire in Cade's belly to be pressed up so close, to have Neil kiss him back. It's dangerous, for both of them.

He is a dumbass, there's no arguing that.

If it wasn't such a nebula of feelings and general weirdness, he would ask for a fuck.
If Cade was a better man, he'd turn Neil around and bend him over the counter. Right here, in the kitchen.
Let him know he can do it just as good, that he's just as tough.

Instead, Cade has to hold back something that isn't a whine because it isn't. He doesn't whine, especially not from some kissing and whispering. He tries to catch Neil's lips with his own, but can't make them land.
With the progress Cade has made between his legs maybe sharing a bed will be some kind of torment to both of them.

Neil stepping away nearly unbalances Cade. The gangster blinks, trying to respect this guy's anger and irritation but his brain doesn't flick and switch that fast.
The brat behavior comes from a real place of discomfort, Cade knows that now.
He goes from sad story to acting like a perv in the same sentence, it's exhausting. It's messed up is what it is.
How in the world is Cade ever supposed to keep up with that?

I'm going to feel like shit waking up, but you know what? It feels great while it's happening, so fuck it. Why not?

It's exactly how Cade feels, to a T.

He comes back to himself, more or less when Neil takes his hand.
He clenches his jaw, ready to show teeth but Neil doesn't use it to his advantage.
The guy looks... Fuck, Cade doesn't know, wrung out? It's subtle, something you wouldn't notice unless you knew him. Something about the pinched wrinkle in-between his eyebrows as he looks at the messed up pinky.

The pinky Neil broke because Cade wouldn't let him go. Not after being fucking humiliated.

"Yeah okay," Cade agrees if it means Neil will stop touching him. His voice is still too husky for the kitchen. Damn.

***

Maybe Neil has a point about Cade's finger. The cynic in him wants to think the guy's trying to scare him, but injuries aren't something to take light of.

Like Neil's, for instance.

The shower head is detachable. Cade tests the temperature with his wrist like Neil's a kitten he doesn't wanna burn.
Hell if he knows the proper etiquette of these sorts of things.
For the most part, they've both calmed down. They're mostly going through the motions now.

Neil can kneel (there's a pun begging to be unearthed) beside the tub, but he needs his good arm to keep himself balanced leaning over the lip of the bath.
Maybe there's a better way to do this, but Cade can't think of one that doesn't involve less clothes and more familiarity than they can manage.

Like he's putting Neil's head on the chopping block, Cade guides him down by his nape. If you'd met Neil now you might've thought he was just more on the auburn shade of hair. As is the first shower of water actually makes the girly locks lighter.
The grey stream heads sluggishly for the drain, and it only gets darker when Cade rustles the hair.

His back is on full display like this. The rest of him is spotless except for the canvas of scar tissue. There isn't a doubt in Cade's mind he isn't the first one to look after Neil like this. He wouldn't have been able to reach his own back, obviously.
Was it the only time he ever got in a real affection?

With a button push, the stream of water is cut off. Fat droplets gurgle from the head.
Cade squirts a dollop of shampoo down in the sad nest of hair.
He pops a squat, tilting Neil's head back to keep the soap out of his eyes. Then he gets to it, working up a lather and massaging the suds in. The guy looks funny with his hair wet and bubbly. It's funnier still when Cade molds the hair up into a sundae swirl.

When Marley wasn't available to put Cade back together, Kaden did it himself.
Each touch was as impersonal and clinical as the abuse had been. It didn't matter. After the pain, the coarse swipe of a rag doused in warm soapy water might as well have been a hug.
It feels... unreal. Like it happened in a parallel world.

Cade's a shitty person, okay? He just is.
And yeah, he's kidnapped a random dude that got in his way, but he's not terrorizing the bastard. Not in the regular sense.
A shiver goes down Neil's back. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
But he's not crying, bleeding or screaming so it can't be that bad.

Kaden Finch didn't need to do what he did.

The water falls in a torrent when Cade releases it, slapping into the tub. This time bubbles swirl down the drain, swathing with foam.
Maybe there's a good chance he's just as bad as Kaden. The guy was getting real weird with Damien. Possessive, controlling, even infantalizing the idiot to a certain degree.

This could just be a different shade of that.

Cade cups a handful of hair, smooth with water. He works it over, until no more bubbles are left. Then he gently wrings out what he can before grabbing a towel.

Neil's head disappears in a cloud of burgundy as Cade towels him off, wringing out the hair and ruffling it up. He catches the droplets running down his neck.
Its a wonder what a shower can do for a person. Neil simultaneously looks more and absolutely nothing like himself.

Cade cackles when he lifts the towel completely. Neil looks just like those little lap dogs, all spiky furred and lost looking.

"If you could do it however you liked with whatever you wanted with all the time in the world, how would you kill me?" Cade asks once he helps Neil to his feet.
Just for conversation. The gangster isn't a complete freak; he lets Neil brush his own teeth. With the domestic nature of it all, it almost does feel like a sleepover.
Afterwards he leads Neil down the hallway, to the bedroom that actually has a queen.

On the way there he has to shut the door to the baby's room.
It's dark, but he still catches sight of the crib and the stupid dangly toy above it.

It's not the master's bedroom because Cade doesn't care if he didn't grow up in this house, he's not sleeping anywhere near a mattress his parents would've used.
So the room's not that big and the mattress isn't that great. But the bedframe is solid enough to lock chain to it.

Which Cade does because this isn't a regular sleepover.

He tightens the other end around Neil's good ankle. It doesn't matter if he hates it or not, it happens.
"You can try and strangle me with this," he says, giving the chain a rattle, "but if I die you die so..."

It's a far cry from what they're used to. Normally they're too fucked out from a fight and a bed wrestle to care. They just sleep, bruised and drooling on one another.

Cade sits on one side of the bed, taking a shoe off and tossing it.
"You...need anything else?"
 
Just like he said he would, Neil's captor reverse-waterboards him. Cade's non-torture torture methods are truly something else. The sprays of water from the showerhead hit the hitman's hair, in desperate need of a wash.

The guy cleans him, and it's a weird sensation all around - not exactly like sleeping next to each other, but kind of close, intimate in a way sex simply isn't. On one hand, Neil is kneeling bent forward over a bathtub being treated like a helpless child, and that sends electrical signals from the reptilian part of his brain into his limbs that he does not like this. His hurt shoulder tenses against the brace. He's never been a helpless child, regardless of what the gangster probably believes, and he certainly isn't one now. If the current situation isn't being pushed into submission, then it certainly feels like being condescended to, and that's equally unacceptable.

On the other hand... the fingers running across his scalp feel fucking nice. They're nearly gentle in their movements, careful not to let the water run down to his bandaging. It causes MacDarragh to smile sardonically to himself and scoff while watching dirty lines of water disappear down the drain - the bathtub itself is going to need to be scrubbed down after this. Does the gangster realize how ridiculous he is being? Nurse Cade. Caretaker Cade. Some strands have knotted together in places, covered in the filth of a collapsing building's last groans, and Wolf takes his time detangling them, rubbing shampoo in to remove all the pieces of soot clinging onto blonde hair. It's like a massage. Neil shivers, humming.

"You really do have a thing for hair play," he manages to rumble out some sort of a tease, but it's not a particularly potent one.

If MacDarragh had demanded or requested this kind of attention, and if he wasn't injured, he might have actually enjoyed it.

As things stand, though, this isn't on his own terms.

His kidnapper/caregiver proceeds to dry his head with a towel as if Neil doesn't have one fully functional arm and couldn't do this for himself perfectly fine (as a matter of fact, he could have washed his hair perfectly fine alone, too). He makes his displeasure well-known with a narrow-eyed grimace. However, one furrowed eyebrow lifts as soon as the gangster poses him with a very interesting question - how would he kill him?

"What, are you offering yourself up, Wolf? I'd get you in a fight," the hitman shoots back almost immediately. Normally, he really would. That was the ultimate intention originally, wasn't it? The man is strong - enough to be his close equal - and brawling with him is very entertaining, but eventually there would come a day when the hitman would overpower him and that would be that. A quick death. A "warrior's death", if you believe in that sort of thing.

But talking about this type of killing method right now seems cheap and boring... In his periphery, Neil observes the bathtub, the light trails of muck staining it in places. He accepts the toothbrush before speaking, tone light, "But let's say we stick to current location - I'd bleed you out. Fill the tub with some warm water, cut the arteries, let time do the work. With some pills, it's all very quiet and painless, like slipping into a dream. Easy to clean up after, too, but, most importantly, it's difficult to prove as a homicide."

Neil spits toothpaste into the sink, rinsing out his mouth. For all intents and purposes, he's making small talk, just like at the table playing two truths one lie.

"All that being said, it's kind of an overused cinema death scene. You like movies, don't you?" between talking about Cujo and Misery and John Wick, that's the kind of impression Neil's been left with. He mentally notes that two of those are Stephen King adaptations...

And just like in some cheesy horror mini series, once MacDarragh is led to the bed, he gets his ankle tied down with a chain - an honest-to-God dog cable, which Cade helpfully points out could be used for strangulation. He also suggests that Neil would somehow be dead if he died and the hitman has to question if he honestly, truly believes that. Like he hasn't gotten out of worse circumstances in the past. The dumbass starts taking his shoes off to get in bed beside the person he knows could kill him (because surely he knows, c'mon... he's a dumbass, but he's not an idiot).

The helpful host that he is, Cade even asks his "guest" if he needs anything else.

Neil can't help but stare for several long seconds of genuine befuddlement, the corners of his pursed mouth twitching involuntarily every couple of seconds... before breaking out into a laugh. It's a shamelessly loud thing that shakes MacDarragh and causes some mild pain to come through, despite the Percocet's still-present effects. He wipes some moisture from the corner of his eye. This fucking guy...

"A fuck would be nice," Neil sits down on the mattress, shaking his head in disbelief around persistent giggles, "Or a smoke."

Usually, the hitman indulges in cigarettes after sex, or after something exciting. He smokes for pleasure, not for stress. The first time he was offered a smoke he fell in love with the taste, and with the fact that having a stick of poison held between your teeth looks fucking cool. This situation is... decidedly not cool. It's hilarious and weird and uncomfortable all at once. Fuck, this is going to be awkward, isn't it? The hitman lies down on his back then turns to lie on his left shoulder, groaning lightly at the movement. Still, this is preferable - if he has to spend another six hours splayed out on his stomach he'll strangle Cade for real.

The times he has fallen asleep next to the gangster both of them had been exhausted from some very productive activities. Now...

MacDarragh snickers at the thought of requesting to be knocked out, but he can do that perfectly well himself. Hyperventilate a bit, then hold his mouth shut and pinch his nose, just like Wolf had done to him earlier. A bit of a raised difficulty with one hand, but not impossible. He'd be out like a light a moment later, not having to suffer through whatever this is going to be. Wonder if Cade would try and stop him? You know, cause part of this non-torture torture is presumably getting under MacDarragh's skin, so it's cheating if he goes unconscious. Well, to be fair, pillow talk he can do.

Neil looks at Cade, observing him with a somewhat lopsided grin. There's genuine curiosity in his eyes as he asks, "You ever thought about how you want to die?"
 
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Cade nods. Everyone likes movies, right? A tiny escape without ever leaving the chair. And they get a lot better with weed.

Cade was saving this,
but now feels as good a time as any.
As soon as Cade's in his sleeping gear, basically nothing but boxers, he lights up a stick.

Neil is nervous. The all out laughter that usually tears Cade up is a release of nerves, like a machine venting steam.

He's nervous about sleeping, for fuck's sake. Cade should feel empathetic, or something, but it's actually relieving.
Perfect Neil has a hang up, and it's nothing Cade has ever had or will ever have.
He'll sleep in a lion's pit, he doesn't give a shit. The moment his back hits the bed, he lets out a groan that wouldn't fit right in a PG movie.
Oh, how he's missed sleep. Everything is soft and the sheets are cool against his skin. It's where everyone wants to be.

Except Neil, who's only here because he's tethered to the damn bed.

"I think everyone has, right?" Cade asks, propping his head up in a hand. The whole death thing feels like something you explore when you're a kid, when you realize you are going to die one day and not only does that not make any sense, it's scary.
And if you were an edgy teen like Cade, the morbid curiosity turned into romanticism. You put your hood up and sit alone and wait for someone to notice how dark and disturbed you are without realizing how boring you actually are.

You realize somewhere between eighteen and twenty five that your experience isn't unique and everyone else is miserable too, they just don't let it bother them.

"Dying during the raid woulda been cool I guess," he muses with a shrug. He picks at the bed sheet, pulling at loose thread. With his luck, it wouldn't have been in a one-v-one with Neil. It would have been some nobody to riddle him with bullets. And he'd be remembered as a feral animal, a statistic for why videogames are violent and dangerous or something.

"It might be cool dying saving somebody else." Cade takes in a breath, a deep inhale to let it rest in his chest and fog up his brain.
Weed isn't like nicotine. It's not stronger it's just not the same at all. Food tastes better, music sounds better, and laughter becomes involuntary.
He lets his breath out, melting into the bed. You could fit anything inside of him, he's that relaxed. With the door closed, they might be able to get a sort of hotbox situation going.

"You see those close call videos on YouTube of people shoving kids out of the way of trains and cars and whatever. It's like a trade out. I give it up for somebody else who might be able to do this whole thing better."

The neurons in Cade's brain become molasses with each inhale. He knows he's in his parents' old vacation house which he wouldn't be able to tolerate if he was alone, and he knows his only company is a fine ass yandere man who has the murder plan all ready to go.

He acknowledges it, he's not confused, it just doesn't penetrate.

"What about you?" He says in a husky exhale. He passes the blunt over to Neil. With any kind of luck, it might make this easier for him.
"You have a preference? I'd like to use my hands. I kinda like suffocating you, I think." He ends that comment with a laugh, a throaty one.
 
Cade does kind of fulfill Neil's request for a smoke. It's not a cigarette, though - it's a joint, one he lights for himself for the time being. This is starting to feel more and more like a sleepover as the minutes tick by (in spite of the chain around his ankle; given its length, he can barely feel its presence anyway), and if it is anything like a conventional hangout then the weed will get passed along in due time.

MacDarragh chuckles again at the sheer state of things, and at what the gangster has to say. Yeah, dying in the raid would have been cool for him, even if it wasn't Neil's end goal. He imagines Cade detonating whatever explosives he used to blow up the Black Dog's tower, flipping off "the man" as it were while flames erupt behind him to consume and incinerate his body to ashes, never to be recovered again. It feels like appropriately dramatic and cinematic imagery for the gangster.

Until he starts talking about giving up his life for someone who "might be able to do this whole thing better". Neil has to bite back a retort because he doesn't feel like reiterating shit he already said within the last hour, so instead he hums in consideration, eyes following the trail of smoke Cade exhales.

"Really? I didn't peg you for the self-sacrificial type," that's as kindly as MacDarragh can manage to put it, giving a half-smile.

Is it from wanting to be remembered as a hero or from wanting to fulfill some socially accepted concept of "good"? Honestly, this is the type of thing he would expect to hear from someone like Blumenthal, not Cade. That being said... they are both ex-cops, and the gangster did claims he "wasn't always like this", whatever that means. Neil turns his head slightly into the pillow, exhaling. Well, he's an ex-cop as well, but he was never a true cop, not really. On the other hand, Oliver claimed his brother as "the best detective". Part innocent childish delusion, part truth, maybe, "Is something along these lines the reason you became a policeman?"

Just as the hitman expected, the joint extends in his direction and he props himself up on his elbow to pluck it out of Cade's casual grasp, smirking at the husky breath. It's a pleasant sound that immediately makes his eyes go sharp, if only to get a reaction out of the man that chose celibacy tonight. He smirks further at the question. MacDarragh's fingers touch the gangsters and linger for a bit, before retreating.

He takes a drag of the rolled-up piece of paper, letting smoke fill his lungs. It's not his usual poison, tobacco is, and as a general rule he doesn't tend o indulge in downers unless it's for social reasons or for keeping up appearances. The present circumstances count as the former, but also getting some additional dopamine flowing through his system isn't a bad idea - let the nerves settle. Get relaxed and high. Get sleepy too.

"No, I have not thought about dying," Neil leaves his mouth open for the vapors to vacate his lungs languidly, a slow flow.

Cade said he thought everyone has thought about the circumstances around their death, yet here the hitman is proving that guess wrong. It's not something he has ever felt the need to ruminate on, not even as a child. It's pointless really, he has no plans on dying in the near future, yet here he is trying to think of something on the spot. Neil's lips twist around the joint thoughtfully as he takes another drag.

"The one preference would be dying young. I couldn't bear being an old fuck wasting away. I'd rather do it on my own terms when the time comes. As much as I appreciate your offer," with a grin and a puff of smoke blown in Cade's face, he hands the joint back over.

"The feeling's mutual, I also like suffocating you," it had been nice wrapping his hand around Wolf's neck, pinning him to a wall on their very first meeting. Now the gangster's gotten a taste and he enjoys it too. Okay, so asphyxiation and hair play.

"Have you thought about growing out your hair?"
 
"If I'm being honest, I liked guns and being a cop seemed cool. And it was pretty much the only thing I was good at, almost felt like I was contributing to society for a second there."

And he thought his dad would've noticed him.

It shouldn't be a shock to realize Neil's never contemplated death, but somehow it is. He was a little guy once, who had no agency or control in his life. Cade would've guessed all you'd think about is dying and when and how it's going to happen.
It's what he thought about a lot, and he was a grown ass man.

Neil is, how the kids say, built different.

Or a fucking liar, which he is.

"Oh fuck yeah," Cade grunts, tucking into his pillow.
"Take me out. I'm not dying in a diaper."

They can agree on that at least. That's the thing about being old; you don't get better or bounce back. You just get worse.
Neil isn't the first person Cade's looked after, but it doesn't have the usual soul sucking drag caretaking is known for. Well, maybe by tomorrow it will have gotten old.
But it's not permanent. Neil will get better, he will get stronger.

With old people it's just making the inevitable descent slower, easier, but then they take a fall and you lose months of life and there's nothing you can do to bring it back. People ask how they're doing and you gotta say, 'oh, there's good and bad days', while trying not to think about how a year ago these 'good' days would have been a nightmare in comparison.
You just try and keep them from falling again because nothing destroys the coherency of an old man like falling.

Except for maybe leaving familiar surroundings.

Cade brings the blankets up over his shoulders, yawning into his pillow. Man, he's beat.
It's been the longest day of his life.
Neil likes strangling him too, with his little girl hands. That's how they met. Cade can't say he's a big fan of not being able to breathe, but a hand on his throat isn't terrible.
Especially if it's Neil's. It sucks that he wants to kill him. Maybe he'd play with him first for a while, make it worth it.
After all he wouldn't bleed out right away in a tub, would he?

Cade glances at Neil's hand, at the zombie bite he has there. They infected each other that night, gave each other crazy.

Neil's hair is damp and beautiful in the light, just like the rest of him. Cade got to wash it, touch it.
He's just- he's so gorgeous. Why is something so dangerous this damn pretty?
It's gotta be some challenge sent from up above that Cade has horribly failed, like Neil is a siren sent to tempt men to their deaths.

He does hum.

"Yeah, it might be time for a change," Cade mumbles, blinking hard. He hasn't grown it out since he was a cop, hasn't been able to face who he used to be before everything...

Yeah, maybe it's time for a change.

"Get like, a mohawk or something. That would be badass..."

He lets his eyes fall shut.
"...How hissy is your boss about appearances? Is he chill? You think...think I'll do alright there?"
 
"A mohawk? How very punk rock of you," Neil smiles in consideration, eyes trailing over Cade's face to take in its shape and imagine what such a style would look like on the gangster, "You could pull it off, it'd look good on you. What with that and all."

The hitman taps at the side of his own neck, where the wolf tattoo is on Cade's. A mohawk would fit with its vibe. Throw a leather jacket on top, and it's a look.

But the man's eyes have already closed at this point, so he doesn't see the gesture. He was blinking blearily moments ago, but now bright blue orbs have disappeared completely, a rumbling voice coming through partially opened lips as it's becoming more and more evident that the gangster is falling asleep. Like a working man at the end of a very busy, very exhausting day, he retreats away from reality.

The reality of lying in bed with a killer that has very good reason to want him harm. That's hilarious. Absurd too. Where he finds the confidence for this of all things, Neil does not know.

The hitman grows completely quiet and motionless where he is still propped up on his elbow, observing Cade like a predator stalking prey, watching his eyeballs shift beneath his eyelids, listening to the rhythm of his breath as it begins to progressively slow down with the loss of consciousness. MacDarragh stands there, frozen, for who knows how long. Not that many minutes, actually. Wolf is out like a light, and maybe it's because of the weed, or maybe he's just like that. It's fascinating how certain people can go to sleep basically as their head hits the pillow.

He looks so peaceful swaddled there in the sheets, his captor/caretaker. The dumbass.

"She. My boss is a woman," Neil whispers under his breath, voice quiet, emotionless. Slowly and with some effort he raises himself up from elbow to palm, ignoring the pain in his back as he looms over Cade's slumbering form, blocking out the soft moonlight streaming in from the window to illuminate the canvas of roughened skin, "And, no, I don't think you'll be alright there."

He said this already, he tried to explain. It's stupid of Cade to ask again. Is he expecting some kind of reassurance? Neil could lie to him, no problem. Just like he's lying to himself that if he even steps so much as a foot back into that building, into that office, he'll be able to leave unbothered, having made a clean exchange - he cuts ties and Wolf takes over his position. A slew of scenarios go through his mind, none of them ending favorably - either for both of them or for one or the other.

When he shifts his leg just an inch, Neil feels the dog cable tied around it. The chain is long, but it would be a bit uncomfortable to pull up to wrap around Cade's neck to strangle him. Not impossible, just uncomfortable. The pillow, on the other hand... the pillow he could smother the gangster with, easy. With him out of the way, MacDarragh would not have to return, he could just disappear somewhere, never to be seen or heard from again.

Cade mumbles out something and Neil feels his muscles go stiff with alertness, fingers gripping the pillow. What would his reaction be, waking up to see his captive like this? Will it finally scare some sense into the guy? But the gangster is not waking up, no. He... says something in his sleep. Neil can't decide if the barely audible noise sounds more like "donut" or "don't". Is it a food dream? Considering his dinner...

The arm Neil's holding himself up by starts shaking ever so slightly, partially from exertion, but mostly from a quiet laugh that briefly racks his body. Really, this guy is too much, how adorable. If he is a sleep talker, this night is bound to get interesting. That is if MacDarragh manages to stay awake... He shoots Cade one last lingering look - the wolf on his neck is distorted, and the hitman has to appreciate the ropy musculature the ink crosses over. Imagining it collared feels wrong, and he doesn't say that in the sense of choking the guy out. That felt and looked great. No, it's about subservience to weaker individuals. Why trap something masterful like this, filled with so much potential?

MacDarragh won't get rid of Wolf, and it's not because of some bullshit morality or this potential challenge he has set for himself to help the poor shmuck. It's because even with Cade out of the picture, he can't leave the High-Rise. Not because Viv would keep him chained down - she would, the bitch, but he has his own reasons to remain for the time being. Neil sighs. There go his plans for going down south...

The hitman goes to lay back onto his pillow only to end up stomach-down because his wounds won't stop giving him grief otherwise. Fuck. Well, at least the dopamine coursing through his system is keeping him from getting too annoyed.

It's making him drowsy as well. Or maybe that's Cade. If Neil wasn't high, the thought would be terrifying. As it stands, though, it's just very, very funny.
 
"Hmm," Cade hums to the evil creature he has in his bed. It feels rude to ignore him, and potentially dangerous.
He could pull off a mohawk. And it would look badass.

Cade plans on opening his eyes again, at some point.
It never happens. Somewhere, he knows he should be experiencing some shame for all this; bathing a dude and then sleeping with him. Without the context, it's weirder than if he'd just slept-slept with Neil instead.
He lets that thought drop like a hot coal. It's easy enough to do it.
The bed's too warm and the day was too long.

He gets a shred of important information, but the more he clings to it the more abstract it becomes.
Neil's boss is a woman?

----

The last time he was submerged under water he was cradled in a drug hazed, swaddled in phantom hands of the End.

The white noise of the pool, echoing like a cave and crowding Kaden's sentences disappear each time his head falls under. Everything falls away during his laps, the world a dull and far off thing. He meets one end of the pool, shoves off with his feet in a fury and pushes to the other end. A goldfish, trapped. By the time it reaches one end, it forgets how truly ensnared it is, twisting on itself to check if the other end of the aquarium is also only a wall.
The lamps under the water shine through the blue, illuminating the underwater world in an alien and almost beautiful way.
There's no one to save this time, no objective to pursue, no puzzle to unravel.

It's clearer than its been in months and Kaden's never been more confused, more uncertain. Each stroke, each breath, each slosh of water against his skin reveals nothing. There is something ugly growing here, an open maw stretching wider to engulf him whole. The Dogs are gone, Delilah still isn't being honest with him, Raul is being infuriating, Cade's wellbeing remains an itching concern and as if to rub salt into the livid wound, Damien is behaving unusual.
There's a pity in his eyes, and words on the tip of his tongue.

He kicks tile, cutting through the water. He goes deep this time, reaches the lonely world of the bottom. With upward strokes, he pins himself to the bottom, bathes himself in silence. There is nothing here but the bubbles of his exhale, illuminated with the shine of the underwater lights.
If air wasn't a necessity, he would stay here. Live here. Let him become some other land thing that haunts the water, away from every living thing in the world.

Genevieve had kissed him back to life, even if he had been unconscious for the unwanted procedure. When he regained wakefulness, she delighted in telling him he had called for Delilah in his hysteria.

The peaceful world is shattered. A cloud of bubbles clouds the new comer. The impact is a far away thunder slap. A hand reaches for him and Kaden jerks back, slow in the low gravity. Another swipe.
Finch grips the wrist of his attacker, oxygen escaping his mouth in a flutter when the bubbles disperse enough for him to recognize Sheppard. Her hair floats in a hazy wave. Save for her shoes, she's still dressed.
Together they flicker to the world of sound, Kaden breaching with a breath.
The overwhelming resonance of the pool violates his senses too soon.

"What are you doing?" He demands, wiping chlorine from his eyes.

"What am I doing?" Delilah slaps the water, sending another wave into Kaden's face. It goes up his nose, stinging his throat. "You're lying on the bottom of a pool."

A cough rips from his mouth, in place of the arguing he wants to start. An ache from his previously paralyzed lungs make itself known once more and Finch gives a wheeze.

She exhales, letting her head sink low enough to have the water lapping at her chin. "You scared the shit outta me."

It's a dramatic admission. Its too late in the night for a life guard to be present (the pool has a use at your own risk policy), but Kaden knows how to swim. He treads water, sacrificing one hand to clear his nose in a very undignified way.
"I believe we've established I know how to kill myself and depriving myself of air is not an option I'm willing to attempt again."

Finch twists away, paddling to the edge. He grips the scratchy lip of the pool, smearing his hair back. After a moment, Delilah follows. The woman plants her worn hands on the edge, dunking for momentum before heaving herself from the water. Even clothed, her muscle show. Cade once said she had the shoulders of a Bengal tiger, which Finch still isn't sure he completely understands. If touched, you would leave with the impression she was hewn of rock. There's nothing soft or furry about her.
Sheppard pinches the collar of her shirt, glaring at it before letting it fall back against her skin. With a disgruntled expression, which is slightly more judgmental than her usual grimace, the marine wicks her arms down.
Her feet are still in the water, toenails painted in chipped polish.

"I'm flattered you found the time to take your shoes off before rushing in to save me from certain death. You waited until the last moment at the Tower as well," Kaden bites.
"I got there as soon as I could."
"You had two months."

Abruptly, Delilah says, "Are you going with Blumenthal?"

Finch pinches the last bit of sting from his nose. For a moment he considers burying himself back underwater. However, its likely Delilah would drag him back and her good will, for whatever its worth, will have waned.

I need you.

Its not what he says out loud. It's all so much, so soon. And for whatever reason if he accepts this unknown path, Delilah will become a stranger.

"I'm not ready." He can't look at her. In previous situations, such a confession of useless fear was met with a shove against his back. Sheppard has always known his endurance, his strength better than he ever has. The woman's pushed when he's needed pushing. Part of him hopes for that again; a kick into either direction based on her preference and experience.
She remains silent above him, staring at him with loud eyes. It's not a way she has ever looked before and for a moment, a face he doesn't recognize gazes down at him. A true stranger.

"...Thank you for saving him," he murmurs, "I know you must have spoken with Ortiz."
"Yeah, Damien's a...a good man. Whatever that means."

The same mystery words on Damien's tongue are on hers. It doesn't frustrate him. It terrifies him. He rests a hand on her shin, protected from true touch by a layer of drowned fabric. "You promised," he reminds her, himself. She promised she would stay. If he chooses to stay, they can still be together.

"I've never known what to do with you," she says, looking down at him like he's a lost small thing in need of her pity. "I've never been able to give you what you need."

"You gave me everything," he says, half in desperation and half in exhasperation.

She shakes her head, scoffing. Everything he knows, she taught him. Everything he is, she made. For all intents and purposes, she is his god. How can she not appreciate these things? He knows this talk. This isn't the kick, the is the quiet talk before shipping him back to the foster system.
But he's grown now. There is no place for him to go.

"You deserve a real life, Kaden. A full one, with normal things and normal people."
"I don't want those things!"
"How do you know if you've never had them?"

"I want you! I'm staying with you!" Repaying the favor, he slaps the water and sends a spray against Delilah. Its enormously childish, but that is what he has been reduced to. He is helpless, scared and alone.

The stranger's face is back, plastered over Delilah's expression like a mask. He hates it. He hates her! "And if you leave I'll just find you again. I always find you..."

He has always needed her more than she's ever needed him. That has never changed. For whatever reason, she doesn't want him at all anymore. All he's ever craved is her favor, but she's so full of shame for him she won't even look at him. Where did he fail? What can he do to be someone she can value?
Out of spite alone if nothing else, he will find his way back to her again. Again and again and again.

"I'm going away," She says, and it hurts but he anticipated it, "Where you can't find me and where you can't go. I'm dying, Kaden."

Like breaching through the surface of an ocean, the senses of the world slam into him.

Crash like thunder.

The words are just sound, a foreign language his brain stutters to put together. His hand leaves her, repelled.

"It was going to happen eventually," she states, "At least with this way I could do something."

He loses sense of his body. Wet, his fingers slip from the edge. The phantom hands curl lovingly against him as he begins to slip. Water crowds his ears. Delilah's there, her hand under his arm to keep him from sinking. The slimy hold strips at his skin. He kicks his feet, keeping afloat while trying to keep himself tethered to this reality.

Fighting, he takes on a mouthful of water he speaks through, "I'm- I'm staying with you. It's decided. If this is true, we should be together."

She smiles then, an ugly one that's almost a grimace.
"It's too dangerous now," she says, and there's a trembling in her voice.

He scrabbles at the edge, limbs lagging. Such a simple task he struggles dearly with. The frustration makes him grit his teeth, his grapple sloshing the water. Delilah heaves him up onto the ledge, and her touch is all the more repulsive at the stabbing thought it could be the last time he experiences it.

"I've thought it every way I can. If Damien goes alone, he dies. If you stay, Ortiz uses you to bait Damien. If all three of us go, they'll hunt us down. At the very least I lose everything I've worked for in the last year for nothing-."
"Then lose it."
"No!"

What is she talking about?
He narrows his eyes at her, head tilting. "You're working against the High-Rise."

She sends a look around the pool before nodding in silence. A coup. Potentially a massive one. He doesn't yet know how devastating Delilah's strike is going to be.

"You're expiring and that's what you decided to spend your final moments doing?" Kaden asks. More vicious dog fighting, ever the soldier. The war was never over for her.

Delilah looks at him, face straight. "They had plans against the Black Dogs. Plans that were going to outlive me."

He shakes his head. "So you destroyed us before the High-Rise could? I don't understand."

"You never would've left."

The curious tilt of his head only deepens.

"I thought I was giving you a life," she exclaims, throwing up her hands. "But its a life you were never made for. That kid- your man and everything he's been through... He thinks this is what he wants but it isn't. He wants peace and that's what I want for you, Kaden. If I do anything in the time I have left, its doing right by you."

It's cruel this much needed conversation is happening now, at the end of all things. Happening now in a pool, with them both drenched. Finch wipes his cheeks, wicking the water away. All he can think of is the time they've lost and the time they won't have. This is painful, but its precious beyond all things.
"Then let me stay with you. We'll find a way together. We always have."

Sheppard looks ahead, outside of the pool room and far far away into the next life.
"You're always so practical, you always listen to me. But you won't be reasoned with tonight, will you?"

Adamantly, he shakes his head. "I won't let you face this alone, Delilah. I... I am at peace with dying if it means I'll fight with you one last time."

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. With an inhale, she nods.
"Go to your room, get yourself and Damien ready. I'll come get you."
 
---

The hotel room is missing an occupant - Kaden's not here. Damien is actually finding that fact to be a bit of a blessing, despite the location and situation the two find themselves in. This way he doesn't have to look the capo in the eye and know he knows the ex-cop is keeping something to himself, getting eaten up from the inside by the things Delilah shared. It's all too much, when everything had been comparatively simple merely yesterday. Now Damien has so many thoughts they cancel each other out and he comes up with a net zero, the only by-product a growing headache.

In this precarious moment, Pawl is the man's sole savior and strongest support - she is proving to be the greatest stress relief. The ragdoll is coming back to herself after the sedation, yet her legs are still a bit wobbly, so in lieu of letting her wander about and potentially hurt herself, Damien has sat down on the couch in the living room area, plopping the feline in his lap after removing her from the carrier. Damien's never had a cat, so he isn't exactly an expert on how to pet one. What he does know is that they're often temperamental creatures. As confirmation, cuddling with Pawl is proving to be about following her cues more than anything else - when she likes a scratch she'll lean into it, and when she doesn't or is done with a particular interaction she'll bite. Maybe nibble is a better descriptor - gently hold then release, in a manner that can only be described as ladylike. If Damien could base Pawl's level of overall satisfaction on her amount of purring, then she seems to be enjoying herself, fortunately. The ex-cop cheers up at the thought.

Damien's never had a cat. He's never had a pet, period, because his parents weren't keen on keeping animals around the house. He wishes he could say the reason behind depriving a boy of a lifetime companion was born out of some cold heartlessness on their end, yet that's not the only reason - Eli's always been allergic, terribly so. Before she was born, the pet-issue in the household was avoided if not outright shut down, but after her birth, it became an impossibility... They could have gotten some kind of reptile his sister isn't allergic to those! Regardless, they didn't, despite all of the begging and bargaining with good grades for the privilege. Instead, the only time Damien ever got close to having an animal in the house was when he picked up a baby sparrow that had fallen out of its nest. He couldn't have been older than 12, and in his tiny hands the thing had looked minuscule, barely more than a tuft of fluff. Yet it was warm and it was alive and it was screaming at the world, blind, the yellow still bright around its beak. He had no clue what to do with it, only that he felt the need to bring it home. He couldn't just leave it out there to die alone, could he? Well, part of him also simply wanted to keep it... Things would be fine - he'd figure out how to care for the bird along the way and he'd hide it in a cardboard box in his closet so his parents wouldn't find out.

What a silly plan... Eli started sneezing and scratching at itchy eyes within half an hour of him sneaking in the sparrow - how can something so small cause such a reaction? She had to go get an injection at the hospital, it was so bad. And afterward, Damien was told he had to get rid of the thing one way or another. To a preteen it doesn't matter how reasonable a course of action is, he still thought it was unfair and cruel, but he couldn't say it to this parents' faces. So he bawled his eyes out alone in his room like it was the end of the world.

Michael came to his rescue then. He always did, the busybody. The bird could stay over at the Kell's place - his mom had a bunch of birds anyway, and she'd show the boys how to take care of it properly. It was the perfect arrangement. Damien bawled his eyes out again when they had to eventually set the sparrow free...

Pawl makes a chirping sound from where she's splayed out, stretching to show her soft underbelly, and Damien gets shot out of whatever trance reminiscing on the past had put him under. It's with some embarrassment at drifting off like that that he gazes down at the ragdoll, scratching under her chin.

"Thanks, Pawl," and he is thankful. When his mind is allowed to wander, it goes places he doesn't want it in right now - to Mike, or Nat and Eli. To Delilah... or to Kaden. With a sigh, the ex-cop gives Pawl another scratch only to watch her make air biscuits as her front paws knead the air. An eyebrow quirking up in curiosity, he tentatively reaches out to inspect her right foot - the ex-cop runs his thumb over the soft toe beans there, all 6 of them. On a regular cat they would be 5, but on this special cat they're 6. This small observation manages to get a smile out of him.

"Are you a lucky cat? Cause I could really use some luck right about now..." it's a ridiculous thing to say, but he says it anyway. Pawl's murder claws glisten as Damien presses down on her paw pad, and the ragdoll meaws something up at him. The ex-cop smiles further - maybe it is some kind of confirmation, and she truly is lucky.

The door to the hotel room opens and seated as he is to have full line of sight, Damien's eyes immediately zero in on the motion. It's strange simultaneously relaxing and tensing up upon observing Kaden return - the feeling settles towards the latter as he takes a better look at the capo's face. The man doesn't have many tells, not at all, but Damien can tell that something is... wrong, "Kaden... what's the matter?"
 
---

It went...better than she thought it would.
That's not really saying much. Any interaction that begins with a believed suicide doesn't have many directions to go in but up.

"Did he push you in?" Ortiz asks, eyeing the damp clothes sticking to her like a second skin. A note bunched in her hand with Damien's address is almost incomprehensible. The ink has run and the paper is in tatters but she can still do this.
At least it wasn't the dress that was ruined, that would have been a true shame. But she squeaked the whole way here in her shoes and it sucks to ruin a bra. Does chlorine degrade elastic?

"No, I was struck by the simple zest of life and thought I'd dive in." Sheppard dumps the waterlogged clothes where she stands, stepping free of them to towel herself down.
"I told him. He took it pretty well."

Ortiz face softens. In his big hands is a tiny lump of soft wood. Days ago that's all it was. Now it's a round bodied bird with a blunt beak. With another controlled brush of his knife, another shaving of wood joins the pile at his feet.

He sets the carving and knife aside, leaving his chair to come to her, but stops a foot away.
"I'm sorry you had to have that conversation," he says, brows heavy over his warm eyes. "I know betraying him wasn't easy, but I'm sure he understands why you did everything now."

She shrugs in a what-can-you-do way, turning away to her luggage bag. Organizing her things has never been a struggle. Being able to pack up and go at a drop of a hat is a necessary skill in life.
Putting things away, however, is a far more draining task. Most times, she lives out of a bag.
It makes her habitually a dirty person and a difficult one to live with.
As sly as she can, Delilah tucks the note next to her overnight bag. Not even a month ago a note wouldn't have been necessary.

"He won't know how to look at me now I bet," Ortiz mentions, scratching at the stubble of his cheek.
"I must say I don't think I deserve the skin flaying glares. It'll be nice to see some gratitude for once."

He rests a mitt over her shoulder. It's a heavy thing, warm. He pinches, following the curve of her shoulder blade.
"Don't take this the wrong way but, I'm so grateful it all went this way," he murmurs.

Delilah abandons the search for a new pair of socks so she can look up at the man looming over her.
Nothing much shows up on her face, but her grip tightens on an innocent sweatshirt.

"We never would have gotten back together otherwise," his voice is low, quiet. He blinks, gentle and soft like a saint Bernard.
"The Nakurra and the Black Dogs would have taken years to deal with. I'll admit it's a surprise to add your son to my future, but I can compromise if he sticks around. Who knows, we might even become friends."

"Kaden isn't my son."

"Dear." The hand leaves her shoulder. His inhale is a tight, flustered thing.
"He's your son or he's my competition. Which would you rather he be?"

Frankly, it's none of his business. He's not like this; possessive and stupid. Her attraction begins and ends with something big that smells nice and leaves her alone when she's finished.
Sheppard tries not to be a jackass about it; she's upfront.

He's both, is what she should say.
But she's not so impulsive and stupid. There's too much riding on this, on her. The soldier in her says to shoulder the weight just a little bit longer.

"That was wrong of me," he confesses in the next breath.
"I shouldn't have acted as though it was an ultimatum. I'm not so insecure I'd keep you from being with the boy, if he does choose to stay. And I'm betting he will if he knows you're sick."

He won't, not if she has anything to say about it.

"How're the headaches?"

"Not terrible," she says, because nausea inducing seems melodramatic. Pulling a new shirt over her head makes her feel just the tiniest bit better.
It's a stupid one, depicting a rubix cube in the talons of a raptor and the words framing it written in bold, 'Clever girl'.

"It won't be long now, mi amor. You've done so much for us, I'll make sure you get your due rewards," he says and the way he stoops to look smaller reminds her of another Kaden anecdote. It was a long, abstract one that colored the evening.
It was some essay about monsters in cinema (Disney's Beast, Venom, etc) being written in the female gaze. After being told what in the world the female gaze was for reference, she thought the proposal had weight to it.
Giant, ferocious men being depicted as gentle, dependent and often times stupid.
That is what Ortiz strives to emulate, to varying degrees of success. It's more successful than a puff chested idiot, that's for sure.

"Everything will be okay," he says, and it's the soft tone you use when you're putting a dog down.
Raul pushes in for a hug, or maybe to brush her cheek adoringly with the back of his hand.

"Have you gotten those bags I asked for?" Delilah asks instead and Raul doesn't let the hurt from a spurned advance show on his face.

He nods, smiling broadly,"The two ridiculously large ones? You ask for so little. I'm more than willing to fill them for you with the best money can buy."

"I have very specific, lofty tastes," Delilah warns, pointing to the Jurassic Park T-shirt.
Picking up her jacket, she zips it closed over the dinosaur.

"Indeed you do, mi Cielo. Very well, you can satisfy your own fashion choices. Celebration should be in order. For settling the Black Dogs and the Blumenthal issue to."

It has been settled. Or will be, but it won't be something she can celebrate.
---

The journey from pool to room is a quiet, mechanical one.
His mind has narrowed, where most would have broadened. Answers he didn't know have come to light. The revelation is putting the last piece of the puzzle together to see the whole. He can breathe again.
Delilah hasn't retired him, he hasn't disappointed her. She's simply sick. The recent behavior can all be explained in a conclusive and satisfying way.

The air is somehow sticky against his damp skin.
The water slicks down his skin, dripping into the red carpet they keep so clean and leaving the faint impression of his feet.

Another of Ortiz's men has been tasked to monitor him. He's one of several. Over the course of a few hours, the hotel has filled with grim faced men and smiling patrons.
If it was difficult to escape before, now it will be impossible.
Still Kaden feels some dark pleasure that they have no idea the ambassador is being staged.
Truly, Sheppard is a schemer. A tactical fighter and a force. He never should have doubted her. No doubt she will have a plan around this obstacle as well.

Damien is seated further into the hotel room, drowsy Pawl on his lap.
The ragdoll meeps, blinking half shut eyes as her tail raises. It's exceptionally rare for her to be so forthcoming with affection. The man must have talent with animals, or perhaps the gentle soul that soothes people in his company works just as well on cats.
Or maybe Pawl is still not completely in control of her faculties.

"Delilah requires my assistance. Immediately." It's not something he's at liberty to speak loudly. They could be under digital observation.
The capo folds the hotel towel, tossing it aside in favor of a new one and a set of clothes.

For a brief moment he pauses, rubbing his water wrinkled fingertips over the fluffy fabric of the towel.
"You already know," he guesses. Kaden straightens his already rim rod posture.
That's why his face was dark.

She trusted Damien before him.

"I suggest you prepare. You'll be leaving to go where it's safer for you, Damien. In light of this new development, I must stay with Delilah."
 
A bout of silence lingers between the two men.

Delilah told Kaden. She came clean about everything based on his reaction, and suddenly in the middle of the crushing pressure he's been under since dinner, Damien actually feels his chest decompress with a sliver of relief. The capo deserved to hear the truth from his mentor's lips, not as some second-hand account from a person that barely knows her... Rather shamefully, the ex-cop is also simply glad not to have had to handle that kind of tricky discussion all on his own. Where would he have even begun? Would he have delivered the bad news like he was trained to do as a policeman? How would Finch have reacted?

Damien would have gone through with it, of course - he made Delilah a promise - yet the fact that he ultimately won't have to gives him peace of mind. It's one less thing to worry about on an unstable pile of way too many worries.

You already know.

The relief gets snuffed out at the capo's intonation, at the way he straightens out. Damien bites down on his lip and has to struggle not to look away. Is Finch hurt that the ex-cop said nothing? That Delilah would tell a stranger before him? In his shoes, Damien has to imagine that it would sting, yet another betrayal.

Kaden is grieving. Doubtlessly he is, despite the cold expression and matter-of-fact words. It's the stages of grief, isn't it? Damien is intimately familiar with the concept. He won't have to give Kaden the bad news that Delilah is dying. He'll have to talk to him about this instead, even though deep inside he is aware he himself isn't done going through all five; on a lot of days he jumps between them...

Now's not the time. The ex-cop doesn't voice any of his thoughts, nodding tersely in confirmation. He does know, just like he knows that, based on everything Delilah said, she wants to protect her son from what is about to happen, not put him in harm's way by having him remain.

"I'm leaving?" Damien's hand has stopped petting Pawl, brows furrowing as his voice comes out with a bit too much disbelief. He shakes his head, carefully rising up to place the cat back in her carrier with one last caress of her head, before turning towards Kaden. For once he doesn't care about the capo's nonchalance with undressing himself, "What are you even talking about, "where it's safer for me"? As if that's a thing. Plus, I'm not something fragile to be kept out of harm's way, especially not when you'll be putting yourself in danger."

It's happening again. It's not exactly the same, but his mind supplies him with the memory regardless - being put away while Finch faces a gang war on his own. Locked up in that apartment, Damien had been a lot of things - angry and hurt, and concerned. The Nakurra fell, of course, yet this isn't them. It's the High-Rise. The two have to leave. Preferably the three, though he has no clue what the hell Delilah is planning. Only that the woman sounded like she doesn't intend to back down. Damien doesn't either, but he's not exactly in the organization's good graces.

"I understand you want to stand by her," the ex-cop does understand, genuinely. Kaden also doesn't want to leave someone he cares about to face a challenge on her own. Delilah is what Michael was to him, someone special... Damien stops chewing on the dead skin of his lip, eyes finding Finch's. Yes, he understands, he simply won't accept it, "But this could be tantamount to a death sentence. Surely she doesn't want that for you!"
 
He has to shower and wash the traces of chlorine out of his hair.
No. No, there's no time for such trivialities.
The capo takes his things, hiding his immodesty behind the blurry divider. He has to dry himself off enough that he's not distracted by the cling of damp clothing; he will be a useless ally distracted.

Pawl had given an affronted mew at being placed back into her carrier. Now she stares out, sniffing the door and wondering if Damien realizes he's trapped her inside. The ragdoll twists in on herself to investigate the other end of a box she's known for hours to see if there's a hole she missed.

"I am not a child." Clothes feel odd on his pruned skin. They rest with an airiness he isn't accustomed to.
"She and I are a team. She requires help even if she won't admit it," he says, sitting on the bed to wedge his cold feet into a pair of shoes.
He should be exhausted. The human body can tolerate impressive strain, but not without losing some of its edge. And yet he feels completely alert, completely ready.

"Unlike you, I plan to be there when my friend needs me."

It comes out without examination or correction from his higher thinking. The words hang in the air, thickening the space between them. For once, he has been cruel without directly trying to do so.
A mistake.

His laces tied, Kaden leaves the bed's edge.

Before anything further can be said, a knock is at the door. It's jarring, even when not particularly loud.
They are offered a brief moment as courtesy before the door is opened.

Delilah steps inside, dressed once again. Her wet hair is bound up in a tie. With her curls weighted down, she looks slick and dangerous. Even if her jacket makes her lose considerable muscle definition.
She's strong.
There's a look like death on her face. She makes eye contact with Damien before she looks at him. That makes sense, Blumenthal is closer to the door.

"You're ready," Delilah as states...or is it a question?

Behind her, Clive and Malcom are struggling with something.
The box they bring in isn't unlike a bag for luggage, but it's hard shelled with locks on it.
Lifting the sturdy lid reveals a padded inside. Concealed in the interior of the lid is a breathing mask. There's a opaque mesh that can be pulled over the top of the interior to create the illusion of a false bottom if necessary.
It's elaborate.
There's no arguing that, but he would expect no different from Delilah.

The faux luggage bag is small, barely enough for a person to fit inside but given the circumstances it will have to be enough. Damien will be uncomfortable, but he will be safe.

Malcom drags a second box inside.

A third one doesn't join the first two.

Kaden watches the faces around him, before stopping at Delilah's. Her face is dark, her jaw clenched.
"I'm staying with you," Kaden reiterates, "We decided and I'm staying with you."

She forces herself to look at him.
"I'll try and get out. Believe me, I will. But I can't swing it right now and I can't do what I need to do if I have to look out for you."

Delilah's men flank her. Clive rubs a shoulder before twisting his head far enough to give his neck a crack.
Malcom produces the glint of metal, a pair of handcuffs.
Kaden gains distance with a step back.

"Damien," Kaden says, voice tight. Every muscle is going taut, heart hammering in his ears.

"Damien." Delilah's voice is a razor's edge, bolstered with a calm authority that doesn't require anger.
 
Unlike you, I plan to be there when my friend needs me.

Damien grows still, frozen in space. There's an exhale stuck in his lungs, keeping any words or nonsensical sounds of surprise from escaping his mouth. He can't see Kaden from behind the blurry divider where the capo slinked away, which means he can't be seen by the man either. Good, he doesn't want to be perceived at the moment, especially not by him. Damien can feel his facial muscles grimace with a flash of emotions - one series of unpleasant contortions - before settling on a numbness that takes over his whole body.

Truly, Finch has a talent for shocking the ex-convict into silence, doesn't he? But he's never done it quite like this. This is the one topic he's never been cruel about. On the contrary, when it comes down to Michael the capo's been nothing but kind and understanding, nearly comforting. Likable. Did he mean what he just said?

Would the intention behind the remark even change anything?

There is a knock at the door.

The first thing Delilah asks as she steps inside is if they're ready. Her eyes connect with Damien's and he meets her gaze with an emotionless one of his own, before turning away to maneuver around the room.

Kaden told him to prepare, but instead the ex-cop wasted time attempting to reason with the most difficult-to-reason man in existence. Fortunately, he has a pitiful amount of possession, even less so under the present circumstances. The phone is the only vital thing. While the two false luggage containers get dragged inside and Delilah and Finch exchange words, he takes the time to, finally, brusquely prepare himself. The plastic splint is an annoyance, sure, but he powers through it. With time, Damien is finding that it's actually surprisingly flexible, much more so than the typical plaster cast. This is what top-shelf healthcare looks like, huh? He can't move his fingers within the restraint (even if he could, he really shouldn't), but his wrist is fair game.

The ex-convict gives it a final test just as two voices call out his name. It's silly to hear either tone in this way, really.

The ex-cop begins walking toward Finch to stand at his side, only to stop a step behind him instead. The capo's the better combatant, yet the one thing Damien has on him is speed. His arms reach around the man's torso in a blink, right hand latching onto his left wrist as he shifts his leg forward and simultaneously leans all of his weight back. Gravity moves Finch along with him, down and to the side. It's a law enforcement control technique. The way he tackles the capo onto his stomach once he's on the floor is a law enforcement technique too.

Finch struggles as the initial surprise wears off, yet by the time he has taken stock of the situation Clive and Malcom are coming in, keeping his legs from kicking.

Under normal circumstances, Kaden could probably neutralize Damien. He's dragged him around before on multiple occasions, but these are not normal circumstances. The ex-cop feels like he did when he fought MacDarragh - unstoppable in a self-destructive way, all his ire aimed at a singular person. There is a bit of gratification in getting payback - for the Siren, for being imprisoned... for what Kaden just said. The two former were done with arguably good intentions. Well, what he's doing right now is with good intentions as well. If the capo has even a shred of self-awareness, maybe he'll come to see that eventually.

The ex-cop keeps him down long enough for the handcuffs to click into place. It's like an arrest - held down, wrists bound, then hoisted up. If Kaden says anything, Damien doesn't hear it - all he is focused on is getting the man into the luggage container and fitting the breathing mask over his face, cause he won't be able to do it on his own.

Inside it's not a comfortable fit by any stretch of the imagination. In many ways, it looks undignified, but it is what it is. A necessary evil. Giving Kaden a final neutral look, Damien reaches into his coat to retrieve the case of poisons - the guy has done enough dumb shit with them as is.

"Ready," rising up, the ex-cop addresses Delilah. His injured arm aches from the scuffle, "The one thing I'm missing is my gun. I'd appreciate getting it back if you have it."

Damien walks to stand over the other luggage container, the one he's going to have to fit himself into as well. He's willing to go, of course, but it won't hurt to ask some final questions, "Where will these be taken? And what of Pawl?"
 
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