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Realistic or Modern LOVE, LOSS, REVENGE

Electric butterflies flutter up and down his spine as a familiar smile stretches over Neil's face.
If he can just struggle and spit for a good five or ten minutes, he'll even out. He'll have a foothold in his life.
That's all he needs.

Before it reaches full strength, MacDarragh's stupid fucking grin takes a dip and it doesn't come back.
Cade's not as familiar with a straight faced Neil, not sure how to translate something that's not in his mouth and teeth but in his eyes.
He reaches for Cade, like he did in the morgue but different and not only because he's doubled the hands holding him in place. It's his throat, a gentle enough squeeze he can swallow around.
This isn't what he wants.

Touch me like you fucking mean it.

Oh.

That's what this is about.

That swirling in his stomach deadens, the butterflies turn into stones.
He wraps his hands around Neil's delicate lady wrists, pinching and then twisting them off his skin. With a snort, he tosses MacDarragh's hands aside.

Crossing his arms he grunts, "A molar on my bottom left side."

There's no point pussyfooting around, they're past that now. Neil knows how pathetic he is and nothing's ever going to take that back. That's why he's bringing this conversation up in the first place.
Cade went a long time without brushing his teeth. By the time it was over, he had one hell of a fucking toothache.
An abscess was having party in his jaw and it was a worse pain than anything they could've dished out.

Aside from taking a pair of pliers to his mouth, obviously.

Finch's nose had wrinkled in disgust, that stupid subtle pinch between his eyebrows making it look like someone had pissed in his cereal.

"You stink," he'd said.

It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together. The root canal he got is the only tooth carved out enough to hold anything like a tracker inside of it.
He tongues it now, traces the crown.

Even with Finch shot, he won't be able to sleep tonight. Or maybe that's why he won't be able to. He doesn't know if Finch's dead or not, his hindbrain convinced he isn't.

"If you hadn't been so fucking stubborn and just taken Rory's bullshit for your shoulder in the first place, Kaden wouldn't have been able to grab you," he growls, glaring up at him.
"If you're mad than be mad at yourself. This shit isn't my fault!"

Not completely, at least.
Fuck, he can't look at Neil, stares at an old stain on the carpet that's either BBQ sauce or weeks old blood still forgotten about.
 
Finch, pathetic freak that he is, put a tracker in Wolf's teeth. That feels as fucked as it is ironically appropriate. On any other day, the hitman might even find it hilarious, in a very absurd way. A clipped snicker escapes Neil's mouth, dissipating before it can become anything more, yet present nonetheless for the brief second it pierces the air in disbelief, "Should have made that snuff film, huh?"

The one in which he joke-threatened to pull out all of Cade's teeth.

Neil feels at his wrists, where the gangster's hands just held him only to toss him aside. Cade has never rescinded his touch. If anything he's sought it out, yet now he won't look at him, blue eyes firmly glued to the floor as MacDarragh's stare digs into the gangster while he tries to figure out if he is mad or not.

He is exhausted is what he is. Not physically, though - emotionally exhausted.

That sounds so fucking stupid.

Eyebrows furrowing, Neil's lips twist with a scoff, "There is obviously a very good reason I didn't want to take Rory's bullshit. You honestly believe fixing up even a shoulder or a finger would have been that simple, no strings attached?"

Nothing is ever no-string-attached, not even sewing up some stranger's stab wound in a shitty hotel room. MacDarragh is starting to realize that.

This time when he grabs Cade, the hitman aims for his jaw in a harsh hold to keep the man's head in place, and to turn it back up to look at him. The way his fingers dig into the gangster's cheeks contrasts with the way he uses his other hand to prod at his lips - careful if insistent, thumb tracing the soft flesh that used to be chapped.

Can it even get chapped anymore? If Cade bites at the skin incessantly as he is wont to do, do the machines in his system simply smooth things over moments later?

"You're a dumbass," a dumbass Neil is associating with willingly. A dumbass he groveled for, "How long have you been aware of the tracker and done nothing about it?"

His thumb parts Cade's lips, finger pad running over the teeth the gangster is keeping stubbornly clenched. Will he bite him again?

Neil needs to have a look at this bottom left molar. Well, in this lighting, he wouldn't be able to see much of anything, but there is a flashlight in the duffel bag, and pliers as well, brought along originally just in case MacDarragh did decide to go through with the snuff film. The small EMT case, on the other hand, was just in case he had to do any more impromptu wound suturing, whether that be wounds he himself or someone else made. His local anesthetic of choice is not really meant for stomatological procedures, but still...

Humming to himself in consideration, Neil's eyes lock onto Cade's, "I can take it out for you."
 
Unbothered, Neil makes a very funny joke.
"Yeah, and I shoulda tortured you when I had the chance, too."

Cade washed his hair and Neil looked after him.

Heaven help him, he never knows if they're fighting or not. He wants to, voice louder than it needs to be, aching to put this fire somewhere. Even if it's counterintuitive.
They've never actually argued, not over something that mattered. Quite frankly, it's unfairly difficult to gage how mad Neil may or may not be.
If only he was two percent more human, maybe this wouldn't be as confusing as it is.

The second time Neil makes a grab for him, its got the muscle he's familiar with. The thoughts and frustrations scatter on contact. He jerks Cade's head back, rough and not with a lotta thought towards his comfort.
He huffs hot air out his nose.

You're a dumbass.

It hurts, but the blush he could feel riding his cheeks since Neil grabbed him feels like wild fire. He thinks he sees the fine sheen of disdain and disappointment bubbling in Neil's eyes and that makes his stomach twist and burn.

"A while," he confesses, Neil's thumb ghosting between his lips. Weeks ago he bit this hand, and maybe he should now. He parts his mouth, glaring, but he never snaps down. He fucking hates himself.
"Since you saved me from the Nakurra."

That thumb slips into his mouth.

He grunts around it, flinching, but Neil holds him and he doesn't melt but it's been such a long damn day.
Neither of them seem to know if it's a reward or a punishment. Maybe it's just Neil being Neil. Finch never would have done this.
The fact of the matter is they're standing in a hotel room and MacDarragh has his finger pinning Cade's tongue down. And he isn't shoving him off. Or out, rather.
Salty sweat and something bitter sinks into his taste buds. To keep from drooling, he closes his mouth around the digit. Swallows.

If he broke something in Neil's apartment he said he'd accept alternative means of payment. Does fucking up his life count as breaking something?

Cade won't be enough. Like Finch, MacDarragh will find someone better. That's reason enough to cut this shit out before it goes too far.
The pressure against his teeth keeps him here, reminds him of the bruising grip on his chin and the presence trying to snuff him out and he can't say a thing.

Wouldn't say a thing, if it meant he could have someone mean hold him still. Even just for a little while, even if it hurts more when he's finally thrown away.

With a wet sound that doesn't belong here, Neil's thumb slips from his mouth.
Still feeling the weight of it, the taste of it, Cade stands there helpless for longer than he should.

"Now?" He blurts, blinking.

It's something he should have gotten taken care of weeks ago. It's bit him in the ass twice already.
And, most of all, it's over now.
Finch is never going to want to see him again. And if he ever does, it'll be to finish the job he should have years ago.
He's the one who turned his back on Kaden, he's the one who shot him. This is what he wanted.

"I was hoping to have it...turned off somehow," he says, and it sounds like a lie out loud. It's not the pain, even MacDarragh will know that.
Half losing the tattoo has made him look like a weirdo, the same way losing a tooth will. And it's more than that; years of commitment and work thrown away for nothing.
He's been passed around enough times, soon there won't be anything left to ruin. Physically or mentally.

Focusing on that iron grip, he huffs another sigh.
"Don't pull the wrong one, okay?"
 
Since you saved me from the Nakurra.

Taking advantage of the talking to slip past the barrier of teeth, Neil pushes his thumb into Cade's mouth, shutting him up - that's what he gets for saying something as stupid as that, for doing something as stupid as that. He's been aware of the device for weeks and has done absolutely nothing to remove it. Zilch. Nada. Suppose back then the gangster was still working for Finch so getting rid of the tracker might have been complicated, but that brings the hitman back around to the question at the center of the whole mess, which is why the hell Cade would even stick by the Butcher like a loyal dog after what was done to him.

The thought succeeds in making MacDarragh pissed off, like it always does.

Running his finger over Cade's teeth, the hitman feels for the bottom left molars, as if that will help locate the correct tooth without having a direct line of sight. Regardless, he traces the relief of his bite; feels the weight of it as Wolf holds his thumb without actually digging into flesh. The act is nearly obedient, and that causes a whole new slew of conflicting thoughts to swirl in Neil's head.

Slowly, he extricates himself from the dog's maw, echoes of fangs and tongue lingering.

Honestly, Neil should beat the shit out of the guy for this tracker bullshit. Not to mention that it would help loosen the molar he has to pull out, which Cade does consent to, even if with some trepidation. The agreement makes Neil's fired-up nerves ease up, even if just a little bit. There was a growing apprehension the man was going to turn the offer down and then, well...

"Who do you think I am?" the hitman huffs in affront at the idea there is even a chance of him removing the wrong tooth. This might not be his area of expertise, but he is more than capable - after all, he has pulled out people's teeth before. Usually more than one tooth, and usually with no care for the pain he might inflict.

Neil directs Cade to sit down on the bed before he retrieves what is needed from the duffel bag - the pliers, the flashlight, and the tube of local anesthetic. He cleans the first item with a thorough slathering of disinfectant, which he applies to his hands as well. It's unfortunate the scarce EMT supplies here don't include any latex gloves, but he'll have to deal with what's available. Walking back over to the gangster, MacDarragh hands over the flashlight, positioning Cade's arm to hold it in such a way as to illuminate the inside of his mouth, so that both of the impromptu dentist's palms can remain free, "Don't move your arm. Look up and open wide."

Neil is already putting a dollop of anesthetic cream on his pinky when the gangster goes through with following instructions. Working without gloves means the tip of his finger is going to go numb as well, but he needs to apply it one way or another. And he does just that, looming overhead as his hand goes back in the dog's maw. With the glow of the flashlight, MacDarragh can finally clearly see the dental crown that must hide the tracker. This gel is fast working. In 30 second or so, he should be able to remove the fucking thing once and for all.

Be rid of it, be rid of Finch.

Tooth extractions are supposed to be done by injecting an anesthetic in order to completely deaden the nerve endings. The cream is going to make Cade lose sensation in his gums on this side, yet it won't protect against the worst of the pain, "Fair warning, this is going to hurt like a bitch."

The plier clamps down onto the offending molar. What a shame it's not a canine or a premolar at least. That would have made the instrument easier to position; really, the whole procedure would have been easier. It also would have left a much more obvious gap when Cade smiles. Neil cracks his neck. One sharp, firm tug. That's all it will take if he does it with enough force, which he is more than confident he can accomplish.

In a fluid motion, the pliers get pulled away. There is no tooth in their unforgiving grip.

MacDarragh doesn't know exactly how it happened or why. All he knows is that in a split-second decision, he leans down to be face-to-face with Cade, lips-to-lips in an instinctual, sloppy kiss. When was the last time the two kissed? Holding the back of the man's head with his free hand, it's only now that Neil realizes he was thirsty for this.

With a click of his tongue the hitman breaks the connection, voice teasing, "Can't ruin a smile like that now, can I?"

Something between a laugh and an exhale leaves Neil, and when he pulls back completely to look Cade in the eyes he's half-grinning, tongue sticking out in a mock show of disgust, "Plus, your breath stinks of tuna. I pull that tooth out and you'll die of infection or something."

Which isn't a lie. Stomatological procedures like this are not recommended at home (or at second-rate hotels) precisely because of the array of complications that can occur. Maybe if the hitman had the appropriate tools he would do it, yet as things stand that's not an option.

"But when we go see Rory for new replacements for these," Neil points at his collar, "Kid genius is gonna turn the tracker off. Otherwise, it's messing up the job."

It's messing up other things as well. Still smiling, MacDarragh's gaze sharpens as he taps the unused pliers against his partner's jaw several times.

"Do we have an understanding, Cadence?"
 
Like a bitch that rolls over, Cade sits to be willingly mutilated. The hitman asks who Cade thinks he is and he doesn't know.
Like before, Neil pulls the things he's going to use on him out of his bag. There's something different about this though, this isn't a stitching he needs to keep from bleeding out.
The pliers are first to the show and Cade bunches his hands up.
He wanted pain. This is about as painful as anything could get.
Again, MacDarragh's hand invades his mouth but it's just to wipe that tingling cream over his gum.

And he's sitting obediently for it, like an idiot.
He rubs his throat, tries not to think about how easily he let that happen, too. Even as he's accepting the flashlight, opening his mouth, tilting his head back.

The metal tangs against his tongue, harsher and rougher than any finger ever could be. The tip grips his tooth and Cade looks away, clenches his eyes shut. Dread pools in his stomach, grip so tight on the flashlight he can hear it creak.

And when Cade opens his eyes, pain free, and lips kissed warm he's blinking back tears.
They come out of nowhere, for no reason. Chest tight, he clenches his eyes shut again, breathing in small breaths he forcefully lengthens.

Neil makes every excuse in the book to explain away not doing the one thing that makes sense. It's fucked him once already. Logically, Cade knows he has experience doing this, that he isn't chickening out for his own benefit.
That thought makes it that much harder to clear the mist.

The guy held his hand, begged someone he hated for Cade. Now he does this and fuck if he knows how to feel about it all.

The smile's back, accompanied by the persistent taps of metal along Cade's jaw. It's a warning, maybe, but for once he can't find it in himself to shiver, to feel cowed at all. Sure, it makes the space in his pants tight, but for once he has bigger things to think about than his dick.
He nods, swallowing, "Yeah. Yeah, sure. It's a deal."

And then he's grabbing Neil again, but not with the confused, angry passion their clashes are known for. He goes slow, but not like a predator waiting to bite. He's never been the hunter in this relationship, but he feels like maybe he's caught more of MacDarragh than he ever thought was possible.
It's a stupid thought, one that keeps him company as he hesitantly finds Neil's lips again.
He does stink. His pride would take a hit being told that if MacDarragh didn't stink just as bad. As unpleasant as it might be, it's an 'imperfection' Rory hasn't been able to remove. That doesn't necessarily make dead fish worth worshipping, but the familiarity of something human on his tongue makes this softer, draws them closer.

"Thanks," he mutters in a break, small and too weak to put the right amount of emphasis in it. Finch would've pulled the tooth. Beyond a doubt, he would've. Maybe not with Damien, but Cade isn't Damien.
The thought makes him tremble against MacDarragh's solid frame and he hates himself that little bit more.
Damn, he's shaking from the adrenaline... Has to exhale over MacDarragh's shoulder and not directly into his face, the poor fucker.

He grabs a fistful of Neil's shirt and tries not to care about how little it takes, how much it all means to him.
He raises a hand to stroke over MacDarragh's neck and with those lips against his, he can almost forget the collar's there.
 
Much like the idea of getting his tooth brutally pulled out, Cade gives no opposition to the idea of having Rory turn off the tracker. Obediently, through tears welling up in his eyes for a reason Neil can't quite discern, he agrees to the hitman's terms.

It feels... good to come to an understanding like this.

And MacDarragh uses the word understanding because he is unsure if he can call it a submission, even with the threat of pliers he pointedly directs at the man. Not when, ignoring the admittedly weak intimidation play, the gangster reaches to pull him back down into yet another kiss. It's not rough, like Cade usually does things, all teeth and fervor. Instead, it's gentle, hesitant yet persistent. Kind of like the first time they were together, yet colored a shade Neil does not recognize.

He dives into it regardless, because he doesn't fear the unknown. He makes out with it, and the thrill that travels down the length of his limbs as he puts his arms around Cade and sits on his lap to be flush with the man is definitively not anxiety. Surely.

Maybe it's spikes of that deeply ingrained instinct he carries, rebelling against the fact that he's doing something stupid and reckless, so outside of who he is. Of who he has to be. MacDarragh has never had a partner, that's how he prefers to work. It actually used to be a slight issue when he got on the force. Well, he ended up leading a police precinct regardless, yet that is a wholly different position from working with another person so closely. Trusting them to have your back...

Relying on someone else is a weakness, that's an undeniable truth. Without Wolf, Finch wouldn't have found them. Without Wolf, Neil would have bled out on his apartment floor.

Shit. After a lifetime of dissecting other people and never himself, the hitman doesn't exactly have the tools to delve into what all of this is supposed to mean. He kind of doesn't want to, not with how much of a mess he and Cade currently find themselves in any way. A shared mess, because that's another thing partners do, isn't it? They withstand things together. It's a ridiculous thought, yet the collars softly whirring around their necks are a constant reminder of the validity of such a statement.

Neil wants to drown out that background hum, forget the echoes of the past and the calls of the future and just live in the moment like he always does.

In between soft kissing that still reeks of dead fish, the gangster thanks Neil and he has no idea what the fuck for. The hitman grins into it, and his husky voice sounds softer than he means to make it, "Thank me again after this."

Leaning into Cade rather than pushing, Neil leads them both down to lie in the hotel bed. Tangled up together like this, it appears that Wolf has forgotten any and all desires for a fight, for getting his head straight via some good old-fashioned violence... Well, they can let off steam some other way, find some other comfort. Is that what this man's presence is, a comfort?

Maybe MacDarragh is the dumbass in all of this.

The thought doesn't last long, disappearing as soon as it enters Neil's head. Yet, holding Cade and being held by him in a manner neither of them foresaw nor intended, the feeling persists long after.
 
---

She was six years old when she told her dad she didn't want to be alive anymore. He was under the kitchen sink, wrenching the the pipe open so he could drain the mold and half composted garbage from the last six weeks of dinner into a bucket. Saying something like that to a pair of legs seemed the best way to explore this feeling.
When he came up to put his arms around her, she thought it was a hug at first. She sunk into his body, etched the moment of life and existence into her brain. A profound feeling of comfort and sense of belonging poured into her blood. For a split moment, she was connected to the world in a way she never had been.
Or has been since.
He didn't let go. Not for a long time. With an animal panic she'd squirmed and writhed, flailing like only a helpless thing can. When the world was swirling and there were big spots of color and dark over her eyes, he let her go. The ragged breathes that tore her chest and ripped her throat were the best she had ever had.
With a soft, satisfied smile he showed the tiny red scratches marking up his arms and said, "Guess you don't really want to die. Don't ever say something stupid like that again, Delilah."

The hard drives on the computers (that's what Malcom's been calling them) rev up like a jet. They're hot to the touch while the machine wheezes. The upload is at %68 and when it turns %69 she holds out her fist for him to bump.
With a wry smile, he does and crescendos his fingers in a little exploding finesse.
Like a pack mule at the end of a very long road, she drops her weight into an office chair. With a wince, she rubs at the railroad nail jammed through the front of her head. Things are blurry, hard to see even with her contacts. Mal doesn't burn pity on her, but his eyes darken.
These things usually end with bullets, running to the nearest news castor to get breaking information out. Like Watergate, all a giant hubbub. Computers changed everything. Nothing's real anymore and you can get 'canceled' for it. They didn't even need to break in to some high security vault. This is just a library. A dusty old library.

Malcom sifts through the files Blumenthal's key gave them. The screen reads %73.

There's photos months before it came to a head. You can see the life gradually leave their eyes, as they trudge through their new lives as policemen and realize the world is five degrees colder on that side. But they still had each other. Sharing a laugh over coffee, sitting through steak-outs, even off duty visits to the movies. The smiles are frozen on their young, naïve faces, cataloging two men who are both dead now. But it's all here, evidence of the snake coiling up to strike. If they knew what was coming, it doesn't show in these images.
"Never would've thought he'd be Finch's type," Malcom mumbles, and then cringes. "Sorry."

Delilah shrugs, easing back into the chair. She rests her head back, staring at the water damage in the ceiling. "Me neither."

And that's the truth, isn't it?

She never knew him, and when she finally could it was too late. This is all she can give and its garbage. It's another butterfly knife instead of a puppy, a grueling obstacle course instead of a birthday party.

"You're sure this is how you wanna do it?" Malcom's voice isn't soft. There's no point in wasting softness on her. But it is insistent, honest. Like an A.I computer asking the captain if they really want to self destruct the ship.
"Blumenthal won't get justice, Kell won't, a thousand others. Maybe millions. And that's not even counting the people the High Rise will screw over in the future."

She slow blinks at the ceiling and air is heavy and painful in her chest, like thorns, like a rose garden is growing in her ribcage. Like she's been squeezed to death by her dad again. If she coughs, blood soaked petals will stick to her tongue.

%84.

I guess you don't really want to die.

%93.

"Kade is the one I owe," she rasps.

"Cade?"

Delilah rubs at the fracturing pieces of her skull. The ceiling blitzes. "Kaden. I mean Kaden."

%96.

%97.

...%98.

"What's your take on the afterlife, Mal? Angels and halos or just nothing?"

"Man, there's stuff happening here that I still haven't figured out. I dunno... You worried about eternal damnation, Dee?"

"If anyone deserved it..." When she exhales, no petals fly out. She's a barren wasteland on the inside. Nothing can grow there. "He'll make a boatload publishing a book about me when he realizes what a horrible person I am. Was."

He called her mom.

"But damn if I don't know what I could have done differently," she says to the ceiling, imploring the sky above it for answers. "If I'd raised him like Kenji raised his son, I'd have given him a death sentence."

"You made the best home you could for him with what you had. You made him tough as nails."

"I made him my fucking mascot and now...Well, the game's over now. Damien will leave him. Or he'll slip up and go to prison. Or get shot. Hell, maybe he'll get cancer." Her voice chokes on that last bit. Her vision blurs from saline this time, not the gradually disintegration of her brain. Maybe it would be better if people came into the world the same people left it; through the dirt. No parents, no children, no families. No opportunity to screw anyone up at their most vulnerable and no responsibility to anyone either. Every man for himself.

"He's all grown up now, Dee. He's gonna have to figure that stuff out for himself like we all had to. I..." The man trails off as doubt flickers into his voice. Delilah can see him stoop over the desk, over the pictures of the two boys who had their lives shattered fifteen years ago.
"I don't know if I agree with what you're doing, in fact I think its pretty much the worst thing I've ever done, but if my mom had done even half of this... Even with you gone it'll be like...like you're still there. Watching over him. Making sure he's okay."

And that's why she'll go to hell.

100%.

There's a soft ding, one that might as well be a bullet through her skull.
Delilah leans forward in her seat, standing up to pick up a red jug of gasoline.

"You ready?" He asks.

"Ha!" She pops, rubbing at her head. "No, but no one ever is."
 
---

The overwhelming stink of gas just reaches her nose when all hell breaks loose.

It was inevitable.

She couldn't keep ahead of Ortiz forever, but she didn't anticipate it being this soon.
Malcolm's springing to his feet, ten years younger than Delilah and showing it as he grabs for his rifle. The lighter he had is stuffed into a back pocket.

"No -" she hisses, grabbing the muzzle. He frowns at her, assuming a soldier's stance regardless.

"What're-"

His squawk is interrupt when she hooks him by the elbow, dragging him behind an aisle of books.
Somewhere down the hallway, the doors shatter. Footsteps trample inside, distant but growing like a rising roar.

"Raul's figured me out, but you still have a chance," she explains to his ever deepening frown.
He smiles at her, disbelieving. There's still a bit of cat hair on his vest.

"When I said yes to this, I said yes to the end, sir," he says, with a curt nod. He casts a look over his shoulder.

There's yelling now.
Men clearing each corner before following through. It wasn't so long ago that was her and Mal.
Now they're on this side of things.

She thins her lips, pulls him into a hug. Awkwardly he stands in her embrace, gun still held until finally he sinks into it.
And it's that momentary distraction she uses to disarm him. Trained, he turns into rock as he stiffens against her. Too late, she's shoving him back into a separate, slamming it shut.
There's an open window that way. He can get out.

When Ortiz walks in, flanked by men his eyes are red with tears.
He sees Delilah, hands up and shakes his head. Her skin prickles with the rage in his once soft brown eyes.
"I... I couldn't believe it was you. I thought I should see it for myself but now I must say I think I'd rather you have killed me in my sleep."

At the click of his tongue, goons split from their cell to crowd into Sheppard's space. They pat her down, none too gently.
"How'd you figure it out so quick?"

Ortiz is by the computers, scowling at the finished loading bar.
He picks up a picture of Kell. In his mitt, he crushes it into a ball. Drops of gas sprinkle the countertop.
But there's no breaking news, no fallout of the High Rise empire. He mumbles in Spanish before blurting, "What is this? What did she do?"
His voice wavers.

A man steps forward, pulls his mask down. Like at the raid, they're posing as policemen. It's depressing, but at least MacDarragh isn't here but supposedly he's under a building.
Instead Clive steps in beside Ortiz. There isn't a smile on his face, not a shred of guilt there either. That explains the abrupt interruption before this evidence could be eviscerated then.
With a few taps he informs, "There's a tracker that doubles as a dead man's trigger at the base of the Butcher's skull. I knew about it, but she never told us what she planned until tonight, sir."

As far as betrayals go, it's about as nonchalant as they come.
Fucking bastard, she wants to say, but that would be petty.

After all, she's won.

"Kaden dies, the world knows every thing the High Rise has ever done," Delilah spits as Ortiz grinds away at his jaw.
"Same thing happens if it's tampered with," she adds with a final twist to the knife. There's nothing they can do about it. Any tampering, physically or digitally will fuck the High Rise up the arse.

Ortiz steps up to her in a fury, the men previously crowding her shying away like jumpy dogs. Clive's the only one who stays.
Ortiz a foot away from her. Silently, he back hands her.
Copper bursts into her mouth and the headache she didn't think could get any worse turns her head into a cement mixing pot.
She lets out a sigh, like this is just the first word in a repeat of an argument they've hashed time and time again.

"Do you remember how we met?" Ortiz asks, and the chilling anger makes his accent that much thicker. It's almost sexy. He's cute when he's mad.

"Yeah," she mumbles, rubbing at the cracked landmass of her temple.
Raul waits for more, but she doesn't offer it. Maybe she's being petty or maybe she doesn't remember, it's all in his face.

"You were meeting with some dealer. He insisted on buying you dinner, drinks. You liked the attention so you let him. It was going well until he said, and I quote, 'You're smart. For a girl.' In your forties and he can't even say woman," he says in an exasperated huff.

If she was a fifth of tequila deep into a bender, she'd admit she liked that about him, too.
That self-righteous rage. Not for women or black people or any kind of discriminatory suffering, but for blatant and stupid disrespect, regardless of status. Ignorant unfairness, that's what peeved him.
Everything's always been black and white to him.

"I was at the bar, in the middle of an eye roll when you paid for dinner and left the table. He called you a stuck up bitch and when he grabbed you, you let him have it."
A smile half fond and half something else softens the glacier expression on his face.
"It wasn't the violence of it, although that was definitely a part of it. You've always known what you wanted and what you deserve and you've walked that line like an acrobat. I knew then I wanted you to have me."

He was exactly what she wanted, and what she deserved.
She's claimed him over and over again, but he's never been hers. His warm eyes cloud over with tears and she refuses to feel guilty.
Ortiz scowls. "But back to my point. Smart for a girl. I thought he was an ass for saying that, but maybe he had a point. You've been stupid, love. So, so stupid."
He's never talked like that to her. Looked like that at her. But then again, she's never taken a backstab this far or this deep before.
"Do whatever you need to," she says, ready for retirement, "It's fair play, but I have an expiration date. No matter what you've got planned, I'm not going to be here forever."

Delilah stands rim rod like a statue when he reaches out to hold the burning side of her face. "I was going to heal you. For once in your damn life, you were going to be saved and it was going to be by me."

The desperation in his voice stings and some stupid part of her wants to believe she's turned her back on something good. She thinks of poor Mal, stuck behind a door with no choice but to leave her here to die while he crawls through a window half his size.
It's what she did to Kaden, too.
His thumb grazes over stinging flesh and even with the coup out in the open, she still has to put up with his heavy touches.

"You're not very smart. Especially for a crime lord," he says, grumbling like thunder. He doesn't smile, but something heavy and dark clouds the warmth of his eyes.

She sees it now.

It turns her blood to ice.

The most obvious caviet to this plan she'd been blind to all this time.
Without another word spoken, Raul nods his head, grim.

"The Butcher isn't known for getting himself into trouble, save for that bit of trouble that gave him his name." His eyes darken again and suddenly she doesn't recognize his face.
"But statistically he can't dodge bullets forever. I know you did this because you thought we'd go after him once we were scattered to be petty. Kick him out of the Mafia game, make sure he stays out and have us look out for him. But no. Now we have no choice. With the situation as it is, I think it only makes sense we provide a safe, happy box for Finch to live the rest of his life in."

In a ice fury, she elbows Clive in the face. Cartilage snaps.
She grabs his gun, plants several red circles into his chest. The recoil howls up her arms.
His body falls in a heavy slap to the gasoline soaked floor.

The platoon of men aim their rifles and she has one last moment before she's riddled with bullets.

Something big hits her like a hammer.

Slamming into the floor, she gasps for breath, Ortiz on top of her. He hisses at the graze in his arm, drooling red, glaring at his men.
"Don't fucking shoot until I tell you to!" He snaps.

Clive's body twitches, gurgling and kicking a foot.

Headache be damned, she slams her forehead into Raul's until that's not available to her. The heaviness in her chest surges and she screams it out, flashing teeth at Ortiz. He draws the blood dripping from his nose to his mouth, spits it across her grimacing face.
Tears are pooling in her eyes when she cranes her neck to grab a mouthful of his wrist. He drags their hands away, burning the back of her hand with the friction. She jabs her knee between his legs and with a guttural groan, his grip loosens enough for her to buck him off and scramble free.
Scurrying to her feet, to the back exit, one's pulled out from under and she's slamming back into the ground, hitting her chin in the process.
Raul is dragging her back by the ankle, and she grabs at Clive's dropped gun. It spins when she scratches at the handle, out of reach.
He pins her head to the floor, reigniting the scorched skin in her cheek. The exit's a hop, skip and a flutter away.
She chokes on another scream, one that turns into an infuriated sob.
"Please! I needed to do this one thing for him- just one thing right!"

She doesn't know what she's saying, she can't breathe.

Raul doesn't settle on top of her. He's a tense, slab of meat using every ounce of muscle to keep them both pressed as close to the floor as possible. He sniffles, either blood or snot.
"The way you cry about him sometimes, I could almost believe he was actually yours."
 
---

His eyes blink rapidly, harsh lights passing overhead making them water. There's a sensation of movement, making him feel as though he's floating. Blurred figures loom over him, adding to the vertigo, the separation between him and his body.
All at once there's too much to focus on; shuffling feet, garbled words and his own pain relentless pain screaming from every joint but from far, far away. It's as if he can sense the pain, but isn't quite experiencing it.

It's all too much too soon and Kaden finds himself slipping back into the peace and quiet of his subconscious.

There are times he's sure he wakes up, not only into a lucid dream but into the true world but he's so drugged up he can barely distinguish the beep of the monitor over the hazy shadow of the nurse. Overwhelmed, sleep hooks it's warm hands over his battered body and drags his eyelids down where he can finally sleep for years.

The last time he was this mortally damaged, he had been tortured and beat by men he knew.
There was very little to remember, besides how painful it was to wake up. He expects to wake up again soon, either in the tower or perhaps in Wight's mansion. Maybe next to his mother.

Or on the third floor of Damien's townhome.

Like an eel, MacDarragh presses and wiggles in his grip.
Cade glares at him with eyes made of ice. He hated the tower, hated his life. Hated Finch.
The one friend he thought he had was never his. And why should he have been?

"You torture a man for two years and call that a relationship?"

The chuckles radiate through Kaden's grip, mean and poisonous, made more to barb him than out of actual amusement.

"You're truly pathetic aren't you?"

For a second time, MacDarragh is killed. He lands at Finch's feet, bleeding. Cade's eyes are wide open with horror, so much like a person half his age.
There's arms that loop behind his neck, MacDarragh breathing down his neck. This time when someone's shot, it's Kaden and Cade begs MacDarragh not to do it.

Blearily, he opens his eyes to the hospital room.
He aches with all his heart to see Damien and when he is there, somehow, another tear builds to blur the details of his face. A deep fear this is all just another dream has him opening the frozen, stone like limb of his hand.

"Dame..." He croaks, swallowing gravel in his dry throat.

If they can touch he'll know he's real.
 
---

Cade was working with MacDarragh.

He shot Kaden. Damien can't be certain of the validity of that statement, yet the trajectory the bullet took sparks a memory and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Finch's second-in-command - his friend - nearly killed him.

At MacDarragh's apartment of all places... Damien recognized the location the instant Natalia came through with the address. The ex-convict has been relocated 5 times over the last 15 years, none of them to a place he can call home, all the while MacDarragh never moved a muscle. There's something especially upsetting about the fact - that someone who does the shit Neil does can feel secure enough in a place that they remain there unbothered, unafraid that anyone could come seeking revenge because they're either dead or too scared to even begin to entertain the idea.

The acidic taste of bile begins to rise up in Damien's throat and he has to swallow it down, pressing with the hand covering his eyes to see colors in the darkness. Maybe it was the sight of the building. Maybe it was the sight of the capo being wheeled out on a stretcher covered in his own blood. Most likely, it was a combination of the two that had Damien hacking up the contents of his stomach as soon as he got on the scene.

How pathetic... The only positive was that it was so pathetic that the paramedics allowed him to ride in the back of the ambulance, not that he was of much help. Some stupid part of his brain remarks that it's good Kaden was unconscious for such a pitiful display, and Damien is so fucking tired of being stuck with his own thoughts.

A voice breaks through - strained and rasping, but mercifully there. Inhaling sharply, Damien lifts off the curtain of his hand to stare out into the small hospital room.

"Hey," the word is an exhale more than anything else, tinged with hope as he scooches forward on the seat next to the cot to get a better view, to make sure that wasn't just in his head like the previous instances over the last hours he believed Kaden was waking up.

Unlike then, the man's dark eyes are open - not only open, but actually taking in his surroundings, the hand at his side unfurling with a weakened will that is a will nevertheless. Eyebrows pinching together for several quiet moments, at last Damien reaches out to lays his fingers on top of Kaden's, "I'm here."

He nearly wasn't.

It feels like Deja Vu - twice within the span of two days he has witnessed the capo almost dying, but the second time around... Without that phone call, he never would have suspected anything had gone wrong. The thought makes him nauseous all over again. And then even after being alerted, the ex-cop still wouldn't have made it in time. If someone hadn't found Kaden, if they hadn't called for help-

A sniffle resounds from Damien, and he struggles to hold his breath to try and stave off the moisture building in his eyes. He's being pathetic again - he isn't the one that barely made it, yet the tears threaten to spill over regardless. If he could he would wipe them away, but one of his hands is still in a cast and the other one is holding Kaden's, and so, like the most self-pitying creature in existence, with one more blink Damien gives up and lets them roll down his face, "I'm so happy you're alive."
 
He shouldn't have left. He wants to tell Damien as much, let him know it all should have gone differently.
What a rabbit hole that would be if he could wish whatever he wanted...

Damien's hand is rough and warm in his and he hopes he doesn't mind the cold sweat. Such details can only confirm this is real. The betrayal, the near death, but Damien as well. Standing here, tears making his skin glisten like porcelain.
Kaden can only imagine how rough and disheveled he looks.
Even Blumenthal looks like he's had much better days and for a moment, Finch sees the boy that struggled morally to have him arrested.

What a different kind of life they would have lead had they been friends so much earlier.
There's so much to talk about, so much still between them...
The state of the High Rise, Delilah, a possible attack on Natalie's family... Have the Blumenthal's evacuated?

Is Damien still mad at him? Still hurt by him?

He remembers it all cruelly and suddenly, enough that the dull rush of adrenaline dripping beneath a concoction of drugs has him fighting to sit up.
It is by far the most pathetic display, not helped by Damien's enormously gentle insistence he lie back.

"Stay," he rasps, exhausted, when he means go. His fingers tighten what little they can.
Damien isn't safe, and they become a much more tantalizing target once they're together.
But everyone's left him. As long as he can remember, he's been fighting to keep the people he needs in his life.
He knows he's selfish, and now he knows how difficult it is to not be.

"A...little while."
 
In the middle of another pitiful sniffle, Kaden attempts to surge up and Damien fights to steady his voice to try and convince the man to lie back down, "Don't move, please."

He's only going to hurt himself more.

Fortunately (what a terrible thing to call fortunate), Kaden is too weak to follow through on the movement. Even if he could sit up- stand up to leave this place that it's only a matter of time before it becomes unsafe, Damien has no idea where they could go - the tower is gone, the Black Dogs scattered; the ex-convict's miserable old apartment is a risk. And Eleonora's home - this nook in space and time the siblings both hated so much growing up, which his little sister managed to reclaim for herself - lies empty.

Eli is gone. She is with the Montesanos, and they are gone as well. Natalia did one last favor for her friend (her troublesome nearly 40-year-old child), and he repaid that by telling her they won't hear from each other until this blows over. If it ever blows over. Damien has no clue where Nat and Kim are headed, and it's better this way - get them off the playing field so that they can't be harmed by associating with him. It's painful nevertheless to lose the one support system he's only recently even realized he had. What an unappreciative little brat he's been, all the times he's turned down Nat's gracious if undeserved invitations.

Damien could have spent his time with the Montesanos, having dinner, celebrating holidays together. He could have put in the effort to reconnect with Eli, to actually be a good brother for once in his life.

Does Delilah regret not being next to Kaden when she could? In the middle of everything suddenly coming to a head, the woman's fate hangs unanswered. What befell her? Could it have been prevented? Could all of this have been prevented? Finch claimed he wasn't angry with the ex-cop, yet...

Damien feels cold fingers tighten barely perceptively around his, and it makes his chest tighten even further. Returning the gesture, he answers back in a murmur, "Of course I'll stay."

He doesn't have anywhere left to go. But even if he did, he would still stay.
 
***

Every muscle is lax, like he's been through hours of a massage and not just a hot shower and pizza. They're still not tired and maybe if Cade was alone, that would worry him but he isn't.
He hooks one of Neil's thighs, silently bemoaning the pretty view of his Barbie legs now covered up again. MacDarragh answered the door, half naked and covered in hickies like it was no deal.

He drags the hitman forward, sliding easy across the duvet so he can scoop him into his lap. It's a domineering gesture, one he expects to be returned in a jeer or a bite, but fuck him. One of them can carry the other without breaking a sweat and it sure as shit isn't Neil.
The marks on his hips are already fading, but Cade can still find where his fingers go. He follows the gentle slopes and planes up Neil's back, holds him.
He's beautiful. For a dude, he really is.
They're chest to chest. And instead of death, he smells like pizza. The perfect man.

"My brother's name was Oliver," he says, fallen into that fuck awful phenomenon where you dump things the other person didn't sign up for if they decided to stay around for five seconds.
MacDarragh's stayed for a long fucking time. He rented this room waiting for him to come back. The thought Cade could've missed out on all of this if Oliver hadn't played wingman...Damn.

"The dead one, I mean."

And there's truly no coming back after that.
He traces the not-there scars of the bullets that should've killed Neil. There's impressions of Cade's teeth more prominent on the canvas of skin he painted with his tongue.
Under his palm, Neil's heart thuds away, a living fuck-you in the face of death, physics and the human condition. Of course if anyone said no to Finch and won, it was going to be MacDarragh.

"My mom finally had the money to do 'everything right this time'. She was so fucking excited. He'd be seventeen now."
With a thumb he presses into a freckle along the pretty arch of Neil's collarbone. The skin bleaches white before bouncing back reddish when he lets go.

"I've been hung up on that for years," he murmurs, following the swan neck up. It's collar-free for the time being. What a adrenaline rush taking it off for a shower had been, one after the other, waiting for one to drop so the other could collar them up again. Yeah, it put a dampener on things before it all heated up again under the shower head. He's wanted a few this bad before, but he's never been wanted back with the same intensity. Frankly, it's a bit mind blowing and probably not healthy.
Damn, if he wants it to last though, whatever the hell it is. Please, fucking last...

"I guess I felt I was honoring the one that never got to be by ignoring the one that was, sorta. When it was my dad who was the jerk."
Neil's hair is straight and dark when it's damp before it dries wavy. He grabs a cooling handful, gentle this time, lets it tickle his fingers. A drop gathers at the tip of a lock of hair, submitting to gravity and finding a safe place to land on the back of Cade's hand.

He searches vibrant green eyes, letting them flick and watch in favor of Neil's lips. The slight quirk of a lip, the reveal of a pointed fang.

Why do you hate your sibling?

It's on the tip of his tongue, then on his own lips. Forming the shape, even when he knows if Neil does answer it'll just be a lie. Or another tease.
Or worse, a truth Cade doesn't want that he'll spend hours convincing himself it's just another lie.

"What happened between you and your sibling? They too charming and you couldn't handle the competition?" He asks, hiding his vulnerability by nipping at Neil's clavicle. It's the slope of his shoulder where he goes from questionably feminine (if you squint) to undoubtedly masculine.

"C'mon, trauma dump a little, it's our thing. Make me feel less weird about baring my soul to a fucking weirdo who rolls his pizza like a taco."
 
Normally, Neil would bite back more at any attempts to manhandle him, yet he lets it slide this time, instead preening under the continued worship Wolf pays him, grinning at the reverent touch. He feels good - the same goes for his companion, based on his behavior - and it probably has to do with the bioelectronics they are both imbibed with, yet it also has to do with the afterglow of being together like this. Neil basks in it, as does Cade. So much so that he opens up for the second time since they've known each other.

Funny. Sex hasn't gotten him to talk before, so maybe food is the trick with Cade. Corner of his lips twitching up at the thought, Neil files that fact away for later and simply listens, hands brushing over the bristles of Wolf's buzzcut as he feels more than hears the grumble of his voice, humming along every now and again to signal that he is following.

Cade talks about his dead sibling. Whose fucking idea was it to name his half-brother Oliver as well?

In so few sentences, one undeniable truth becomes obvious to MacDarragh - the gangster's issues with self-worth started at the earliest possible time, right back with his parents. Shit, that's the most difficult thing to fix, isn't it?

"Jerk father, huh..." Neil mumbles in thought.

There's more to ask here. Like what exactly said jerk father is like? Or what happened to Cade's biological mother? Or how Oliver (not the cute kid eager to know everything about being a police officer, but the... "first" one) died? But then Cade asks a question of his own and MacDarragh can't help quirking an amused brow.

"Trauma dump?" a chuckle leaves his lips when his companion calls it their thing. Is that what Cade thinks Neil has done? Shared his "trauma"? And now he asks for more supposed trauma in return for his own he just shared. Equivalent exchange.

Shaking his head with another laugh, MacDarragh directs the gangster's hands down to his waist, where they held him for quite some time since the two got to the hotel. Using Cade like that for support, Neil leans back, half-turning as he extends his arm. He almost reaches for one of the few slices of pizza left - the ones the other man seems to be so weirded out by him rolling up - before his attention redirects to the duffel bag. In a failsafe one doesn't keep only weapons and medical supplies, but other bare essentials as well, just in case. Like condoms. Or a lighter and a half-full carton of cigarettes, in the hitman's case. It's good he didn't smoke the whole thing their first night sleeping here.

Straightening out to be pressed chest to chest once more, Neil pulls out one of the sticks with his teeth, his casual voice tinged with the barest traces of venom as he speaks, "It's she who couldn't handle the competition."

The flame comes to life with a flick of his thumb and a moment later the cigarette is smoldering. That pleasant familiar sensation spreads throughout Neil's body as he inhales the toxins greedily. This really is the best feeling, whether it be after a good fight or a good fuck.

The hitman's free hand moves to the gangster's shoulder, kneading the firm muscles underneath it as he exhales a puff of smoke off to the side. Pausing, Neil considering not saying anything further, before continuing with a low hum, "I was adopted after her, she felt threatened by my presence. You could say we... clashed often. Still do."

"Part of the reason why our guardian chose to have me do police work was likely so that she and I would be further apart, not get in each other's way as much," aside from having a reliable insider on the force, of course, because the loyalty of men like Moore or other bought-out cops can only go so far. You should never trust people that are corrupt, that bend over at the promise of money and status. Especially if they were originally corrupted by your money and status.

On the other hand, someone like Neil would not turn on the High-Rise, even if something more lucrative turned up. Not back in the day, anyway. Now, however... Neil snickers around another drag of the cigarette, talking to himself rather than to Cade, "Another thing he didn't predict."

Like not predicting Blumenthal becoming such a pest. Or, shit, maybe their guardian did predict everything, including the way Neil and Vivien's already shaky relationship would further deteriorate as she treated him more like a dog than an asset. Maybe their guardian thought seeing something like that play out would be... entertaining. Regardless, MacDarragh can't be sure what the old man's thoughts are, barred as he is from seeing him most of the time.

"What do you make of Vivien, Cade?" the hitman asks suddenly, zeroing in on blue eyes in the same breath as his own eyes narrow, half-grin settling on his face in expectation of an answer. Some ash lands on Cade's chest, and when Neil goes to wipe it away he smears it into the man's clean skin more than anything, "You find her "too charming", more so than me?"
 
"Mhm."
Neil doesn't waste time coddling him, just listens and that's all he needs. All he wants. Someone else can know and they don't think he's crazy for getting bent out of shape over it. MacDarragh doesn't puke into his face that they tried their best, or that times were different, or any other fucking garbage.
If he died, would the next kid have been Cadence too?

He scoffs to himself, grip riding up MacDarragh's ribcage to keep him from faceplanting into the bed.
Who's he kidding? The next one was always going to be Oliver.

He's got no rope or tazer, no game to barter with so its almost a surprise when MacDarragh sucks up a chestful of smoke and lets out what Cade was asking for.
How many other people get to hear this? Or is it just Cade?
He pinches gently at MacDarragh's hip, in utter disbelief how different their beginnings are. They both have shitty dads, a 'guardian' in MacDarragh's case, made to compete and feel threatened by one another because they weren't meant to be children.

His grip tightens and he has to remind himself to let go. It tightens all the same when Neil brings up Vivien.
Yeah, he wasn't that shitty a detective in a past life, but he didn't detect shit on this front. While Neil paints his chest with ash, Cade slots all the pieces together while trying to keep his mouth closed.

"Oh shit," he says, trying to picture the cold faced, empty eyed bitch as Neil's sister. Fuck, it somehow makes perfect sense. How was that staring him in the face the entire time? The bickering between them, Vivien's outmaneuver to keep Neil employed, the laughing fit Neil treated Cade to in the elevator...

"Oh fuck," he exclaims, louder than necessary but this deserves it, "you're the son to the founder of TreaTech industries?"

Does every evil sonuvabitch have family in crime except for him?

"Damn, why didn't I hold you for ransom? I coulda gotten generational wealth with your ass."

And the High-Rise to hunt him down for the rest of his miserable life.
Cade smiles.
The evil miscreant in his lap is somehow one of the most powerful men in NY, and he deals with little shits like Damien? That can't track, unless MacDarragh likes the work that much.
Or he really is a tool, set up to inherit nothing with Vivien around. Damn, he can related to that bullshit.

"I dunno," he says with a smile that can't be anything but sleazy, "she does this thing with her eyes like she's undressing you but taking a layer of skin off too. She's probably got a whole line up of guys at her door."

With a wink he adds, "So far, I'm the only one I've seen at yours."
 
Neil listens with some satisfaction as the puzzle pieces finally fall into place in Cade's head, the strong grip of broad hands at his hips signifying the gangster's surprise at the revelation.

He truly suspected nothing, huh? Not that the hitman can judge him too heavily for the oversight - Viv and him hardly act like or even view each other as siblings. Merely referring to her as "sibling" feels wrong, just like calling MacDarragh his guardian's "son". Because he's not his son, it's not the right word. This isn't the standard family structure like what Cade may or may not be imagining, atop other things that seem to be filling the man's head.

The idea of holding him for ransom makes Neil half-huff, half-laugh around a lazy smile, "What, would you have washed my hair again?"

Oh, the horror. Did feel nice the first time, though.

It takes Cade one more instance of opening his mouth to get MacDarragh's grin to morph into a pout, as the gangster gives a rather displeasing answer in assessment of Vivien. The hitman scoffs, "Never seen any kind of line up at her door, whether it be guys or otherwise. The bitch only cares for her dogs."

As far as he knows anyway - it's not like he really cares to find out.

But, undressing with her eyes? Is this guy for real? Cade truly has a "magnetic personality", and MacDarragh can see how it would get him in trouble - even with a cigarette still lit in the hand of the man he has in his lap (the man that could burn him, skin him whether with sight or not), Cade goes in for a nagging flirt. His stupid and adorable wink almost makes up for it.

"So far," Neil shrugs, this time purposefully tapping the cigarette against his fingers to watch the ash fall down on Cade's chest in fragile, cylindrical clumps that are a vague remembrance of the stick's original shape. Through circumstances, it is true that no one besides Cade has been at Neil's door as of recently, and the same stands for the reverse, "I'm the only one I've seen at yours as well."

Neil's usual smile returns to his features.

A phone rings. Not a mobile one, including Neil's work-work phone he had the sound turned off on to avoid any unwanted distractions, chief among which any calls from his "boss". No, instead the landline (because hotels still have those fucking things) Cade and he ordered pizza via sounds off. Throwing Wolf one last glance, MacDarragh gets up out of his seat to pick up the handset of the archaic device, "Yes?"

"MacDarragh," speak of the devil - a severe and all-too-familiar tone that doesn't need to raise itself to sound commanding retorts, "Come back to headquarters, and bring Wilson with you."

MacDarragh rolls his eyes at the delivered command, "It's the middle of the night. I'll have you know you woke me up."

It's a lie he says to be difficult, of course. Plus, between several rounds, pizza, and pillow talk, early morning is already fast approaching. They haven't slept, and, honestly, that's the tiniest of consolations MacDarragh can get right now. Another consolation is that it seems like Viv hasn't gotten much sleep either, based on the subtle nuances in the way she talks. Something's got her panties in a bunch, and ain't that hilarious.

"Now," the woman reasserts her command that the two men pay her a visit right this instant, brokering no argument, though Neil has an argument prepared, before Vivien cuts him off, "You need to see Rory anyway."

The line goes dead after that - having said her peace as efficiently as usual, the CEO disconnects and all MacDarragh is left with is a cold feeling of anger.

Clicking his tongue, he looks back at his partner. Shit... Suppose they are going back to TreaTech, then.
 
"Shut up about that already," Cade sighs, hiding red cheeks by pressing his face under Neil's chin. He still vividly remembers the feeling of the hitman's hair in his hands, repeated the experience only recently in the shower. Not to the same extent obviously, but they were both thinking it.

The ice queen has never had any suitors. That checks out. She's probably only ever wanted daddy's attention.

So far.

A funny sappy feeling opens up his chest at that, one that heats up with the careless dumping of more warm ash to his skin. It muddies his chest, marks him in this guy's smell.
Neil hasn't been seeing anyone since they met, his brain supplies like a giddy schoolgirl and he wraps his arms further around the guy.
"Yeah, you're all I got too," he confirms, smiling like an idiot.

The phone interrupts them and Cade has to let Neil go. His lap's cold, and his body feels oddly light without MacDarragh weighing him down. He takes another slice, sinking into the pleasures of melted cheese and well cooked, greasy as hell peperoni.
He can tell from Neil's face its Taylor on the phone. His sister.
That's still such a mindfuck.
Rather than sit there like a weirdo, he pulls out his phone to surf. His world's been taking swirls and dips over the past few days its almost surreal to remember no one else cares; everyone else has just been working and going to school as usual, waiting on Christmas break.
An edit people make to show how great their relationship is while simultaneously making single people feel like shit pops onto his feed. It's embarrassing how stupid it is; a couple holding hands tree shopping. Feeding one another orange slices, laughs drowned out by the cringy as fuck Christmas music they've chosen.

I just want you for my own

More than you could ever know

He holds her face to lay a gentle kiss over her lips. Hazy, slow falling snow falls around them. They're both done up in Santa hats. It's not the stuff he usually gets on his feed, and if Neil were looking he'd tell him that. It's all workout tips and dude shit. Not this suicide-inducing crap.
But Neil isn't looking, and it's quiet enough for him not to hear Mariah Carey belting her soul out.

Make my wish come true

MacDarragh does that cute as shit roll of his eyes, giving Taylor a lie she'll see straight through just to get under her skin. Cade's eyes drop down the curve of his spine to his ass again...

He had that. And he's the only one who's been having it since they started. They. They're a them, already.

All I want for Christmas is you

With a click, one from the phone and one from Neil's tongue, they're alone together again. MacDarragh doesn't have to say a word. They're going to TreaTech again. Try as he might, he can't force himself to feel shitty about it. They've had their cake and ate it too (a lot of it btw), and he trusts Taylor will save most of her scorn for someone else. After all, Damien's the one with all the dirt they need, poor bastard. For the first time in a long ass time, Cade's worth something to someone. Someone powerful and strong.

"Ya'know, I think she does like me." He grabs Neil's shirt that was thrown haphazardly in their teenage frenzy, tossing it back into the hitman's chest. "I'm the first, but I'll also be the last. What's the best way to let your sister down gently? Let her know I'm already taken, huh?"

He grabs for Neil's hips again, pushes them flush together again.
"Maybe if you freshen up the love bites on my neck before we leave it'll be obvious."
 
---

Hitting the door busts it off its hinges, slams it into the cracked cinderblocks behind it. The snap of breaking steel is obliterated by the familiar earth shattering storm of bullets.
"Not the head! Don't damage his brain!" echoes behind him, burns him. He stumbles, rolling down harsh cement steps in his flurry before finding his feet again.

The flights of stairs smear past him, a hidden purgatory built into this hellhole. He only knows this is real, that he's here and that he's him when a door slams open in front of him. More men, more meat push into the staircase. They crowd, black suits bathed red in warning lights.
The fire in his limbs lets him batter, bash, break.
Crack of bone. Rendering of flesh. Splatter of blood. The air is thick with it, writhing bodies beneath him.
A body is thrown, still wiggling as it falls down the endless hole of the staircase. The screaming only stops when the head hits the railing, snapping the twirling trajectory of the body.
Hands miss the contact of firm wet flesh when the impersonal cold shape of a gun fits into them instead. Every bullet hits between the eyes. Trapped on the stairs, three bodies line up perfectly. One ball of lead pushes through each body.

"I love you," Oliver's squeaky voice and red face, "I don't care who you or what you've done. I love you."

Several floors below, reinforcements pour into the staircase like blood into a recently opened wound. They flood, shoot.

Cade busts through a door, into the shattered calm of an office floor. It's all open concept, every wall facing out a window to look at the charming view of the twin skyscraper squat right next to this one.
It's morning time, the sun should be rising, but he can't see it. No light reaches this level.

"I made you the perfect version of yourself," Rory's voice slimes over his ears. "You're badass."

He skips away, ragged and alive. He nearly trips on a loose shoelace.

The desk workers scramble like cockroaches, rushing away from Cade with squeals of terror. If he had the time for it, he'd revel in it. Fact is, his position isn't much better. He's one of Rory's rat, rubbing his flank into another stubborn wall.

"Obviously, he won't survive the extraction but if it's really what you think is best..." Rory had said, not fifteen minutes ago. To his credit, he actually sounded sad. Not conflicted, but disappointed.

A man about his age is huddled under his desk, his suit wrinkled as he curls into as small a space as he possibly can. The computer above him shows an Excel spreadsheet, the profits and losses of a marketing strategy.
The monitor next to it show concept designs for a logo. The desk is covered in plastic houseplants, pink stuffed animals.

With a heaving breath Cade raises his gun, fires precious ammo into the ceiling. Pieces fall apart around him, raining the perfect dark beige carpet in plaster.
In a throng of screaming and rushing bodies, the miserable rats flee. They all crowd the stairs, pushing into the approaching security like a herd of wild animals.
They can't get through. For now.

Rushing to the elevator, his heart does a summersault when the doors slide open.

It's Neil.

The man who brought him here, after a night of romantic fucking. How long had he known?
MacDarragh is armed. A gun is somehow the second thing Cade's brain decides to take note of, the first being those twin pools of green piss Neil has for eyes. For a very real moment, Cade is waiting and expecting a bullet through his chest.
The fucker doesn't need his heart.

It doesn't happen.

But that doesn't mean it won't. Cade crushes the trigger of his own gun down, and it clicks.

You're just as weak as I am, he burns to say, if only he had the oxygen to spare.
Obedient fucking bitch.

"Stop!" Armed security roar, pushing through civilians and the deja Vu of it all hurts. MacDarragh's in the right again, he's the one protected again. Cade's the psycho.
"Drop the gun, hands on your head!"

Twisting away, he runs. Lungs burning, legs aching.
There's no sunlight as he runs towards the windows. All he sees is his own sweaty, bloody reflection barreling forward.

Bullets whiz by, shattering the glass before he even reaches it.

Yeah, it's childish as hell, but he'd rather die here as a fuck-you than cut open on an operating table for someone else.
It's always someone else.
Someone always fucking matters more than he ever will.

He leaps off the edge, into nothing.

And then he's sailing through air. There's no ground beneath his feet, just cold bitter air against his skin.
It lasts so much longer than he expects it to, free flying.

Flying, flying.

Falling.

Crashing.

The glass shatters like claws across his flesh. His shoulder hits the floor first, the rest of his body rolls into the impact.
He doesn't stop rolling until he hits another desk. Gurgling through blood and air his lungs struggle to pull in, he scrambles to his feet.

The people inside, twins to TreaTech's hive in everyway eye him, scooted to the furthest corners of the level.
But this isn't TreaTech. It's the building next door.
Cade sends one final sneer to the security looking dumbfounded by the ledge, trying to gage the jump in their heads versus how much they're getting paid for all this bullshit.

It must not be enough.

When Cade limps to yet another staircase, this one empty. No one comes to follow him, for the moment.
 
---

Behind the closed doors of the empty office, Neil's voice resounds with a snarl he's not trying to mask, no matter how much the oversized mongrels at the CEO's sides growl at him in warning, "What the fuck do you think you're doing, Vivien?"

"Cleaning up the mess you and Wilson made."

The hitman's fist clenches at his side, lips twisting into a grimace. Calling it a "mess" feels like an understatement. If everything Vivien has relayed to him is true, then... this is a shitshow of epic proportions for the High-Rise, and the hitman would be giddy at the fact if only they weren't trying to cut some of their losses through Wolf.

"You can't do this. It's too big of a decision to make on your own, what about the rest of the board?"

"Trivial matters such as Wilson's fate are hardly of any concern to the others," the woman's voice remains annoyingly impassive as always, her gaze relaying all of the sharpness missing from her intonation, "And it certainly isn't your concern. I don't remember questioning me being in your job description."

This fucking bitch, "Well maybe you should go over our "terms" again. You can't do this, he's my mentee. And I'm vouching for him."

"You vouched for him once already," And looks where that's landed us.

Vivien doesn't need to finish the sentence for Neil to infer what she means to say. The subtleties of a cold stare are enough communication between the two because he knows this woman, even if everything he's learned about his "sister" he's learned against his will, by virtue of growing up together. The same goes for the reverse, which is how Vivien is very well aware that MacDarragh is not acting like himself. It pisses the hitman off that he agrees with the judgemental look in her dark eyes.

Well, maybe he's not acting like himself because he isn't his fucking self anymore, not fully, and the collar around his neck is a constant reminder.

Things were different yesterday morning when Cade and he arrived at TreaTech, when Neil was more than willing and ready to sever his ties with the man if it meant he could sever his ties with the High-Rise as well - hand over Wolf with zero regard for his future well-being (he warned the guy, that was plenty courtesy). Now Vivien actually asks for Cade to be relinquished, and Neil says no.

Jебати.

How did things end up this way? Fate - that insatiable cosmic meddler that seems to keep fucking around in Neil's affairs - has not only forced the two to cross paths under increasingly absurd circumstances, but now she's attached them at the hip. Of course, part of it is the fact that the hitman doesn't like others playing with his food. If Cade is to die, he'll die by his hand, whenever he chooses and however he chooses. Part of it, however... is the fact that there is no one else that has gone through what they did together.

"You're being overeager, Viv," forcing his mouth into a smile as he wills his shaking fists to ease up on the rage, Neil speaks again, as if he and the CEO weren't just arguing seconds ago. His voice is light, reasonable. It has to be if he has any hope of buying the gangster time to live until he can figure out a more permanent solution, "Have Rory run tests on Cade and monitor him, but don't do an extraction before we've even figured out what exactly is going on. Rush this and we won't be able to help dad."

Because that's what all of this is about at the end of the day, isn't it? Keeping that man breathing for longer. A week. A month. A year. This, though? This could keep him breathing for another lifetime, potentially, whether he wants it or not. That irrational desire is the woman's weak spot.

MacDarragh's words give Vivien visible pause and he has to stop himself from grinning at the idea that he got the bitch.

It's only when he notices the corners of her own lips twitch up barely perceptively that the hitman realized... he's fucked up, in a way he didn't anticipate.

"You would really go so far as to bargain for this man?"

The question makes Neil seize up as he stares straight at Vivien. Her eyes are intense, unblinking, and once more he doesn't need her to speak to know what she's thinking - this is something she can exploit. Apparently not only will he grovel for the guy, he'll bargain too, like a moron. He's grown attached. And that's the first thing you learn not to do, unless you want to get killed. Or worse.

After decades of trying to get to the hitman with something tangible... Vivien's found a weak spot.

The rushing of footsteps as the door slams open interrupts the private stare-off MacDarragh and Taylor had locked themselves in, accompanied by a new cacophony of barking as Sina and Galen stir at the intrusion. With a single word of command from Vivien the lion-hunting dogs are stopped from tearing apart the unfortunate security member doubled over at the threshold.

"Ma'am!" the poor guy pants, expunging the last gasps of air he has in order to speak the most cliche words he could come up with under the circumstances, "We've got a situation."

---

And ain't "situation" the perfect way to describe Cade?

Though it seems like the TreaTech security might have some more colorful ways of referring to the gangster - a psycho, a motherfucker, a godless bastard, in between all of the screaming (of terror and of relaying Wolf's current location) coming over the headpiece nestled into Neil's right ear, elevator music pouring into his left one.

Tapping his foot along as he waits, the hitman's hand still feels the phantom echo of where Viv had him backhand Rory. The little rat has been going by unscathed for long enough, but this? Even kid genius won't be easily forgiven for alerting the CEO's ticket to saving daddy dearest. Not that Neil actually begrudges the scientist the misstep, yet it certainly felt satisfying getting some payback after the stunt he pulled last night. Rory went down like a sack of potatoes, and MacDarragh didn't even put that much force behind the slap.

Creep's had it coming for a while. It's good for him to be reminded that, for all his talents, he's not indispensable. No one is.

The elevator doors open with a ding, and there stands Cade. Fate again, huh?

Bloodied up, but still fighting, whether that be for air or in some mad dash not to get captured and dismantled under the scalpel.

Neil's first thought at the sight is to snicker and call the guy an idiot for trying to take the elevator in such a predicament. Worst move under the present circumstances - something like that could be disabled easily enough, leaving the guy stuck inside of a metal box to bash his head against the walls like a caged animal, lest he crawls his way out of the emergency exit, though that creates a whole other slew of problems.

Yeah, the elevator is a dumb call, but as ridiculous as the gangster might be Neil knows him to act smart under pressure. If Cade has resorted to this route, the stairway situation must be looking pretty crowded, impenetrable even to someone like him, "perfected" or not.

The two of them together, though? They could fucking make it.

And MacDarragh could be free from this fucking place.

The cocking of a gun splits the air between them. Any witty quips die in Neil's throat at the same instant his grin withers, and for the first time he actually assesses the wild look in Wolf's eyes - not at the pursuit or the shootout, but at MacDarragh. Accusatory, hateful.

The love bites on Cade's neck still stand out, even if the silver coursing through his veins will make them disappear faster. Well, not like they can't be reapplied once they get out of here.

You're all I got too.

But they won't be getting out of here. Well, MacDarragh won't be.

All of a sudden the thing he's been trying not to address in his mind becomes all too clear - why Cade would try and escape without him, why he wouldn't wait. The hitman's grasp on his own firearm tightens, instinct screaming at him to raise it. Take a shot. End it all here and now, just like Vivien wants. Maybe it's the idea of playing into her hands that ultimately stops him. Maybe it's one last courtesy he's offering Wolf. For all the fun times. For looking like a badass as he leaps out of a fucking skyscraper.

Crazy fucker.

The rain of bullets dies down even as the shouting doesn't. Pieces of broken glass crunch underneath Neil's shoes as he approaches, clothes buffeted by the winter wind suddenly invading the inside of the building, sending sheets of paper already scattered on the ground into an even bigger disarray. He stands at the edge of the broken window, peering down at the destruction of Cade's descent, knowing he's still alive.

Knowing he'll have to hunt him down.

And this is fine. MacDarragh works better alone anyway. Truly, you can never rely on anyone but yourself...
 
---

Hot blood tickles as it seeps over his brow. It itches and when he leans over the sink to breathe, a long rope stretches from his mouth before snapping and splashing the porcelain.

Overhead the speakers in the bathroom drone, I just want you for my own

It's a mean fucking joke.
A throbbing cut on the meat of his arm fills up again, pushing aside sinew to gush red. With shaking hands he pinches the sides together, breathes through the tremors. Teeth gnash, sweat drips down his back.

More than you could ever know...Make my wish come true

Like paint mixing together, silver swirls into the crimson. It doesn't follow the flow of gravity, swimming through the clotting of blood. It lines the edges of the wound and Cade finds his breath again in between the rabbit beats of the heart pulsing wetly in his chest like a greasy machine.
He twists the sink knob and it breaks off in his hand. A spray of water rushes over his hot face, pushing tracks into the muck of his face.

All I want for Christmas is you

The collar's in pieces.

The buckle is loose and the part that buzzes, the heavy metal part, is dinted. It doesn't make a sound anymore.
The phone he took from Rory shows the same rainbow brain as before.
Text off to the side shows his heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen intake... And other things he doesn't understand. If anyone's been watching this there's not a whole lotta chance they'd believe he was working out all last night. The thought puts a bitter taste on his tongue, complimenting the copper flavor already there.

There's a hammering on the bathroom door. "Hey man, you gonna be in there much longer?"

Cade glares at the door and the fucker on the other end doesn't know how lucky he is there's a solid piece of wood between them. The fisting on the door thuds in his head. He looks down at the screen.

Sixteen hours until the little things in his head need a recharge.

A circle spins as it loads, assesses.

Ten hours.

"C'mon, man! I don't have all day!"

Cade's grip on the phone tightens. His wounds drool. The circle spins.

Eight hours.

It keeps spinning.

Five hours.

It stops. Stabilizing, it says.
He feels the smile on his face before he hears the wet laugh. For fifteen minutes of his five hours left, he just laughs.

---

It's hard to know for sure if he's ever felt this shitty before.
Absently, he stares out the window and watches as little dancing snowflakes cake the corners. The coat he just bought (and a new set of clothes) didn't cut much of the wind walking here and he was already cold from washing himself in a gas station sink. It didn't make sense to drop a wad of cash on a coat that's just going to get stained and shot through by the end of the week.

Even knowing it won't do any good, he pulls out Rory's state of the art bullshit phone to look at the ticking hourglass of his life. His knee jogs at such a rate that normally he'd be able to hear the sand filled joints creak. It doesn't.
The deep as shit cut in his arm is scratchy with a nasty ass looking scab. Brushing his fingers over, he pauses at something that isn't flayed skin or rough scar tissue. Sharp, smooth.
He pulls the fifth piece of glass from his arm like a needle from a pin cushion. Yellowy-red liquid makes it slippery and Cade does his good deed of the day walking it to the trash rather than stuffing it in the fake plastic fern they have in the waiting room.
He already feels like an asshole taking up a seat, but the nurse told him to wait so he's... waiting. Four hours and change to live and he's spending precious minutes waiting.

An old lady bides her time scratching numbers into a Sudoku notebook. Next to her an older guy with a beer belly cradles a broken arm. In the row over a kid is covering up the fact they don't have hair with a Santa hat.
He gets a few looks of pity too because there's only so many issues a bald dude in a hospital can have that aren't cancer related apparently.

He feels for the pill in his pocket, tracing the outline of it.
It's a magic bean, another thing he took from Rory. It'll maybe give him a boost in four hours and thirty five minutes.
Or any of these people could take it and be right as rain in twenty minutes. It's... Well, it's a fucked up thought he shouldn't have to deal with after everything.
So he hides his face in his palm because he can't bite his lips, bruise himself, or scratch the scab made of ants on his arm. He can't look at the old lady too weak to erase the mistake she's made in her book, can't look at the old dude who looks just as lonely as he feels.
And he definitely can't fucking look at the dying kid.

He's not crying, but the next breath comes through a nose full of snot and the casual passerby might misinterpret it as a sniffle.
His phone vibrates against his thigh and Cade smiles at the blurry caller ID.
Wiping his nose on the back of his hand he flicks the screen.
"Yeah, hey buddy."

"Hey, Cadence," Oliver says, and the tension making Cade's jaw ache and shoulders bunch finally eases.
"Matilda says I can't spend Christmas Eve with you, but you can come over for Christmas morning."

"You little shit, just in time to make sure I have to get you a gift huh? Maximize your profits." Cade grins into the receiver.

"Yeah," Oliver answers, cheeky fucker, "but I know for a fact I'm getting a PlayStation five and we haven't played games together since I was a baby so I thought that maybe we could break it in together?"

Break it in. Cade scoffs, rolls his eyes because the kid can't see him.
"We could play Minecraft again."

"Oh, I'm so glad you said that," Oliver admits in a wheeze. "I thought you'd think it was a baby game."

"Minecraft transcends age, dude. I'll pick it up for us. I'll be there."

There's a pause that goes on longer than it should. Cade pinches at the meat of his leg, stops abruptly.

"I... I know I'm kinda a drag. There's a pretty big age difference between us and I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable calling you 'dad'. I know you're not. And I know I'm not your first little brother either."

Cade grits his teeth, going back to the safe darkness of his hand.

"Don't force yourself to be my friend, okay?" Oliver whispers and Cade can still hear the smile on his face, "You don't need to."

"Ha!" He can't help the sharp burst of laughter. It hurts his chest, cutting through him and the poor bastards waiting here send him some withering looks.

"Don't force yourself to be friends with me, Ollie. I'm the loser. I fucking hate myself for dipping on you for five years. The first two I... I couldn't do anything about it," he spits, and inhales to bring his unraveling voice to a steady octave.
"But these last three... I missed so much for no fucking reason."

The bite of his fingernails into his palm feels good until it reminds him to stop. He'll lose more time, time he doesn't know if he'll get back.
"I'll be there, Ollie. I fucking promise."

"I love you."

Cade glances across the sick faces, turning away.
"Love you, too."

Fuck waiting.

He gets up probably faster than necessary, makes the chair screech before it hits the wall. He marches down the hall, ignores the insistent calls at his back.

He can't fucking wait.

And if what Rory said is true, Kaden and Damien can't afford to wait either.

Usually, Finch would have a whole hospital room to himself, if you could call private care that. It would be huge, with a personal bathroom, wide screen TV and, what the hell, probably a little bar too.
Instead Cade walks into a room that has three other people in it. He's pushing aside curtains getting eyefuls of people he doesn't know, feeling more and more like an asshole until he reaches the furthest corner in the back because of course its the last one.

All the shit's that's happened, all the things squished between now and then and he's thinking about his dad and the hip he shattered and the weeks he spent in hospital. That's when it all really fell apart. The beginning of the end.
Who shatters a hip in their early sixties? Not a whole lot of people are so fortunate to get dementia in their sixties either. The Wilson boys burn bright and fast and so he's either in denial or monumentally stupid when he pulls back the final curtain.

The villains of his life are asleep.

Finch is pale and sweaty, head deep into a pillow. The unstoppable monster who left him to die looks like an eye sunken ghoul, colorless lips and cheeks so devoid of blush he looks fake. A doll, masquerading as something alive. Still beautiful, in a melting, disaster kind of way. But fake. Not a real boy. The machines he's hooked up to still beep, for the time being. The bed makes him look so small.
Only Cade could almost upturn a decades old illuminati gang accidentally on his first (and last) day of work. He's such a waste of fucking space. Who would ever waste time on a fuck-up like him?

Damien is curled up in the visitor's chair, head hung back in a way that wouldn't be comfortable for a cat, much less a human being pushing forty. MacDarragh didn't lie about getting the little shit, that much he was honest about. Guy has a cast on an arm, one that hides a serious injury that probably makes him more or less useless on that side.

Cade does his best to ignore the stupid, dramatic ass fact they're holding hands.
Unconscious, and they're touching each other like they're in a drama, as if its not sweaty and uncomfortable as hell. Five years and Finch only touched him when he was hurt, when he had to. Five weeks and he touches this scruffy fuck.

Quietly, he tugs the curtain back in place so they can have a bit of privacy. The switchblade he picked up earlier slides out with a soft swish. Blu has his throat open, begging for a red stripe to be drawn across it.
Grabbing a fistful of hair, he presses the blunt edge to Damien's skin. It catches on a bit of stubble he hasn't had the time to shave, what with their lives collapsing and all.

"You make a sound and I swear I'll cut your tongue out and feed it to you, Dame."
He adjusts his grip on the knife, not shaky but ready.
The grip makes his knuckles go white, has sweat building up a long the handle. It'd be so easy to blame everything on this fucker, easier to carve some retribution from his hide. He glares at the pale ghost lying in bed, at the clear beautiful skin of his pallid face. He could hurt Damien to get at Finch, or the reverse to hurt Damien. He could kill them right now to get at MacDarragh, as if that's not exactly what he'd want.
None of its fair. And Damien gets that more than most people.

He pulls hard enough he feels a strand or two snap in his grip.

"I'm not here with N-- MacDarragh. There's a lot you need to know."
 
---

Getting yanked by the hair has to be among the top ten worst ways Damien has been woken up in his life. For a split second in the frantic disorientation that takes over his bleary mind, the ex-convict finds himself back in prison, back to those first years he either spent in solitary or with his back pressed against the wall at night. That's when you're most vulnerable - in the showers, or in bed. Being who he is, the ex-cop learned pretty fast to always sleep with one eye open. Otherwise, this is what fucking happens.

You get shanked.

It takes Damien several moments to realize that the blade pressed up against his jugular is not in fact an increasingly creative shiv shaved down from the plastic battery compartment cover of a radio, but a real blade, the metal of it cold where it touches his skin. And he's not in prison - he's in a hospital he knew was bound to become dangerous sooner rather than later, and still like a pathetic idiot he failed to remain vigilant. He doesn't even remember how he ended up passed out - the last memory Damien has, Kaden fell asleep again. Some fleeting moments of lucidity enough to witness him embarrassingly crying like a child, and then the man was lost to him once more, plunging into unconsciousness. While the ex-cop was supposed to stay on alert.

Granted, he couldn't have expected the hospital would become dangerous in this specific way. Not in a million years.

When the sound of the familiar voice threatening violence finally connects in his head, a shiver runs down his spine. All at once, the curtain of slumber dissipates completely as Damien's eyes widen in shock, and he has never felt more awake in his life. Too little, too late. The person bearing Cade's visage has already got him.

Shit, maybe he's still asleep, trapped. Maybe he's back in Eli's house, paralyzed in his childhood bed, stuck in a nightmare for days. Months. Years. What else could explain what he's seeing? When the hold on his strands of hair tightens painfully, Damien bites down on his tongue (the one he's apparently going to be fed) to stave off a whimper of pain. Or of bewilderment. Probably both. For a hallucination, this nightmare Cadence feels all too real, body heat radiating off of of his arm where it holds the switchblade.

This is real... because when you think things couldn't get any worse, they somehow always find a way to exceed your expectations.

Between the torrential stream of 'how's and 'what-the-fuck's occupying Damien's thoughts, one question burns brightest at the forefront of his mind - has Cade come here to finish off Kaden? When the gangster looks away to glare daggers at the unconscious capo, Damien finally finds enough wits to speak, voice an even murmur, "Does asking questions count as making a sound?"

When Cade's attention lands back on him, Damien's stare does not waver. In a show of placidity, the ex-cop slowly releases Finch's clammy hand, showing the open palm of his one good arm.

The S&W he's carrying is a constant weight against his hip. If he can keep the gangster talking for long enough, then-

What the apparition of Cade says next takes him by surprise, somehow even more so than the initial rude awakening - the man says there's a lot Damien needs to know, and beyond furrowing his eyebrows at the choice of verb, yeah, he fucking agrees. It feels like he's always going into one absurb situation or another missing puzzle pieces that everyone else is privy to. And the piece he can't wrap his head around the most is right in front of him.

"I saw you get zipped up in a bodybag," Damien whispers, more to reiterate the fact to himself than for any other reason, reaffirming its reality. Cade died. Cade now stands before him, in the flesh. Unscathed. It makes no sense, "How the hell are you alive?"

And even if he isn't here... is MacDarragh alive as well?
 
Does asking a question count as making a sound?

"Ooh, you're such a smart ass," Cade bites in a smile. It's a miracle the little rascal lasted fifteen years of prison being this oblivious and obstinate at the same time.
Glaring as the cogs in Blumenthal head turn, he can't help but think, why him? What's so special about him?
He's not ugly, but Finch's choice in his absurdly empty life of romance was girls or men who looked like girls. Blu isn't big like Cade, but he isn't small either. You'd need some accountenments and serious alcohol to make him look like anything but a dude. He's not
as strong, as tough, as mean or as good a shot.
The guy's a fucking bitch, wincing away with a knife to his throat and pulling away from Kaden to give his surrender with an open hand.

And quite frankly, he isn't as funny as he thinks he is either.

He's entranced in the pissing contest waging war in his head he forgets what he's doing, why he's here. Blumenthal's soft rumble brings him back and the bewildered look he's getting finally makes sense.
Damien saw him get retired. To him, a ghost just woke him up. You live a wild, enriched life when reanimation is old news.

"Thanks for your concern. Yeah, it's a long story. I got involved with TreaTech, which are High-Rise by the way." He taps the flat part of the knife against Blumenthal's Adam's apple.

"Don't ask me how it works, but they brought me back. Mac too, mostly accidentally." If you see him, aim for the head.

He drops the fistful of hair, switches hands holding the knife to skin.
With a hard glance he scoops down the idiot's chest, daring him to say something stupid or do something stupid.

"I didn't know it was Kaden," he says, pausing when Blu stiffens having his side searched. Well, more stiff than he already was having his carotid artery sharpened. What a surprise, Dame is packing.
Man... What a blast from the past that thought is.

"He sure as hell knew it was me when he shot..."

It's funny watching Damien, the subtle shifting of his eyes and the tension in his jaw as he thinks through a way out of this shit show.
As much a golden boy as he is, there's a stone cold fucker in there.

"You're sitting ducks here. If I found you, it means MacDarragh's coming too and he's got some twisted revenge plot planned because how fucking dare you defend yourself from his psycho ass?" He grips the hard shape of the gun strapped to Damien's hip because if he touched anything else it'd hurt.

"He pretends to be your friend, listens to you, makes you feel wanted, like you're the only two people on the planet... and then when he's had his fun he stabs you-" Cade pushes the blade against Damien's throat, forcing his head away.
"In the back. Oh, two can play at that game. I'll bring that fucker to his damn knees."

He huffs out a hot breath, shoulders heaving. He can't break anything... He can't. As much as his skin itches for it like an addict, he can't.

"And you're going to help, Damsel. I'm the only friend you got. As far as I'm concerned, today we're brothers."
 
Damien listens to the rather dissatisfactory answer Cade gives him on the miracle of how he's come back from the dead, as if the fact that TreaTech is involved clears everything up. It definitely puts into perspective the top-notch medical care the ex-cop received from the High-Rise, yet... there are still leaps in the logic of it all (or rather absences of logic) and he nearly shoots back that he has the time to listen to Cade's long story on what the fuck actually happened. If only that wouldn't be the biggest lie ever uttered - Damien doesn't have the time.

Not when MacDarragh has apparently been resurrected as well.

The pain from the age-old kinks in Damien's neck exacerbated by the uncomfortable position his head has been cranked back in for hours suddenly shoots up to spread over his scalp in a wave of discomfort, the persistent headache that's been plaguing him since yesterday squeezing at his temples. At this point he's starting to believe it has less to do with stress and more to do with nicotine withdrawals. His body screams at him that he desperately needs a cigarette if he is to get through this, and in the next instant that same traitorous body churns in deep-seethed revolt.

The image of MacDarragh from last night swims into Damien's vision, a specter sneering down at him that he "sure as hell doesn't feel dead". Thinking back on it now, it doesn't sound like a simple statement. It sounds like a refusal of the fact, a rejection of the reality of his demise.

"That bastard is a cockroach..." the words leave the ex-convict unbidden as he swallows down the irrational fear and nausea.

At present, he should really be more concerned with the tangible person that has a knife pressed to his throat, especially when Cade starts searching him and Damien chastizes himself for thinking too long about unholstering the gun. Just like back at the Moonlit Wolf, where it all started, when the gangster saved him (for whatever reason - maybe the fact they're both ex-cops, maybe something else) from being drowned at Finch's orders. Now that same gangster has come here to... what?

To seek an alliance?

With a huff, Damien's lips twist into a grimace, "Maybe you didn't know it was Kaden when you shot him, but you were working with MacDarragh to go after him. After me too."

Why the sudden change of heart? The question becomes immediately redundant when Cade speaks next, sentences spilling out without prompting in a bout of rage... or is it betrayal?

He pretends to be your friend.

A mixture of surprise and sympathy flashes across the ex-cop's face as all he can do is sit still and listen to things that are eerily familiar, feeling the tension of the gangster's whole being with the press of the switchblade, the promise of retribution. Yeah, that sounds like Neil. Damien doesn't think the fucker has ever experienced human emotion in his entire life, but he can mimic it like a pro, and Cade trusted in that put-on charisma. Wouldn't be the first. But with some luck... he could be the last.

With a sharp inhale, Damien banishes whatever commiseration is still left in his expression, willing it back into unamused neutrality at being called "Damsel". That's a new one even among the myriad of creative things Cade has referred to him as, "Fine. Not like I have much of a choice in the matter."

Well, it does seem like their goals align for once. His eyes search Cade's. The need for revenge is an itch Damien can more than relate to, and that much more than the man's sardonic words is what binds them as... "brothers". He's called him that before too. What a ridiculous thought. What a ridiculous predicament, so much so it almost makes him chuckle.

"You know, you can let go now. And then we can figure out what to do," the ex-cop exhales, mind churning at what they can even do in this situation, where they could go. And the worst of it all is the capo's condition, "Unless Kaden can somehow magically get fixed up, leaving is a risk, but... we can't stay here."

"Then again, running away would only be buying time. What is your plan, Cade? For "bring that fucker to his damn knees"."
 
There isn't a shade of understanding on Damien's face and Cade wants to tell him that he knows none of it makes sense. He's dead man walking and the freaked out look he's getting isn't exactly a confidence booster.

That bastard is a cockroach.

And unlike Blumenthal, Cade knew all along and he still let the fucker work his mandibles deep into his skin. That fucking asshole...

"Finch knew the High Rise was coming for us and he kept it to himself. Excuse me if I'm a little jaded," he argues, even when it's pointless. And pretty childish, honestly. At least MacDarragh was honest about the majority of things. Probably.
Enough not to lie about Damien being anything but the one who got away. As if that means he deserves his final curtain to be an hours long affair.
If MacDarragh wants to kill Damien that bad for just existing, what's he going to do to Cade for resisting a lobotomy?

Man, Neil is such an evil, twisted motherfucker...

All the sudden he remembers he's leaning over this poor bastard, giving him a shave. With a sigh, he pockets the knife. But not before making a try for the S&W. He used up all the ammo he got from the gun at TreaTech, dumped it in a garbage can along the way.
Ever the bitch who doesn't know when he's been licked, Damien kicks a fuss. One that promises to turn into a real fight in the middle of a hospital room. If Cade was in any other situation, he'd beat the fucker into submission, and then a little more with the butt of his own gun.

"Fine. You unload a clip into me and I'll just get back up."
With that, he shoves off with enough force to push the chair with Damien in it a foot away.
The guy doesn't have to know he's lying through his teeth, that he's closer to being dead than anyone else in this room. Kept company by that pleasant thought, he turns to Kaden. He takes the phone off the hospital tray - not Finch's model, but what led him here in the first place. Letting it drop, he stomps it underfoot with his heel. It crunches and the noose starving him of air loosens.

"My plan is for you to shut the fuck up because I don't hear your wise ass coming up with anything. I'll figure it out."

---

He knew he was still alive. Knew it like a kid knows the monster's still living under their bed. The how he couldn't rationally fill in, but he knew.

This isn't what he expected.

Damien gets the door so Cade can carry the man who made his life a living hell into the back of the car.
The guy's dead weight; just soaking heavy into whatever surface there is and he'd just as easily roll onto the floor if Cade wasn't there.

"Shut the door," Cade says over his shoulder, tugging the coat off his arms. "It's freezing."

The ice princess doesn't have the strength to shiver, even when he's wearing nothing but a hospital gown. The hem's high up enough to show the crest of his hip, leading into his thigh. He's hairless, like some kinda freak.
For all the fights he's been in, all the men he's killed, Kaden's creamy and spotless. He doesn't have a single tattoo, not even a birthmark.
Except for a stitched up cut in his leg. It's a gnarly looking thing. Like the gunshot wound must be.

All it took was one bullet, and it was his. And he's being fucking punished for it.

"Kaden?" He murmurs, but he doesn't react beyond an eye flutter.
"You there?"

His chest lifts and falls, but he doesn't shift. Any moment he'll get up, slap Cade across the face and call him worthless. Weak, disgusting, hopeless, alone.
"You and me, were the two most wanted men in New York. You more than me, as per fucking usual. If you get caught, they'll keep you locked up. How'd you like that, no free will or control for the rest of your fucking life? Making sure you stay healthy and alive forever. You'll hate it at first, but after a while it'll feel like love."

He holds Finch's head, and leans over him, thumb grazing along a chin that refuses to grow so much as a stubble.
He meets his lips to Kaden's slightly parted ones, feels his soft breath brush his cheek. There's no response, so he digs for one with his tongue, traces the outline of Kaden's teeth.

The connection breaks in a snap of saliva as the door opens, Cade rubbing at his mouth when Damien gets in. Haphazardly, he tosses his coat over Finch, tucks it behind a shoulder.
Keeping his head down, he finagles himself into the front passenger seat. There's a bunch of crud there he has to swipe to the floor - receipts and food wrappers - and getting from the back of a car to the front isn't exactly a cake walk. Especially for someone of his size.

Eyeing the gun strapped to Damien's hip he says, "We need to go somewhere quiet and out of the way until we can figure this shit out. I'll give directions, you drive."

If he makes a grab for the S&W, he'll get it but not without crashing. Depending how bad it is, maybe he could walk away from that...
Cade uses a sleeve to wipe at the sweat on his forehead. It's cold as fuck and he's sweating.
Rory's phone gives him three hours and fifty two minutes. Assuming he doesn't get into a car accident.

With two fingers he feels at the tempid warmth on his lips.
"Sooo... What have you been up to the last two days? Has it been two days? There was the raid at dawn, whole day of fuckery, slept, died yesterday and decided to take the evening off..." He rubs over his bottom lip.
"...Slept again. And here we are. That's two days. Feels like just one really long one, don't it?"
 
---

Cade is right, it is freezing.

In the biting cold of December, Damien watches the cloud of condensed vapor leave his mouth with a sigh, and after another squeeze of that ever-present headache behind his eyes, he wishes with all his being it were cigarette smoke instead. The 'no smoking' sign at the edge of the hospital parking lot mocks the ex-convict with the fact that even if he had Marlboros on him, he wouldn't be allowed to indulge here. His ears hurt from the chill and Damien bunches up his shoulders in some attempt to keep warm, quickly shoving his good hand in his pocket. It's a relief when the tips of his fingers trace the familiar engraved lighter; an even further relief when they can sense the outline of the gun underneath, still within his possession.

You unload a clip into me and I'll just get back up.

The ex-cop has no idea what exactly that was supposed to mean. Is it a bluff, some absurd machismo act? Or simply a stated fact. If Cade came back from the dead after being shot up once already, does he have the means to do it again?

Usually, police officers carry their firearms on the same side as their shooting arm. It allows for a comparatively faster draw, but that's not what's on Damien's mind when, working quickly and quietly, he switches over the S&W to be holstered on his left hip. That way if Cade dares to make another grab for it, he'll have to reach over the ex-cop's torso. If he even realizes the gun's locations have been switched.

Another dejected sigh escapes Damien as he bites down on his lip, eyes casting around to take in his surroundings a final time before he's moving on again. Is this the right move? He doesn't know. Doesn't know much of anything, really. But when has he ever?

The difference between the temperature outside and inside of the car is instantly noticeable when he gets in. Not because the vehicle is particularly warm, but because the weather is simply particularly cold. Glancing back at Kaden, it's some small consolation to see the capo covered up in Cade's coat, yet beneath that he's still wearing a hospital gown. That's the state in which he got carried out here... Wherever the gangster is intending on leading them, Damien just hopes it has proper heating.

This mystery place that he is being told to drive to. The ex-cop turns to face Cade beside him with a quirked brow, leveling a questioning stare at the man. Eli'x Lexus Damien had to leave near MacDarragh's apartment complex is an automatic - he can drive it reliably with one hand without worrying about switching gears. But this piece of junk is a stick shift, requiring both arms to operate comfortably. And Cade is telling him to drive, what with the cast and all. If this is the first decision this guy is making within their temporary collaboration, the ex-cop doesn't exactly have the highest expectations for Cade "figuring" this out. Well, suppose the decision makes sense in a way. It's reminiscent of how he handled Moore the night of the gala, keeping an eye on him at all times because he did not trust him. This isn't a real alliance - the two aren't friends or brothers or anything of the sort.

Putting the key into the ignition, Damien shrugs, "Buckle up for a long, careful drive."

Cade will just have to fucking bear with that.

Apparently, he won't be bearing with a silent drive, though. Glancing away out of the corner of his eye for a split second as he's pulling out of the parking lot, Damien listens closely to Cade's small talk within which he tries to encapsulate all of the fuckery he has gone through over the last 48+ hours. Guess he's at least trying to be amiable, and the ex-cop can appreciate that much. "Just normal weekday stuff, huh? Feels like an eternity."

One really long, exhausting day that Damien isn't sure when (if ever) is going to end.

Humming to himself, the ex-cop takes several moments to ruminate, "A lot has happened. Yeah, there was the raid. Underwent surgery. Had dinner. Escaped a shadowy criminal syndicate."

"... Saw Kaden almost die," twice. Damien's tone drops in the same instance that he briefly takes his eyes off the road to glare at Cade, "And had to evacuate all of my loved ones. You know, the people the High-Rise were going to use to get to me."

Sure, the guy was jaded at Kaden, and based on what the capo revealed regarding their past it likely had more to it than simply not being alerted that the High-Rise was coming for the Black Dogs. However, is Cade jaded enough at Damien as well to conspire to go after Natalia and her family? Or was that MacDarragh's idea? Regardless, it's no secret that Cade doesn't like him. Damien doesn't know what he did to earn this ire, but he can hazard a guess it has to do with the cozying up next to Finch that Cade was consistently accusing him of before he left for both his and Finch's sake...

Glancing up into the rearview mirror Damien observes the limp form of Kaden in the backseat, motionless and still. His hold around the wheel squeezes and the fingers on his injured hand twitch as much as the splint will allow, sending a spark of pain up his limb.

Maybe it would have been better if he never returned.

With or without him, Delilah would have gotten to Kaden and given him the antidote, and then he could have stayed with her. He wouldn't have gotten hurt. Damien knows there's no point wasting time on 'what-if's when all of the decisions have already been made, yet the chain of events that led them here plagues him nevertheless. The mistakes he has committed, how worthless he has been to prevent anything and everything. Dead weight.

"I don't know why I can never do anything right," Damien means it to be a thought, but then the thought becomes a whisper and by the time he knows what's happening, it's being spoken into existence when no one asked or cares, "I try, but it's like fighting the inevitable. Even after all these years, nothing's changed."

There's a tightness in his throat. He hates the fact that in such moments some disgusting inner voice in his head sounds nearly like Neil - the one from years ago, who he used to take smoke breaks with and talk to as if every single word that left that man's mouth wasn't a lie. The sole thing MacDarragh didn't lie about, however, was the fact that if Damien had died 15 years ago it probably would have been a mercy.

Taking in a sharp breath, the ex-cop straightens out and focuses all of his attention on the road, avoiding looking at the man in the passenger seat. He doesn't know what possessed him to share something like that with Cade of all people. As if he didn't already look weak enough as is.

"I've been following directions, but you still haven't told me where we're going," Damien clears his throat in a desperate attempt at moving away from the conversation. Something crosses his mind and with a mirthless chuckle, the ex-convict continues, "Just so you're aware, it would be particularly lame if you're making me drive to the location where you intend to off me or something."
 
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