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Realistic or Modern LOVE, LOSS, REVENGE

He's calling it the Damien Phenomenon.

The man is disarming like a puppy is, if that puppy was also funny and actually sorta smart without making the people in its company feel stupid. The guy is good looking and personable.
It's so fucking annoying.

In place of any real criticism, Blu gives his chain a jiggle instead of yanking it over a cliff side and damn... Maybe Cade actually misses shooting the breeze with guys. Maybe he doesn't hate people, he's just been stuck with the assholes.
"Keith Haring wishes I was his love child. Nobody draws dicks like I do."

Assuming that's what Haring does, who Cade's never heard of.

So yeah, Dami's annoying. And Cade listens to every word. His explanation for sticking around as long as he did is bullshit, but still somehow entertaining.
"Pft, I knew you were a slut."

And that's about as much as he can joke on that, with things as tender as they are.
This likeable fucker... His answer seems to confirm what Cade's been afraid to know and it makes the nausea bubble up like a witch's cauldron.

Then, Damien admits he doesn't know what they are, and the tubes of Cade's stomach twist into a knot that'll never come undone.
The pain pulls back, like a knife lifting away from an old wound. But the tension, the anticipation of it diving all the way back in returns.
Cade bites hard on his lip, doesn't realize he's doing it until a shot of tangy copper splashes on his tongue.

Then it tingles.

Little things wiggling through his taste buds, itching.

"So you've never," he starts, rubbing at his lip, "done it?"

He sits back to digest his biases and paradigm. While focusing on not scraping his writhing tongue off on the back of his teeth.
If he swallows them, he's not gonna die right? They're already inside of him, it probably doesn't matter if they're in his stomach. He's sure they're already absorbed that way, anyways.

"You spent so much time together. Alone. I guess I just figured..." He says. A light, unexpected chuckle bubbles from him.

The scowl he keeps in his back pocket right next to his middle finger slaps over his face at the mention of MacDarragh. "Yeah, we're...friends, dick. He saved me from the Nakurra. He's an asshole, and I don't think you deserve the party favors he had in store for you, but he's not a bad guy to have on your team. Why does it fucking matter to you anyway? It's none of your damn business."

And Neil doesn't like him because he's desperately lonely. Neil likes him because he likes him.
When the fuck does that happen?

"I dunno..." He says in a sigh, picking up the wine opener from Neil's things, "I'm sorta hoping he chills out with time, but he usually just gets more pissed in a situation like this."

He traces the metal spirals with the tip of his finger. The end is so sharp it just about nicks him. Neil feels far away, when he's just behind him.

"Just another thing we're gonna wing I guess."
 
----

This place has always felt somewhere between Hogwarts and a tomb. Now with a layer of dead trees covering just about every patch of swanky floor, it feels like the latter.
Not to mention it's cold as balls.
Cade said as much before Finch handed him a piece of parchment - and it is parchment, he's not trying to be wordy or poetic.
It's thick and solid in his hands, just missing a wax seal and a fancy Englishman to deliver it. Not to mention the script of it too. If it weren't for the slight slant of the paragraphs, he would've thought this was printed.

Finch walked into the room, dropped it on the fancy dresser in the foyer and then went to dolling Damien up.
He clearly made himself at home, hunting down some pants and a woolly looking shirt. The anal capo seems to realize for the first time Blu doesn't need his help to dress - a confused pout darkening his face when Damien takes the initiative like a big boy. That can only go over so well so obviously, Cade picks up the letter.

It's not much better a display.

"There's a poem that says, 'I just think some women aren't made to be mothers. And some women aren't made to be daughters'. There's..." Cade trails off, glances up at the two of them. Suddenly the paper feels like something he shouldn't be looking at. Fucking hell, this is gonna be something.

"Ahem, there's different kinds of love and the only ones I know weren't ones you could ever understand. Besides a home, clothing, shelter, the most basic requirements - I could never give you what you needed... I could not love you in a way that mattered to you..."

Clearing his throat, Cade skims the page. Finch is pushing Damien's hair behind his ear, whatever little there is to do that with. There's more clothes than there was before and somehow it feels weirder.

"Any attempt to change me," Cade continues after a big breath, "improve our relationship or explain how I had come short had you stonewalled. I know you would hear about this eventually and assume it was the ultimate act in petty insecurity but I assure you it's not. Well - maybe a smidge. I never came close to being perfect."

He'd say it's all he ever wanted to hear from his dad, but not like this.

"But neither did you. You can't spend the rest of your life angry, even if the ones you hate deserve it. It'll warm you now but leave you cold in the grave. Take my word for it. You were the only good thing I ever did. Everything I have is yours - except the house. I couldn't leave it to come with you when you left, I'm not going to leave it now. I apologize for the smell. I doubt an open window will mask much by the time you visit. Please don't come in."

Finch is fiddling with the hem of Damien's sweater, pulling and tugging it around his hips. There's nothing on his face. The clouds from his lips are the only indication he's breathing at all.
Suddenly, Cade has to take in this Hogwarts tomb with a new eye. It hits him unexpectedly, like pulling the curtains open in a dark room.

"Oh shit," he says because what else is there to say. All he can ever offer anybody is an expletive.
He flips the thick paper to the other side like it's a test he needs to get through. So rarely is there ever further explanation, this being one of those off times.

There's one last bunch of pretty cursive words.

"P.S," he continues, blinking, "if Kaden Finch is reading this, enclosed is the same Romero and Juliette poison Shepard took. Burn this letter and take the vial as payment. Keep it as remembrance of the lengths people will go to leave you far far behind."

Well shit again.

Finch finds the will to let Dami be, pulls something shiny out of his pocket. A little jar of some sloshing fluid. It's thicker than he remembers the dose Jackie got in the chest. Half frozen, must be.

"This is why we came here. There's a substantial chance it will fool the dead switch. I need a diversion if there's a chance of getting Delilah back," Kaden says with a curt nod to Blumenthal.
He takes a quilt - one of the many things he ransacked from this recently bereaved home - and shakes it out. A few moth balls rattle as they hit the floor, rolling away and leaving clear tracks where they pass through the frost. No dust though, so that's a plus?
Without an ounce of sympathy, Finch drapes this icy ass blanket over Damsel's shoulders.

"A diversion?" Cade scoffs, setting the letter down. "I got back with you to fuck TreaTech up, not go on a suicide mission. Besides how long does she have anyway?"

He knows he's being a dick by the time the last word comes out. It makes his voice hitch.
Finch stiffens, as if the guy could be any more like a statue. He's been uncharacteristically patient - probably has something to do with saving his life. That composure cracks.
He marches over to Cade. The air rushes past him as the guy stops inches from him.
Cade braces for the hit, waits for it like a drooling dogs waits to be called to eat. The blow never lands.

"An hour ago I couldn't move. You were dead-" The reminder Finch did that, the killing of his pet cop, makes him pause. He thins his lips.
"I can save her."

There's a good chance the magic beans won't do shit. Looking at the wild, full black eyes, he decides to keep that to himself. For once he shows an ounce of self preservation.

On a ordinary day Kaden's hair is in a fancy little coif. With his head bowed to glare a cocktail of hatred and something else, it splays in greasy tendrils around his face.
Stiff, he sweeps back the loose strands with a hand.

"I need to speak with MacDarragh."

Crossing his arms Cade grunts, "Speak to or interrogate?"

The following frustrated huff isn't close to the stripe of anger from before. "... Somewhere in between."

The same unease he had third wheeling in the back of the car comes back. Cade glances at Damien, shifting his weight and taking a step back to get some distance.
"You can't hurt him."

Finch dissects Cade with several fast slashes of his black eyes. It's the same look Taylor had, the one Neil's had on some occasions.
Scowling now would give him away, so he doesn't.

"What are you going to do with him after this?" Finch asks.

"Why, you wanna share him? Get a new pet for yourself?" Cade sneers, gets into Kaden's face and yes, goes onto his toes to do it.
Finch doesn't step away, but his eyes do shift aside.

"I won't physically harm him."

That genuinely brings a snort out of him. As if Finch could psychologically torture Neil.
Then like it's normal the psychopath says, "Though I'd prefer he stay partially undressed."

Ah, so he is going the psychological distress route.

Cade rubs at his face, tries to fight the chill prickling his skin. One moment he's tall and Kaden's a good looking dick looking for his mommy and not-fucking a cute boy. The next he's the thing that plagues his dreams.
How can he be both?

It's not fair.

"You're not-" he grinds his voice still, "going to hurt him."

"I just explained I wouldn't," Kaden spits, enunciating the final word like they're arguing simple semantics. And not whatever the fuck this is.

"Damien, can you rein in Norman Bates?" Cade huffs, not because he needs this guy's back up because he doesn't.
"We won't get anywhere with Neil pissing him off."
 
---

How is it possible for the inside of the manor to feel colder than the outside? Even through the layers of clothing Damien now thankfully has, the chill of this desolate place manages to settle at the core of his being, Wight's words that Cade reads out loud piercing through any and all defenses.

Oh shit indeed.

Unblinking, Damien's eyes are on Kaden, searching for any clues as to how he is handling this. Wight and he might not have left off on the best of terms, but she was still someone he knew, someone that taught him. Their gazes won't meet. Finch is looking elsewhere, not making a sound, instead lightly fixing up parts of the ex-cop's appearance that don't really need to be fixed up. The capo brushes back his hair and there's a heavy need in Damien's chest to say something, contrasted by the inadequacy of whatever consolations he can come up with.

In Wight's note, there is a postscript dedicated to none other than Kaden Finch.

Damien's hand twitches to reach out for the man's sleeve, but before he can so much as move a muscle Kaden has let go, only to hold up something in his grasp.

This is why we came here. There's a substantial chance it will fool the dead switch. I need a diversion if there's a chance of getting Delilah back.

The ex-cop freezes up. That same oppressive feeling he has been pushing down so stubbornly tries to bubble up yet again, smothered at the last moment by the blanket that gets draped over his shoulders. He doesn't want to think about the dead switch, has been trying his best not to. Now Kaden talks about "fooling" it and saving Delilah, and Damien has no idea how to feel about anything. Fuck, there hasn't even been a second to breathe and digest Wight's fate - the sounds of Finch and Cade arguing about interrogating MacDarragh reach him with some delay. They're just... moving on. As if they aren't standing in a tomb.

Damien tightens the blanket around himself. Now's not the right time, it's never the right time. Medusa is to become yet another thing for the ex-cop to tuck into the recess of his mind for later. Or maybe never. Definitely not now... The number of things on his "definitely not now" list are so fucking many at this point it'll take him a lifetime to sort through.

Heaving a huff that snaps him out of his thoughts Cade addresses Damien, and it's the sheer suddenness of it that makes him chuckle with a splutter. It's totally not the gangster comparing Kaden to Norman Bates, "I'd argue he's more of a Patrick Bateman type."

Covering up his mouth to try and muffle the retort, the ex-cop adds joking to the "definitely not now" list, forcing his expression into neutrality as his attention shifts between Kaden, and Cade - the person he owes for saving his life, and who so desperately doesn't want his "friend" harmed. As much as the bastard deserves it, and more. Much more.

"It might be unwise to hurt or intimidate MacDarragh," with an even tone, Damien tries to reason with the capo, and it's distressing how easily he gives in, just like when he didn't protest Neil being kept alive in the first place. A month ago he was planning to do detestable things to Genevieve for her role in Michael's murder, but now... Now he's just tired, "Not just because pissing him off could make it difficult to get the information we need... but because we're not going to stoop down to his level."

---

The shower house looks the same as the last time Damien was here. Exactly the same - from the ratty table the ruined carton of cigarettes he left all soggy greets him, now frozen in the cold that has gripped this part of the manor as well. Even the chairs are still in the same position as weeks ago - one of them toppled over from when Kaden managed to spring up and go for the Siren; one of them upright. If he peered around it, would Damien find two zip ties on the floor, cut through by Wight to set him free upon Finch's delegated time? Probably. It seems like the woman never cleared out the room after he left...

If this were a game of spot the difference, however, there is one major change - someone else is sitting in the chair this time around.

"Medusa's place, huh?" there is some comfort in having MacDarragh bound and helpless, but even so the sheer sound of his caustic voice makes the ex-cop's nerves flair up in an animal panic. That feeling turns cold and hateful as soon as he utters his next words, "It's been a while since I last came around these parts."

The duffel bag rattles as Damien sets it down on the table. Never one to shut the fuck up, the hitman scoffs, green eyes narrowing as they take in the three men before him, only to stop on Kaden, "Predictable... If we could get the torture started already. Waiting cramped up in the trunk of a car has left me bored."

It's enraging how MacDarragh can find it in himself to act unbothered as if he were the one in control, despite shivering from the cold left half-dressed as he is. It's like he's never been on this end of the equation, or maybe the fucker genuinely lacks the emotional capacity to feel fear. Maybe Damien should have agreed with the route Finch wanted to go down. Out of the corner of his eye, he glances at the capo, then at the gangster he had to reassure several times he's merely bringing along the duffel bag to keep an eye on.

When - his shoulders stiff - Damien reaches inside of it, what he pulls out is not one of Neil's torture tools. It's a phone - one he found discarded in the passenger seat during the ride. Expression of mockery morphing into a scowl, MacDarragh clicks his tongue, partially at the continued fact that someone else is messing with his stuff. Partially because the device buzzes to life with yet another message coming in.

"Someone has been blowing up your phone," the ex-cop states as he squints to read the name of the sender - 'V', "Non-stop since way earlier, by the looks of it."

He might not have caught up fully with modern technology, but Damien knows enough about it now to unlock the phone's screen, scrolling up at the frankly insane amount of messages this person has sent Neil over the course of the last hours. Demanding to know if he's gotten Wilson yet.

"Well, you and I both know a thing or two about fraught sibling relationships," the hitman shoots back, and Damien's hold on the phone tightens. Once again he has to remind himself they're not hurting this asshole, as awful as he is and as much as he snarls at them. Though it feels like the targets of his rage extend well beyond the current occupants of the shower house.

"If she doesn't get a message back soon, she's going to have people search for me."

And that's not MacDarragh threatening them. Somehow, it's the opposite.

"You hate the High-Rise," Damien reiterates what Cade said in the car, "Everyone here does. Surely you recognize that it would be mutually beneficial for you to answer some questions."

Maybe it's a bad sign that all MacDarragh does in reply to that statement is scoff. Maybe it's a good sign.

Leaning back against the grimy wall, Damien looks to Kaden.
 
Mutilating scars stain MacDarragh's back.

Kaden imagined he saw a glimpse of the uneven texture of skin back in the car. He had been so focused on Damien it had slipped his notice. Now he can't understand how he missed it.

Cade watches the scene unfold with a wary eye. There's no decay to rip from his lips so he's taken to biting his fingernails.
It's much like a welping dog being separated from a litter; a side of Cadence he's rarely scene outside of his relationship with his younger brother.

After Blumenthal's surprisingly constructive back and forth, he makes space for Finch. Crippled without his tools, he has to negotiate with a mad man. Avoiding the subtle touch of Damien's fingers, Finch takes the cellphone.
A silent skim confirms the relationship is rather one sided and infrequent. One side is a block of text occasionally broken by the odd 'K'.
Finch gently rolls his back molars together.

Does he ever hate that dismissive reply to a text.

"I only need to know where they would take a high priority prisoner." His skin prickles. Far from the first time, his eyes find the duffel bag of tools Damien brought inside. Under Cade's glare, he stalks behind MacDarragh where he can't see him.
A few slivers of scarred meat shift with the subtle ripple of Neil's spine. It's his entire back, if Kaden had to take a guess.
MacDarragh has kept his jaw clenched, partially from unbridled insanity and partially to keep his teeth from chattering.

The tile next to Neil's chair is scrapped with ragged white lines where he and Damien once were. The wall is cracked where Genevieve was pinned. Several squares of tile have since fallen away, collecting in a moldy puddle on the floor. Years ago he washed mud and tree sap off in this shower house, along with several others. After a busy afternoon of training, the warm water was a welcome reprieve.

The cold sinks so deep into his body, he can't imagine ever being warm again.

Stepping out where MacDarragh can see him he says, "Anything you can give me would be... appreciated."
 
Twice Cade has had the chance to torture MacDarragh, and twice now has he missed out on it, though any form of mild surprise at the turn of events is missing this time around. Shit, maybe the gangster will wash his hair again too - they're in a shower house, after all. In the freezing weather, it would actually count as torture. Rather uncreatively, the technique is called "water dousing".

But first, he has to suffer through whatever the fuck this clownery is, and that's honestly worse.

"'Appreciated?' Very diplomatic of you," suppressing a shiver, Neil leans back in the chair. If his legs weren't tied up, he'd cross one over the other and get truly comfortable, "And disappointing. I was curious to see if you merited your moronic moniker or not. Guess he's really got you by the balls, though, huh?"

With a snicker, Neil looks in Damien's direction only long enough to watch a frown furrow his features. It's frankly hilarious that the ex-cop and his bitch of a boyfriend are trying to interrogate him all nice-like. Well... part of Neil feels like he would be willing to negotiate with Blumenthal, but when it comes down to the Butcher, like hell is he going to make things easy. Scrutinizing the fucker from head to toe (the fucker who's wearing his clothes), it strikes MacDarragh that he's never known a more annoying person. Other than Viv.

And maybe that's the reason the hitman detests Finch, aside from the infuriating (and baffling) subservience Cade has toward him.

The guy reminds him of his sister. Between the haughty attitude, the dead stare, and the parental issues, Finch is basically the male version of Taylor. And both seem to be desperately latched onto one person without even realizing what makes a relationship a relationship. As evidenced by Kaden deluding himself into thinking what he had with Cadence was anything more than Stockholm syndrome. Or as evidenced by Vivien only ever giving the light of day to the murder machines she calls pets.

Baseline is, both of them are fucking idiots.

And Neil doesn't negotiate with idiots.

"Would knowing where the Black Bitch is fix anything?" in a voice so soft it's condescending, MacDarragh smiles, "Everything that's happened, and that's your main priority?"

"For all you know, she could already be dead."
 
This man hates him.

He sees it once he's finished speaking. The brand of hatred may be apples to oranges between him and Damien - or so Kaden thought. He doesn't appreciate the implication Blumenthal controls him when it should be the other way around either.

Milliseconds after the last word is spoken, Finch's hand is raising to strike across MacDarragh's cheek. It never lands.
Something hooks him, pulls him back. Cade fills the space between him and Neil.

"She's not dead!" He yells pointlessly. Damien becomes a persistently solid obstacle. He prevents Finch's second attempt to put Neil in his place. The force reminds him of Ortiz's hotel, when the same man who's giving him a hopelessly tender and sympathetic look immobilized him.
Against the slippery tiles, he gains no traction aside from pushing himself further into Damien.

"Everyone keeps saying she's dead," he utters over Damien's shoulder. Wilson looks at him awkwardly, his defensive stance shifting as if such an outburst from his boss is so utterly horrible he can't bare it.
"This isn't the first time I've looked for her under the presumption she's dead."

The last time he was in here, he was focused and determined. He tossed Blumenthal aside with little consideration or emotional turbulence.
Now, even with MacDarragh watching and categorizing and memorizing every flaw and weakness, Kaden dips his head into Damien's shoulder. The man still smells like the river. He should have washed him, or found some perfume.
He grips back at Damien's arm, warm wool soft against his finger.

He shoves off from Damien, detangles himself from his restraint.
Guess he's really got you by the balls, though, huh? Neil chortles in his head.

Flattening the wrinkles in his aching chest he orders, "Get him talking."

An unspoken threat hovers in the space after he speaks, but glancing from face to face, everyone knows it would be an idle one. That alone makes him desperate to shove Damien aside and hurt Cade so deeply he forgets MacDarragh entirely.
So, trembling, he turns away. He rips the heavy door open, crackling insulation at the bottom squeaking across the tile. With more force than required he slams it shut behind him.

---

The open door blows a gust inside the shower room, mostly from how hard it slams shut.
Cade steps aside before Neil can decide to kick him or otherwise be an ass. Honestly, he saw it coming. Apparently he's the only one who has an ounce of respect for what Neil can do.

Then again, Kaden used to do it just as good. This was like Godzilla versus King Kong if Godzilla started crying mid fight and everyone else had to just watch and wish they were getting squished under rubble instead.
Cade grits his teeth, rubbing the back of his neck to tamper out the cringe. "I'd still call him Norman Bates."

"You got the car keys?" He asks Damien, who has the 'ol puppy dog eyes after holding Finch back like a badass.
They're both puke worthy. MacDarragh seems like the only satisfied one, the cat that got the canary.

"There's a chance he'll go off and get himself into trouble again," he grunts, crossing his arms, "either barge into a different hitman's apartment or try and kill himself, I dunno. I'm obviously not an expert, but he should wait before taking Medusa's thing. Who knows how that would react with what he's already got, Damien. Lil robot buddies might think he's dying too."
 
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In the deafening silence that follows Kaden's exit, Damien stands immobile staring after the man, torn between wanting to give him his privacy and feeling the urgent need to follow. It's Cade's words cutting through the lingering tension that at last settle the ex-cop's mind. Because based on Kaden's track record... yeah, it's very likely that he'll get himself into trouble. Whether that be by someone else's hand or his own.

"I say let him kill himself," a sing-songy voice bounces off of the shower house's tiles, stopping Damien dead in his tracks, hand on the door, "Honestly, it's mindboggling how neither of you has offed the guy yet."

Glaring back over his shoulder, the ex-cop wishes with all his heart looks could kill. Or at least get the bastard to stop talking. Yet all he gets in return for his contempt is that same unfaltering Cheshire grin MacDarragh always has, "Especially with what you now know he carries."

Jaw clenched, Damien pushes open the door, "Didn't work the first time, it's not going to work now either."

"What a shame," even through chattering teeth the hitman presses further, eyes glinting with something malicious as he snickers, "The whole revenge mission was the only thing that made you even mildly interesting."

Before MacDarragh can spew any more of his vitriol (and before Damien can do something he'll regret), he leaves Cade to pick up the pieces of the failed interrogation.

---

"Kaden?" outside, Damien calls out as his eyes zero in on the fresh footprints the man has left in his wake.

Stepping in them to get through the unplowed snow faster, he follows in the direction the capo took, which is pointedly not back towards the manor. It's towards the car. Giving his thigh's a quick pat-down, the ex-cop breathes a small sigh of relief (turned to vapor in the cold) when in one of the pockets he feels the outline of the key he took earlier to retrieve the duffel bag from the vehicle. Thank fuck for that. Otherwise, he's fairly certain Kaden already would have left.

Though watching the man now, determinedly trying to figure out how to get the car door, Damien is half-convinced Finch is seconds away from breaking into the thing and hotwiring it to drive off anyway.

"Kaden, please wait," the ex-cop stops his brusque march a couple of feet away, "This is what that asshole does, he gets off on causing people distress. Don't listen to him and allow him to make you act rashly."

Maybe it would have been better if Cade questioned the hitman from the beginning - engaging in any kind of conversation with MacDarragh leads to, well... this. With the tempered tone and caution of someone approaching a wounded animal, Damien pushes on. That's what Kaden is right now, isn't it? Wounded, hurting, his mess of dark hair buffeted in the wind matching his distress, "We have a plan, right? Just give Cade the time to get the information we need out of MacDarragh."

The ex-cop doesn't doubt that Finch is already more than well aware of these facts. Still, he reiterates them, taking a step forward, "If you act now, on your own, you're not only going to be jeopardizing yourself but possibly Delilah too. And I for one also believe she's alive."

Because Ortiz wouldn't allow the woman to be killed. Hopefully. Even if she is slowly dying.

"We need to have patience."
 
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MacDarragh's shoes aren't made for the foot and a half snow covering the Siren's forgotten estate.
Neither are they made for Kaden's feet.

He remembers he doesn't have the car keys when he's already a foot away. The thought of going back is as futile as it is embarrassing. He's known since he plucked a fox masked Damien from under a bridge that the man had an inordinate level of influence on him.

It is old news.

He's shuffling through the powder with a leg half covered in a sheet of melting snow when Damien finds him. Somewhere there is a rock he can dislodge from the ground and use to smash the window open.
The fountain stands not a few feet away, frozen icicles hanging in want of being cracked away and thrown into a car window.

Tucking numb fingers underarm Kaden says loud enough to be heard, "Don't patronize me."

It's infantilism at its best, particularly with the tone he can't help but use. Would Blumenthal practice his restraint on Finch again? He wants to think he wouldn't, that the man would let him be to ruin his life as he likes. The man's voice is treacherously soft, even as he raises it against the wind. His every-eyes deceivingly gentle.

"And don't touch me," he says, and looks off into the trees surrounding the mansion. They're pale bones, reaching up to the sky and cutting the sunlight into strips that fall evenly through the untouched fields of snow. Besides the occasion howl of the wind, everything is perfectly still, perfectly quiet. The world at peace.
"Everyone is always touching me!"

"And I know MacDarragh's tactics," he proclaims to Damien as much as to this lost corner of the earth, "I don't need you to tell me how to do something I've done for years, with people I've had to deal with for years."

He could say if he had had free reign to do as he liked, it would have gone differently. But that's not true.
If he had half the sense he should, he would have known Neil wouldn't be receptive to him with or without pain. Flattery or Cadence would have been the best routes, but he ignored them both.

"And...I'm losing him. Lost him. To Neil. And when I try and organize the timeline to find where it started I realize I never had him in the first place," he admits to the balls of snow clinging to his ankles.
"And that I could have lost you just as easily if I kept you against your will, too. The harder I try to keep people in my life the faster they slip away."

Or maybe it's him. Not what he does to entertain and keep them, but who he is as an individual. Even Pawl's gone.
He doesn't even know where his sweet queen is, he hasn't even asked.
He hasn't seen her since that night.

"And there is nothing I can do about it and you took me away from her!" he screams, and feels his throat ache. It feels like nothing in this wide open space. He is a pitifully small thing. He huffs, pushing his blown hair from his face.

"You just...took me away. When I was dying I didn't care because at least then it was over," he admits, choking on tears that aren't there. Choking on nothing.

"I just want to be dead, or her to be dead so it can be over! And I hate myself for that. And I hate her for dying," he says through gritted teeth soaked in venom, "I hate her so damn much and I will never forgive her for dying!"

The persistent pain in his chest is merciless.

"And I know in fifteen years time it's still going to hurt," he spits to the man who knows, "It is never going to stop hurting, Damien."
 
"I'm not patronizing you-" the words come out feeble and uncertain, barely audible under the biting wind and the equally biting way Kaden shouts at Damien; at the world that will only reply back with uncaring silence.

Contrasted against the stark white of their surroundings, Finch is a lonely figure in black. A disheveled raven, grieving a death he should have had months to prepare for but was denied the opportunity. And so Delilah's fate has come for the capo the same way Michael's did for Damien - a sudden and horrible reality. Once upon a time in what seems like another life, when he was convinced the woman was dead, the idea someone could relate to it all had felt... nearly comforting. But now, bombarded by a stream of emotions he knows painfully well, the only thing Damien feels is terrified.

An exclamation rips out of his chest, "I'm sorry!"

The coals that are Kaden's irises burn Damien with their judgment. Looking down in shame, the ex-cop quickly shoves his hands in his pockets - not in an attempt to stave off the cold, but to show he doesn't intend to touch the man. He never meant to do anything Finch didn't want, not intentionally. Yet it feels like everything Damien does only hurts the people around him, one way or another. Even now his attempts at soothing make matters worse, and all he can do is pitifully watch as someone he cares for breaks. Damien's stomach turns at the thought he's part of the reason why. It's something he'll likely never get over.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me."

As much as he is aching for forgiveness.

"I just need you to know I'm sorry. Whether you came with me or not was supposed to be your choice... I wish someone had held me back at the hotel, like when you stopped me from hurting Genevieve," it feels insane to hear such sentiment in his own voice. Of course he's not referring to Finch leaving him bound and alone, but (as much as it makes some dark, disgusting corner of his mind writhe in protest) Damien realizes doing what he planned to the Siren would have been a point of no return. Partners hold each other back when one of them is about to do something foolish. That is, unless one of them turns on the other.

"Yet what happened happened, and I can't take it back. The only thing I can do is regret it," Damien breathes in, gathering up his resolve to meet Kaden's eyesight once more as his eyebrows set into a furrow, "What I don't regret is the purpose behind it."

"You were ready to throw your life away, Kaden. Just like now. I know it's selfish, but I needed to protect you!" because he can't lose anyone else, he can't go through that again. Against his will, the ex-cop's tone raises more than it needs, "And Delilah wanted to do the same! What she and I did was wrong. Honestly, I think half of the shit she's done is wrong, even if in her mind it was for your sake."

"But fucking hell does she love you!"

So much so that the sole thing that woman seems concerned about while a disease consumes her is her son's well-being once she's gone. It still would have been better if she'd been honest with Kaden from the start - if she'd allowed him to be by her side instead of showing her affection in the most convoluted and needlessly painful way imaginable. However, part of Damien can't help thinking that his own biological mother is not even half the parent Delilah has been.

"And yes, it's never going to stop hurting. Not if you let her dying define her. Define you."

The way Damien let Michael's death define him. It's not the fact that his revenge in his Kell's name is the only thing that makes him "interesting"... it's the fact that, after all these years, it's the only thing that makes him him. Taking root deep at his core, it helped the ex-convict survive as much as it slowly ate away at him, but now, leaking out more and more with each passing day, he's afraid if he's going to be left with anything at all once his motivation for carrying on dissipates. It's like he's allowed the hatred to hollow him out, the same way he's allowed it to hollow out the memory of his best friend.

"We both know just how much people like Delilah mean, yet if we can appreciate the simple fact they were a part of our life in the first place... Maybe 15 years down the line them being gone will still hurt, but it will hurt less."
 
The humiliation of falling apart is hardly lessened by Damien's gentle face and enormous patience. It's almost infuriating how benevolent he remains in sub zero temperatures.
Finch tucks his chin to his chest, cold inside and out. The outburst leaves him hollowed out and numb, and it feels like there's miles between him and the warmth and future Damien's spilling out for him.

Every perfect thing Damien gives him slips past him like water lost between fingers.

He recalls a late night drink with Delilah where she spilled her frustrations regarding Ortiz.
'Our fights make me feel like a wife beater. He never yells, the worst he ever does is hold me. And I just feel...' She had said, pinching the pin feathers on the bird who never got enough of her attention. The back of its head had always been a series of crumbling keratin.

Now he knows what she meant, how someone could ever find themselves frustrated with someone so unconditionally calm and manipulative.
Bless Damien for hurting him so deeply; otherwise he'd truly hate him for being perfect.

Instead he's searching with his eyes a sizable chunk of ice for that car window. He can't just stand here. The helplessness of it all makes him want to scream again, and maybe he will when he can feel his face.
He's so tired of being so cold.

Despite himself, he smiles.

"You went from patronizing me to lecturing."

He won't make it.

He can't do it.

"You're still so self righteous," he says in a tight lipped sigh. "I can't do fifteen years with the oh so comforting promise I come out as you, Damien. With your flexible morals and holier-than-thou status."

He abandons the car to be face to face with this man, each step reminding him of his frozen toes.
Blumenthal's face is just faintly dirty, in a way you wouldn't notice unless you knew him. There's muck from the river in his hair, drying into sand. His ears are bright pink, his lips shades paler.
He could have died. For nothing.

"You won't kill me. Even if Medusa's serum doesn't work, you won't. But if I was a nobody - if you didn't know me you wouldn't hesitate. Unless I was a child, or maybe a cute looking dog you would do whatever you had to. The same as I would, but you hold me to such a high standard. Is it because I'm the blood thirsty capo and you're a blue blooded saint, I wonder? I keep you safe from the Nakurra and you take me from Delilah, out of spite. It's the same thing, aside from my motivation being...."

He pauses then.
"Being worry for your well-being."

He shakes his head, scoffing coldly.

"Don't give me a speech on something even you haven't figured out."

He glowers into Damien's face. "It's fucking rude."
 
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I can't do fifteen years with the oh-so-comforting promise I come out as you.

Any continuation of his "speech" dies in Damien's throat. Kaden is closer now, and yet somehow he feels further away than ever, far beyond his reach. Fruitlessly, the ex-convict's mind struggles to think of something to fix this - what would Nat say? What would Mike say? In the end, he has to come to terms with the fact that talking isn't going to help. Damien is woefully unprepared for this situation.

Just like he is unprepared to be dissected by Finch.

"Is this what you think of me?" it's barely a whisper, a pointless question Damien doesn't need (or want) an answer to. Because he already has one. Frozen in space, he stares wide-eyed under the scrutiny of Kaden's glower. This isn't the capo giving him "compliments" in a light-hearted jab - this is him digging at the core of his being and calling it out for what it is - an empty mess with no identity.

It hurts to know that Kaden knows.

Like the space of his pockets is all of a sudden too constricting, Damien takes his hands out of his pockets.

"You're right, about who I am," when he tries to be ruthless, he's not ruthless enough. When he tries to be kind, he's not kind enough either. Since the beginning, he has been trying to be both only to end up being neither. Fuck, he wishes he really could be this blue-blooded saint the capo purports he views himself as, yet he's not and never will be again. Hands balling up at his sides, Damien grimaces with a snarl, "I hate the fucking person I have become, and you're right to be mad at me."

"But don't make up bullshit excuses for keeping me locked up out of "worry for my well-being"."

When he knows full well he should temper himself, the ex-cop can't help raising his voice more and more, frustration and helplessness carrying him forward, "You did that because you never had a modicum of respect for me! You never viewed me as an equal! Unless it was convenient, to you my place has always been at an arm's length."

Damien wishes he could claim he doesn't consciously comprehend what happens next. Yet, he knows full well the source of the lingering numbness in his fingers - contrasted against the black of his borrowed turtleneck, an explosion of white adorns the capo's chest where the snowball Damien lobbed collided.

It feels like the first thing Damien has done that has actually reached Kaden.

Exhaling sharply, he bends to scoop up more snow into his palms, "Do you want me put away somewhere now too? Do you want me out of the picture as you hurt yourself for the nth time within the span of three fucking days?"
 
A millennia ago he had told Damien what he thought of him. It had been the first snapping of his composure. The least destructive way he could vent the smoke from the failing machinations of his mind was to take it out on the ludicrous acquaintance asking his help.

Then it hadn't bothered Damien at all, water off a smooth stone. This time he sees the hurt in the man's eyes and he cruelly revels in it, the way someone might push into a livid bruise.

"Don't be ridiculous," he begins, watching as this inane man begins to back away from him. Not far, and not to turn his back on him. Only to gain an ounce of distance.
For whatever reason, Damien stooping over to grab a palm full of snow with his red hands doesn't register. It's so... unexpected.

Childish, and so it can't be it. Even as the white missile is lobbing towards him, he denies the plausibility of it all.

His next breath comes in shrill, jaw dropping at the totally obvious and yet completely unanticipated attack. The immediate cold is muted by the barrier of his top, but loose fractures of snow splash into his face like little thorns of fire.

"Damien," he admonishes, body stiff.

Now that was rude.

"That's assault," he says, scraping the bits of slush off his chest before it can completely melt. It sticks to his fingers, and he has to whip it into the air to dislodge it.
Blumenthal has already reloaded. He hasn't wound back yet, but the ball is packed together into his hands. His poor cold hands.

Kaden steps back, offering open palms to show surrender. His back meets with the car sooner than would be favorable.
"I do. If I could keep you from seeing all of this, I would," he says, easing to the ground.

But I would miss you dearly.

Damien pulls his arm back and Kaden stops.

"We aren't equals," he tells the ex-cop, and must reinstate his position as surrendered by stretching out his arm in front of him.
"Or at least we weren't. I've made and lost more money in a year than you've seen in your life. I owned a skyscraper, Damien. We weren't the same, and you had no appreciation for that fact. Do you understand how big a target you could have become? And when you weren't smiling at me or touching me, you were alone. In your apartment where the walls are made of paper and the door is composed of more mold than wood."

The snow bites at his trembling fingers as he leisurely scoops a handful. It is unfortunately quite cold, and unwilling to bind together unless it burns in his hand.
So he lets it burn.

"I won't apologize for keeping you safe in a situation you couldn't have understood, and I would guiltlessly do it again."

He feigns a move.

Damien flings his mound of snow. Twisting aside, it smashes into the car door with a plastic thud. A twinge of pain in his chest requires he braces himself with a hand in the snow.
The concern that freezes Damien (and his missed shot) allow Kaden to volley back.
It finds it's target, splaying into Blumenthal's upper chest. Finch smiles, an unexpected giddiness making him act like a fool.
With earnest, he rapidly starts on another snowball.
 
"Don't be dramatic," Damien rolls his eyes at Kaden calling a snowball hitting him assault. How is he the ridiculous one?

But dramatics have always been this man's forte, haven't they? Like the way he holds up his hands in what is obviously fake surrender, or the way he faints to the side as Damien flings another snowball when words prove to be an insufficient response.

The most dramatic thing of it all, however, is when the capo strikes back. The ex-cop doesn't see it coming - he didn't even consider the possibility of it, foolishly. So when something hard collides in a puff of frost, all Damien can do is take an instinctual step back, gasping in surprise.

Kaden is smiling.

At the sight, he grows completely still. This is not an expression he sees on the man often, as much as he wishes the case was different. Still, how strange to witness it here, now, as Kaden goes about scooping up more snow. Despite the cold spot where the snowball hit him, the ex-cop feels the beginning of something warm in his chest.

He reminds himself the two are having an argument at the very last moment - the second volley Kaden throws wheezes past Damien's ear as he sprints off to the side to hide behind the fountain. Ducking at his newfound cover with his back pressed to it, he scoffs, "Oh, like you weren't alone in your tower, surrounded by shallow excess in a home that looked barely lived-in. The only good thing about that place was the view,"

And the fact you were in it.

"You were the one that touched me first! You were the one that called me your partner!"

Kaden Finch is truly the most stubborn person Damien has ever known, though he himself is an incredibly close second. Guess that's a similarity the two share, as much as the capo keeps harping on the differences that the ex-cop has always been painfully aware of, as much as he's tried to bridge them, "But thank you for making it so abundantly clear what you actually think of my capabilities and my intelligence."

Peeking around the frozen lump that once used to look like a dolphin statue, Damien tries to spot his opponent only to get another liberal dousing of white powder as a third snowball hits the fountain's centerpiece with an explosion. Retreating, the ex-cop ruffles snowflakes out of his hair with a huff. Oh, if Kaden wants a fight he'll give him one.

Working rapidly, Damien starts forming up a whole row of snowballs, placing them on the lip of the fountain in preparation. A sniffle briefly interrupts the process, and the ex-cop rubs at his numb nose with the back of his equally numb hand. Between taking a dip in the frozen river and this, he's probably going to catch a cold. He's also probably going to need yet another change of clothes. Kaden too. This can't be good for the capo, especially not with how every now and again he keeps wincing in pain. But, well, suppose he's not in such unbearable anguish if he can keep throwing projectiles.

Exhaling, the ex-cop readies himself, "I understood the situation perfectly well - going against the Nakurra in a turf war was an idiotic move. Even so, I would have stood by your side against them. All I wanted was a chance to be useful."

Risking getting hit, Damien peeks around once more, sending a snowball flying. Not long after, another one follows, and another one.

"For the record, I wouldn't do what I did to you again," Damien calls out and has to believe he really could have the control not to repeat something so hurtful, no matter the circumstances, "I would try and fucking be there for you instead! There, have some more self-righteousness!"
 
This man makes it a personal challenge to misunderstand him.

After firing at Damien's retreating back, he follows suit to find cover on the opposite side of the fountain.
A build up of snow as made it adequate shelter, and an ideal place to reload.

"You kept me safe after I learned what happened to Delilah!" he proclaims, like it's some sort of accusation and it is. In a way. It was the precursor to calling Damien his partner. What else do you call someone who has your back? He's had it since the night they met.
And yet the man sees fit to accuse Finch of categorizing his abilities and intelligence as cheap.

"I've never had support I didn't steal or pay for. I so humbly apologize for getting enthusiastic, but you never corrected me! And your hands were so dry, how could I leave you like that?"
Peering over the shelf, he slings another ball.
A missed ball from Damien hits the dolphin. One of the sizable icicles - the car window breaking kind - clatters to the fountain basin to disappear in a cloud of white.

He was alone before he met Damien.

There was always someone bothering him, someone who needed him. He was never left alone, but he was always so achingly lonely.
Again he scoops more snow up, watching over his shoulder with the smile that keeps sneaking onto his face. He offers himself cover fire (which would be risky if their weapons were anything but snow), and sieges the fountain.

He catches Damien's hand, misses his wrist by inches. It happens in a flash, fingers too numb to electrocute him with stimulus at the closeness. It's simply closeness.
Damien pulls back.
The snow beneath Kaden's foot shifts away like a magic rug, and much too soon after the first time, he's pressed into Damien.
The sudden impact is too much even for him, and they both go down.
The foot deep snow cradles up to snatch them in paws of softness. Or, with Damien beneath him, it registers as softness. It's a thud at best, but poor Blumenthal wheezes under him.

"I can't lose you, too!" He says, glaring down at Damien's rosey cheeks and eyes that have lost all color. There's flecks of snow in his eyelashes, sparkles against the intense void of his eyes. They're truly grey now, in this place of nothingness. There's nothing for them to hold, nothing to reflect.

"I feel like I never knew fear until I met you," he says softly. Dread, yes, a suffocating and foreboding knowledge that whatever happened it would not end well. There's a dead man's comfort in that certain torture.

Damien scares him with possibility.

Frowning he informs,"Which is an absurd thing to say considering how inexplicably difficult you can be. I am once again inexcusably cold."

And ridiculously and insanely, possibly, happy.

He's firm and solid beneath him, the only warm thing for miles. He's there, in a way few people ever have been and he can't begin to explain that.

Kaden scoops the walls of the snow around Damien, pushes it right into this man's face. The delicate touch of his fingers skimming skin a completely mute experience, save for the barely there pressure that indicates he touched something soft. For good measure, he rubs it into his hair as well.

"You've saved me again and again, how could you think I thought that of you?" He says to the sputtering mess that used to be Damien's face.
"Excusing this disappointing romp, you've proved yourself again and again to be a satisfactory fighter and a reliable partner."

"I want you with me. Right now, more than ever."
 
The overcast sky in its milky otherworldliness gets blocked out by the silhouette of the man above him and the snow he half-buries his face in. Damien can barely feel it at this point. He can barely feel or see anything, really, save for Kaden's weight pinning him down, fingers mussing up his hair with the same thoroughness they've fixed it up before. Even in destruction, Finch is meticulous.

The two are overwhelmingly close for the second time in a matter of hours.

If he'd known running around like kids would breach the distance between them, Damien would have thrown that snowball much much sooner. Maybe he would have led with that.

"You're so unfair," the mound of snow that is the ex-cop mutters, risking a mouthful of snow as a short, breathless laugh escapes him.

Moments ago Finch was splaying him open, digging at the parts of Damien that make him feel insufficient. Now he's still splaying him open, in the most devastatingly meaningful way. The capo plays dirty, and the ex-cop can't find it in himself to protest beyond a huff somewhere between disbelief and happiness. It's worrying just how much mere words can affect Damien, or maybe it's the fact that Kaden is the one saying them.

That warmth from earlier flares up in his chest once more.

When he should also be inexcusably cold (and he is - there's snow even in his clothes at his point), paradoxically his skin feels like it's on fire. Maybe in a second he'll burn through the snow like a piece of heated metal and sink both of them into a pocket where all sound is muffled save for his own sped-up heartbeat and Kaden's voice.

It's embarrassing to admit that he would like that, the same way it's embarrassing to admit that he likes how Finch is fencing him in right now. Some giggly part of Damien whispers for him to stay still just a little longer, but when the capo dares to call their romp "disappointing"... Well, he can't let Finch win without putting up a proper struggle.

There's no technique to what Damien does this time around, no police training. Simply childish wrestling. Hands latching onto Kaden's top, he brings the capo in only to roll the both of them off to the side, collapsing yet another patch of untouched snow. The world spins, and in an exhale the ex-cop finds himself staring down at Kaden, into the abyss of his eyes framed by dark strands of hair stuck at odd angles, pale skin red with frost.

He's as beautiful as he is confusing.

"It's not always easy to figure out what you think, not at all when you don't talk about it. I'll have you know you're incredibly difficult too, and a weirdo to boot," Damien states, tone more light than it is chastising, "Guess I'm a bigger weirdo for liking that. You are so much more than I expected - you've shown me kindness and believed me when others didn't."

Vigorously, the ex-cop tries to shake his head free of the snow still sticking to it, half-melted clumps of it landing on Kaden with a splat.

"I didn't think I had anything left to lose before I met you," but he does, and so much - people he cares for and that support him despite his countless flaws. Hell, some small, naive part of him secretly thinks that there really can be a future after all of this, and it's not just optimistic nonsense to hope.

How strange that it took knowing Kaden to realize what was at stake - in many ways, this man makes Damien feel a little more like himself.

"It's been so long since I've had someone to rely on and have them rely on me..." brows furrowed, his voice is both soft and resolute when he speaks, "I want the same - I want to be with you, right now, more than ever. So, please, don't leave. Not again."

Damien's hold on the turtleneck releases, slowly reaching for the spot where his partner got shot. Where it still hurts. He pauses at the last moment, fingers hovering inches away not daring to touch - biting at the inside of his cheek with an uncertain expression, the ex-cop realizes he's being a bit ridiculous considering how tangled up the two already are. And yet he keeps his hand away, attention returning to hold Kaden's gaze.

Can I touch you?

That's what he means to ask, it is. Yet somewhere along the pathway from his brain's speech center to his voice box the message gets horribly, terribly mixed up, and by the time Damien realizes it's already too late.

"Can I kiss you?"
 
Without warning or justification, he is viciously attacked.
The world whirls.
The only thing that stays clear is Damien.
The snow is in fact quite supple, molding up against his back. He sinks, pushed in all together by this man. He's all he sees.

Like a wet dog the man shakes his hair and Kaden scowls disapprovingly at the lumps of fallen snow on his chest.
It's the opposite of distinguishing, but Damien's voice is soft with intent and Finch can't summon more than an offended gasp at his earnest gesture.

"We're frustratingly like-minded," he says, to Damien's confession. The man is traumatized from his loss, and so is Kaden. He can't stand to be without Kaden, and Kaden can't tolerate having him to lose.
"As long as you promise to get back up if shot, poisoned or stabbed I'll stay."

His presence is comforting, the pressure is soothing.

It's a troubling fact that his chest has been hurting, and yet the idea of Damien touching the source doesn't make him flinch. It's as though he feels he might be cured by the touch.

But it never happens.

Something much more happens instead.

Searching Damien's eyes, the seconds pass by. There's an odd look on the man's face, like he doesn't realize what he's said until it's already been put in the air, never to be taken back.

"Where?" He asks.
 
Damien scoff-laughs at Kaden's requirements for staying.

"Promise," he says back, making an agreement both of them know can never be a guarantee, though he'll sure as hell try to stay true to his word. A second later the corners of the ex-cop's mouth curl up into a half-smirk, and very purposefully he adds, tone sarcastic, "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Any and all sarcasm or confidence has disappeared from his expression by the time he asks the dreaded question he didn't actually mean to ask.

Embarrassment settles in his limbs, locking them in place as he just keeps staring down at Kaden, unable to move or blink, thoughts running a mile an hour without ever coming to any productive end. Several times Damien considers apologizing and stating he didn't mean to say that - that's what he should do. But instead, stupidly he waits for an answer.

When one actually comes, it only causes his embarrassment to skyrocket, same as his blood pressure.

Who asks something like that?! Honestly, it won't be a shooting, or a poisoning, or a stabbing that kills him. It will be Kaden Finch.

Forget it - Damien almost spits that out, almost pulls away. The only thing that stops him is the thought that... he's unsure if Kaden is simply pulling his leg, or if that was a genuine question. Frustrated with himself, the ex-cop sighs.

"Where do you think, Kaden?" he quietly asks instead of being honest, eyes briefly darting to the man's lips. This is terrible. He's acting like a teenager again, but can anyone really blame him? He hasn't exactly had to confess anything of the sort to anyone in years, because he hasn't felt anything of the sort for anyone in years.

When he can't stand how much of a disaster he's being, Damien looks off to the side, brows furrowed, "You can just say 'no'."
 
A shadow darkens Damien's face. Kaden shivers, and finds the man's sleeve to curl his fingers into. The ex-cop's face couldn't be more red and Finch knows he's embarrassed him now.

"No, no no," he starts, swallowing, "Thank you for asking."

Folding coils of wool in his hand he mutters, "...I would like a kiss from you."

And that is the truth.

The last thing he would ever want to do is push the man away through something as simple as a spurred advancement.
With hands beyond feeling he guides Damien back with a gentle touch along his jaw. To show enthusiasm he sits up, even though it will leave his ass damp once again.
There's no sensation in his red tipped fingers; he can freely caress Damien's cheek with his palm. He only knows the skin there is wet and freeze drying from the sunlight.

He leads his lips to the pair he's looked at many times. The delightful cupid's bow he's traced with his eyes now available to be touched. When they meet, his lips move automatically but not in the correct place. He catches more of Damien's bottom lip than is proper.
Correcting, he can't help but smile at the complete physical numbness.
One could think of it as disappointing, but it reminds him of the fun they've had and he snorts into the kiss. The hot air bounces back into his face and he's reminded of their proximity.

Unasked, butterflies torment his stomach.

When it ends and they part, Kaden opens his eyes to take a soft breath that swirls away in front of him.

Holding Damien between his hands, he savours this moment of unrestrained touch.
He always knew Damien was sexually attracted to him. In fact he rather enjoyed the attention, as he always does. This evolution was only a matter of time.
With the back of a finger, he traces the bridge of Damien's nose. It's charming in profile, and enjoyable to know it's shape personally. Impulsive perhaps, but he indulges in the gesture regardless. Why shouldn't he have what he wants if Damien is going to request what he wants?

Men...

"I can give you oral once we're settled inside, but I'm afraid I'm not in the mood to offer much else."
 
Kaden doesn't say 'no'. Well, he does - several 'no- s' that are actually a 'yes'. He would like a kiss from Damien, that's what he said. And so he does.

The kiss swallows up Damien's surprised inhale. It almost doesn't seem real at first, what with all tactile sensations stolen by the cold. All, save for the pressure of Kaden's touch. This really is happening, isn't it? Eyes closing around a shiver, Damien leans into the kiss, one hand moving to Kaden's back while the other one rest on the spot he meant to touch earlier, feeling the tangible body beneath it and holding it close. This feels like something Damien's wanted for a while, and when Kaden smiles, snorting, he can't find it in himself to be embarrassed over the fact, far too busy smiling as well.

When the kiss ends (somehow simultaneously far too soon and at the perfect time) and the ex-cop once again takes in the sight of the man in front of him still touching his face so lightly, he can't help but think that this has been a long time coming. He should have expected it, just like he should have expected for Kaden to follow it with his trademark out-of-pocket-ness.

"Kaden!" Damien's voice cracks with the exclamation, thoroughly taken aback and befuddled. This is the most out-of-pocket thing he's said so far, which is an achievement in and of itself. The guy is constantly one-upping himself, at the expense of the ex-cop's composure. If he had pearls to clutch right now, he would, "What are you talking about, that hadn't even crossed my mind!"

Though now it is very much crossing his mind, much to his shame.

If you let me return the favor, an intrusive thought barges into Damien's mind like it's kicking in a door and he has to shake his head to banish it, eyes squeezed shut as he cringes. The capo's proximity once again feels overwhelming, the ex-cop suddenly self-conscious over everything - every breath he takes reminds him of the ghost of a kiss on his lips; of the way the two are touching each other; of the way he is still sat on Finch's thighs.

What possessed the man to even proposition him with such an offer, and in such a way?

Delilah said Kaden doesn't have a huge appetite for sex.

Opening his eyes, Damien searches the man's face intently with the faintest of thoughtful frowns, muttering, "Thank you for the kiss, but I'm not expecting you to "offer" anything. Especially if you don't want to."

Palm still planted on Kaden's chest, Damien gently reaffirms its presence before finally pulling away to stand back up.

"Not to mention we're technically not alone," with a huff, he gazes over his shoulder in the direction of the shower house. Giving his numb legs a quick pat down that doesn't do much of anything for his soaked clothes, Damien turns back towards Kaden, extending his arm for the capo to hold onto if he wanted, "Should really get settled somewhere inside and dry up, though, before we both turn into icicles."
 
If only it weren't so cold, if only circumstances were different he could have Damien to himself and enjoy him thoroughly. He's missed the man's company. Of course they've hardly been apart since the raid, but they haven't had any time to be themselves. It's been one thing after another.

Damien looks at him incredulously, as if Kaden's the odd one for pointing out the specifics of this evolution. He does like the way he gets so flustered. Something about the outburst is endearing.

As if it hasn't, he thinks, but for once he can't bring himself to spoil this, even if it will eventually come with strings attached.
The kiss had to happen. He's glad it happened.
He's glad Damien's touching him, in a way that doesn't hurt. He hopes it never hurts.

"Thank you," he says, "I appreciate your patience."

Gratefully, he accepts Damien's hand up. He can't feel anything. Only the painful throbbing of extremities that simultaneously don't seem to exist to his brain anymore. It's a bizarre sensation. If Damien were to give him a firm push he'd hit the floor and shatter into pieces of bloody ice.

The reminder of it all - not just Neil but all of it - comes too soon. Once he's upright it all floods back. Finch glares at the shower house and with a look of disgust begins wacking the snow off his thighs and rear. He's cold, confused, disgruntled, wet, and half a dozen other things. At least some of those can be fixed with Damien's suggestion.
"Agreed."

With a final huff he twists away. He passes the car without breaking into it.
 
---

The chair Neil's sitting on is one of those cheap garden ones, the kind you pull like hell to get from the ground.
It must be part of mother nature's revenge; taking back whatever stays still too long. It's not just dead people, apparently.
The shower house is moldy, drafty and Cade's pretty sure the dark mound in the corner used to be something alive. There's dormant weeds growing in every shower drain, traveling up along the caulk and finding purchase in the shelves that used to hold shampoos and conditioners.

The mansion is haunted - especially after poor Wight (are they just going to close the window and leave her there? What the fuck are they supposed to do?) found her way out. But this place is zombie-apocalypse-esque.

Maybe that's why he steps behind Neil to unclip the collar. Fantasy aside, the fucker will bite him. The thought sends a chill down his spine, and partly because he knows it'd be MacDarragh's fucked up way of reuniting with him now that they're alone. Maybe, or just keeps him on his toes, which might as well be 'hello'.

He's never seen Finch do that.

"Man, you're ballsy," he murmurs, anything to unwind the tension. Neil's smile both helps and hinders him.
Man, he's so badass.
"You play too much."

Fuck. He can't help the cringe as he slips the collar/bracelet over his wrist. The psycho is out of the danger zone, probably, unless he says something stupid to Kaden again and Saint Damien isn't there to hold him back. Man... The fucking Butcher held back by Blu boy. Insult to injury if you ask him.
Not that Cade wouldn't have gotten involved - he's put too many eggs in this basket to let Kaden crack them. The guy's demolition enough of his life anyways.

He would have intervened.

He wasn't human, he wants to tell Neil. Like an itch in the brain he wants to tell him Finch is just having an off-day.
Cade didn't lose his soul and dignity to a bitch boy who just ran away at the mention of his mommy.

"Well," he says instead, heading to Neil's bag of toys. As far as evil doctor bags go, it's bad. Maybe he's a freak or maybe the taboo of stuff like this draws everyone's morbid curiosity.
It's like a dark pit in there, with every horrible thing you could think of including the wine opener slash knee popper. Cade gnaws on the fat of his cheek and thinks about burrowing a hole there one day.

"I still need you to talk, Mister Bond."

Neil could leave the cruddy chair, if he had a plan beyond fish flopping on the floor for a while. His hands are a mess Cade's going to have to work through later, and it's going to be uncomfortable because that's the nature of duct tape on human skin. Especially cold skin.

Picking up an honest to God battery powdered drill he asks, "Why do you hate Damien so much?"

It's easier than asking for Delilah's whereabouts and it's leagues easier than asking if Neil's still mad at him.
After MacDarragh's MeToo movement in the trunk, Cade's had a hard time gaging where all the chess pieces are. It's not that they're too grown up to be playing with rope, it's that the guy might actually still be rubbed the wrong way.
It doesn't take (all) the fun away, but it does put it into a different tune.

He presses down on the thick yellow trigger. Lazily, the drill bit spins. A harder squeeze makes it squeal.
"Oh, and please be honest. I'd hate to have to screw you."
 
"Oh, you'd love to screw me," Neil snickers over the whirr of the electric drill, grinning with a wink, "And be screwed by me. As has been established."

A person can never play too much, not when playing is so fun. Man, he knew the Butcher would buckle if the right buttons got pressed (everyone does), but not that fast. It's almost disappointing. Almost. To think it took so little to make one of his oh-so-scary captors run away with his tail between his legs, and a second one to follow him like a worried mother hen. If he weren't freezing, MacDarragh would have given Kaden and Damien a nice cackle as a send-off.

Instead, he settles for smirking at Cade, eyes half-slitted in self-satisfaction as he slowly takes in the man. Look at what I did to your Butcher.

It miffs Neil a little when the gangster doesn't seem to be in a commiserating mood over how hilarious what just happened is.

"We're finally alone and what you want to do is talk about another man? Harsh," the hitman teases, still maintaining a cutting smile even as his tone is colored by shades of vexation, "Do I need a reason?"

It's the same answer he gave the ex-cop when he asked, and, honestly, what more do Cadence or Blumenthal want from him? Not everything requires some elaborate, deep explanation; not everything has to do with someone murdering your best friend or your pet or whatever. Sometimes you just can't stand the look of some fucker's face.

Neil scoffs. He's not talking under the threat of "getting screwed" - Cade won't do it. He's talking because he's fucking annoyed, "I've told you already - he's an unfinished assignment. But would it surprise you to know he and I used to be acquaintances? "Work friends", on his end, anyway. Then Blumenthal got a little too close when one of my partners had an... unfortunate accident at the docks," the hitman notes nonchalantly. One of the worst parts of police work, even before the absolute boredom of climbing career ranks, is being forced to work with people that can't keep up. In cases like that, you gotta cut your string before they drag you down.

"He connected the dots, on that and some other things. Then the coward, instead of reporting me, came around trying to fucking talk. Can you imagine the audacity?"

It was then that MacDarragh decided he was going to break the man before putting him out of his misery, and he was going to take his sweet time having fun with it. An assassination ordered by the High-Rise would have been the perfect culmination of his work, what with targeting Damien's precious Michael too. Then Moore just had to intervene... Well, despite the 15 years spent in prison not being part of the plan, it has also been unexpectedly entertaining watching someone so sanctimonious spiral down to rock bottom in the name of revenge, relying on people a younger cop would have balked at. Wonder if he makes excuses for who Finch is.

"Bottom line is, you and I both know what Damien is like."

"I thought you hated him as much as I do. If not more, based on the last time we talked about the guy," back at the villa when Cade nearly had an emotional breakdown at the mere mention of Blumenthal's name.

Sure, maybe their reasons for hating him are fundamentally different, but at least they were on the same wavelength in terms of wanting to get rid of him.

"Now you claim our only chance is with that dope and the fucking Butcher," the hitman spits as his body is racked by another shiver at a breeze coming through the shower house's shitty insulation. He's so cold it feels like his skin will start fusing with the chair. Not that Neil is going to allow his discomfort to show too much, of course. Plus, his anger from earlier is still helping to keep him good and warm.

He's still furious, about all of it - the betrayal, the ambush, the trunk - though the fact that the gangster has chosen to ally himself with these people bugs Neil more than anything, especially when it's so evident that Finch gives zero fucks about anything other than the Black Bitch - if it came down to a decision between rescuing her and getting payback against the High-Rise, MacDarragh is certain he would compromise everything. Everyone.

It's the same type of shit Viv would pull.

And yet Wolf claimed he's trying to escape from the fate she has in store for him with Finch's and Blumenthal's help.

Neil's expression turns severe as he glares at Cade without so much as a glance at the drill, voice laden with accusatory disbelief, "How can you not hate Kaden?"
 
"I do hate 'im," he says, and some part of him he's sure Neil can see knows that isn't all true. It's such a sinking feeling he turns his back to MacDarragh, and sets the drill down. Somewhere in this bag is a plastic container filled with different drill bits. The one attached now is about the thickness of Cade's pinky. It's got spiraling grooves all the way down it's length.
It's hard to imagine the attachments getting any bigger than that.

The sensation of Finch's cold gaping mouth on his makes him scrub at his lips again.
"I really, really hate him."

Is this what hate is? Siding with him and playing bitch? In front of Neil, who's the only one here making any sense?

"I do kinda like Damien though." Filling in the overbearing silence is better than waiting for Neil to pry him apart. He'd be gentle, but gentleness is really just a synonym for slow. It's Finch who gets the viper bite from Neil, not Cade. Strong, perfect bastard.
Even now he's sitting half naked, freezing his ass off, and he doesn't even flinch. Doesn't flinch as he takes Cade's sorry attempt at flirting and strips it naked to be that much more damning. It makes him, the interrogator, blush like mad. As if they haven't rolled in the hay enough already. Why does he have to say that kinda shit? At least he waits until they're alone...
And yeah, he's shirtless, because Kaden thought making his victim look sexy as fuck was a good strategy.

"Fighting you or getting your crazy ass arrested would've been the right move, but we probably wouldn't have met. Besides, he's got backbone now. Sorta." He shrugs. The guy didn't give him shit for saving Neil. He just rolled with it, like having his arch nemesis naked in the back of the car with him was fine.
It's a pussy move, and if Cade didn't know him better he'd say he was just too chicken shit to do something about it.

"I just think we stand a better chance." And that's the truth, isn't it? It doubles the targets the Ice Queen is after, and if they fuck TreaTech up bad enough maybe Cade won't have to knock down Matilda's door to explain she has to leave.
Damn, wouldn't that go over great.
'So sorry, but an international crime ring is coming after you because of me so you need to leave and get new identities.'

She'd call the cops before she ever did that, and he'd never see Ollie again. And that's still far from his entire family. Would they go after cousins, too? How fucking embarrassing would that be? Half of them are stoners, and the other half are religious fanatics.

"I'd untie you and we could finish them both off together because now I know we're..." He glances at Neil, "on the same side. But where would that land us? On the run by ourselves with your sister on our asses, and sure, you'd get a timeout but she wants my head so it's kinda a no-brainer for me."

No brainer. He cracks himself up sometimes.
The point is he needs to cause as much damage as possible.

There's a leather wrap of something in Neil's bag.

All it has to do is roll down an inch - the metal pieces inside rasp and clink together like teeth.

Cade sucks in a breath, grips the edges of the duffle bag hard. He doesn't feel sad, he doesn't feel anything, but his eyes well up anyways.

This is going to follow him forever.

He breathes through it like it's an ice bath, with Neil watching his back. In the end, he doesn't see the shame in grabbing the bundle of fucking knives and tossing them to the other end of the counter.

They jingle like they're fucking wind chimes and he feels...

"I do fuckin' hate him. Finch. Don't say I don't, you don't fucking know everything about me."

He has to believe this is the first (second) time Neil's been in a position like this; at the mercy of men who could make him wish he wasn't born.
He has to fucking believe that.

Shoulders drooping, he goes back to the depths of the bag that hold the guest stars of every nightmare he's ever had. The morbid curiosity is still there, and maybe it'll never go away, no matter how many awful things he touches.
Among pliers and nails, he finds something familiar.

A taser.

The same brand and model as the one Cade had brought the night he meant to torture Neil into giving him his name.
It's somehow more wrong that a burst of warmth goes to his heart, rather than his crotch.

"We never did get to try this," Cade thinks out loud, tapping the heavy weight into his palm.
He twists around, returning to Neil's side. It's not easy to forget how it'd felt to have Neil threaten him with this, the cold press of the prongs and MacDarragh's hot breath warming his throat...
He never used it.

Neil broke Finch down with a couple of words.

Like it was nothing.

"You ever wonder what this kind of electricity might do to the little robot buddies in our blood?"

The normal thing would be to circle behind Neil where he can't see. Then press the taser to his throat.
If they're playing interrogator, that's how it should work.

Instead he stays in front of Neil. He inches forward, until his leg touches Neil's.

Knees weak, he can't resist the pull to kneel. The ground is hard, cold and every other awful thing but he can't find the interest to get back up. The anxiety thrumming through his blood clots.
The hitman's always looked best staring down at Cade, even tied down.

"You have to wonder if it'd just put them to sleep for a little while, like the cold does." He just about lifts a hand to feel Neil's thigh, reroutes it to the edge of the chair in the last minute. The hard, dirt cracked surface is far less pleasant a thing to touch.
The taser starts between MacDarragh's tits, dragging down every pleasant slope of his stomach.

"Or maybe it'd freak them out and they'd start pulling you apart."

The rapid beating in his chest slows, though not as much if he'd punched something. Maybe its Neil looking like this, with his arms pinned back and his hair the perfect amount of disheveled.

He stops before the taser goes too low, watching the white lines left by the prongs fade.
Now he can feel the barely there tremors Neil's fighting to show. Sure, his nose is red and he's been curling his bound feet together.
But now he can feel the jittering of knees against his stomach, the clench in his jaw to keep his teeth still.
They'll have to finish up whatever this is soon, if they don't want MacDarragh getting sick. If they even can get sick anymore.

His next exhale comes out full and soft. Reaching under the chair with his free hand, he grips Neil's princess feet that are only a few degrees colder now than they are in bed.

The poor bastard.

They're ice.

Neil's been keeping them up, but every once in a while fatigue or just plain forgetfulness brings them back down to the ice burning tile.
He squeezes gently, massaging what little warmth he can into the tiger's beans and he wants Neil to know he can rest them in his hand if he needs to.

"Give me what I want, and I'll let you go," he says, in a tone he wouldn't use unless he was a pompous asshole.
Neil's tied up.
There's nothing he can do to hurt him. Nothing can hurt him right now.
He shuffles an inch closer.

"Or don't and I'll see what that drill does. Might be interesting to ditch the tape and screw your hands together instead. At the wrists. Or maybe wrist to elbow. I guess it depends on the bolts you brought."
 
In lieu of scoffing at every second word that leaves Cade's mouth, Neil resigns himself to burning a hole in the back of the man's head with his glare, jaw clenched so hard it feels like teeth will crack under the pressure. Sure, maybe he doesn't know everything about him, but he can still read him like a book. Since the beginning, the hitman has always known when Wolf is lying, both to himself and to MacDarragh.

Except for in a game of two truths one lie, that is.

Something unpleasant mixes with the rage in Neil's mouth, warm in a uniquely painful way. It can't be sentimentality because he's barely known the man for half a month, not to mention that shit like that is not MacDarragh's style. Maybe he can call it betrayal instead, but that's a familiar taste. This one is wholly new.

With Cade, half of the emotions he's experienced have been new - either exhilarating or terribly, unbearably awful, useless to someone in his line of work. Hell, sometimes, they're both.

The feeling only grows worse when the gangster returns to honest-to-god kneel in front of him. Oh, how captor-like. Well, there is some cruelty to the action, that much he can admit - in the hellish cold that's gripping the room, Wolf's body heat is simultaneously a relief and achingly not enough.

As the taser makes contact with skin, Neil raises his chin up to peer down at Cade, eyes still just as cutting as before.

"Yes, I have thought about what electricity would do," he mumbles, voice low. He considered the effects of it extensively when deciding whether he was going to use any weapons on Cade. You know, back when he was planning to kill him. Would the shock from a taser make the gangster convulse into another seizure? Would it end things too quickly? Not that he's going to get the chance to test it any time soon. Not that he would have tested it either way. It wouldn't have been the right way for things to go.

MacDarragh throws out another half-hearted flirtation he hopes doesn't sound half-hearted, "Didn't know you were into toys."

In one fluid move, Neil pulls his feet away from Cade's borderline worshiping grasp, shifting forward in the chair only to press them into the gangster's abdomen. Toes curling into the fabric, he starts riding the man's shirt up, exposing the burning skin beneath to the biting cold inch by inch. The fabric is stained - splotches of blood have thoroughly ruined it where it was pressed into a wound to stave off its bleeding. Damien's wound. Because apparently all of a sudden Wolf "kinda likes" that idiot.

Abruptly, MacDarragh presses down the frozen soles of his feet into Cade's now bare chest.

The way the gangster sucks in a gulp of air at the sudden cold brings the hitman some smug satisfaction, as does the heat he can now steal. Sans massage, but it is warmer. It doesn't do much for his other numb extremities, but it's better than nothing.

"You won't torture me, Cadence," Neil hums with a rumble.

It's not a statement. It's just a fact. The gangster wonders about a lot of things - what electricity would do to the bioelectronics in their veins; what the result of shoving a garden hose down someone's throat would be; what drilling through limbs to screw them together would look like. But he won't do it, and it's not from a lack of capability. Part of it is the fact that he likes the hitman too much. Part of it is...

Narrowed, Neil's eyes dart off to the table - to the bundle of knives Cade tossed away like it scorched him - and feels his pout morph into a scowl.

We're not on the same side, he wants to say. Badly. If just to be difficult. But it's kind of the truth, isn't it? Back when Wolf was a Black Dog and Neil was the High-Rise's hitman their elicit meetings were almost sexy in the inevitable reality that the two would face off against each other sooner or later, as enemies. Then Viv had to go ahead and make them partners, and now? Now it just fucking sucks to know Cade would rather rely on his abusive ex-boss than him.

If Finch were sat in the chair instead of MacDarragh, would Cade kneel before him as well?

Neil takes in a sharp breath.

"Tell me what it is that you want, anyway," shooting out of his endlessly pointless thoughts (when the fuck did he start thinking about such stupid shit?), he looks back down at the gangster, "Though if I'm going to speak, I have my terms."

"First of all, don't know what you asshole are intending, but that trigger is going off one way or another. "If he dies or if it's tampered with"," at speaking forth the information he completely accidentally forgot to relay to Damien and Kaden, MacDarragh allows himself a small grin, "In case whatever you have planned doesn't work, we both know someone that can tamper with it."

Not to mention that, as romantic as sharing one bracelet/collar is, Cade and MacDarragh will need a second one sooner rather than later. Wonder how amenable Rory will be to lending a hand. Possibly not much, considering the last time he saw the rat Neil smacked the shit out of him. Or possibly quite a lot, considering that was done under Vivien's direct orders.

That bitch.

"Second of all," the hitman starts, only to stop himself dead in his tracks. A heavy silence falls over the two men as Neil goes completely still, unblinking eyes taking in the man still kneeling before him. With some sensation returning to his feet, he can feel Cade's heartbeat beneath them. Present. Living. Pressing further, MacDarragh rests his legs against the solid support that Wolf provides. This is the man that shot Finch, that got up off the floor even as he was bleeding out to reach for a life-saving case.

And, most importantly, the man that carved his way through TreaTech's security.

"You're going to help me get to my guardian."
 
"You're kinda ruining this for me," he says with a smile that's half playful and half unease when MacDarragh treats the taser like a toothpick. And playful is maybe not quite right, unless your definition is slapping the nose of a sleeping alligator.
Neil's tells are either so subtle they're his default face, or so in Cade's face they hurt. In this case, they're in his chest. Or on.
He lets his grip on the tazer loosen, rests his hand in MacDarragh's lap as he turns him to ice with his eyes as well as his tundra toes.

What a fucking weirdo.

Every odd thing Cade does, every attempt to even things out gets stomped out.

He doesn't hate it.

Thank goodness it's too cold for things to happen.

You won't torture me, Cadence

Said with the conviction that would make Cade do the stupidest shit just to prove their asses wrong. Especially now. Neil's not wounded, he's a prisoner. Cade has done fucked up things before, why is this so intense and impossible? Beyond it being Neil.
"If you were anyone else, I woulda," he promises, giving the taser a shake.
And a heavy feeling settles inside him, something between guilt and failure. For what? He was never going to actually do it.
Why feel strung out from not torturing someone? Is he that far gone?

He's got no idea. The guy's still running circles around his head.

Neil's pissed. Not to the point where it's over between them, maybe (he hopes), but not happy. It's in the critical way he looks down at him, a face that shows up particularly when Finch is involved. A disgruntled scowl that sharpens his eyes just a titch. It's... Somehow, an expression is a turn on.
Who woulda thought the anti John Wick doesn't just like Cade, he's possessive and jealous.
The thought has butterflies flying laps in his stomach.

MacDarragh is weaving plans that involve Rory or something, Cade is looking at Neil's ankle, following it up his leg and wondering when touching will be back on the table.
You'd think a place that taught killer sluts how to work it would have nicer clothes. It's a blessing and a curse Neil isn't in something tighter.
When MacDarragh goes still and silent (things he doesn't do), he worries he's been caught staring.

He's not sure what he was expecting, but it sure wasn't that.

"Huh?" he says, sounding like a damn scholar. He blinks. For a moment he's computing what was said with Neil's goodlooking face as a backdrop.

His guardian...

Why is everyone obsessed with their parents right now? Has the Christmas bug really gotten to everyone that bad?

Adjusting his place on the cold ass floor he says, "You want me to meet your dad?"

Both terrified and stupidly warmed, he rests a hand on Neil's shin. It's not healthy to have missed being touched by him this much.

"Are you up for that? Guy's a real piece of work..."
 
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