Realistic or Modern LOVE, LOSS, REVENGE

[SquigglyWiggly]

Malcom's eyes ask why Damien's on the floor but his mouth says, "I thought about sending the message we were circling the toilet drain and then figured that was redundant."

When Finch doesn't have another knife to throw and Damien doesn't have any further to fall, the mercenary tucks his gun away into the holster under his jacket. With an old man groan, he picks up a vase that had wobbled from its place on a dresser when his dodge slammed him against if. The mercenary twists it, puzzled, then twists it again trying to decide which side of the art piece is the front and which is the back.
It still isn't clear to Kaden whether this man would shoot him or not - he's apparently worked closely with Sheppard in the past but that is by no means an indicator of good character. Ortiz is a 'friend' Kaden is familiar with, and he is quite honestly despicable and unfortunately handsome. How much worse are the men Kaden doesn't know about?

And the mercenary does little to improve his social standing beyond a mumbled, wish-I-could-have-done-more and I'm-glad-they-got-out in reference to Blumenthal's family.
This abrupt and brief condolence would have been followed by Malcom offering Damien a hand, had Finch not stepped in. The mercenary gives a curt understanding nod that is, quite frankly, infuriating in the present circumstances.

"Then MacDarragh was telling the truth?" Kaden asks out loud. Reputation wise, there is also the small fact this man buried all the High-Rise's evil deeds in the back of Kaden's head.
Rather than glare pointlessly, Kaden grabs Damien underarm to wrench the ex-cop to his feet. A few dead leaves stick to his clothing, shattering into specks when Finch slaps them off.

"Darragh... that goofy ass from the tower?" the mercenary says with an earnesty so casual it's dumbfounding. Oh, to know MacDarragh in passing, particularly as an ass and a goofy one at that. "If he said we were compromised and Sheppard was...captured then, yeah, that about sums it up."

He sidesteps Finch to march further into the mansion. "My personal account has her hugging me to gain my trust - and my rifle - and then shoving me into a utility closet because that's what friends do to one another."

There are a lot of reasons Kaden should be ashamed, Damien unsteadily leaning into his arm being one of them. Regardless, Malcom's mention of hugging is what strikes him most from that statement. He forces himself to give the mercenary another hard look; he isn't huge, but that doesn't disqualify him. Despite contrary belief, older is usually her taste and this man has crow's feet that only show when he frowns or smiles - older than Kaden, but not as old as Delilah.
Whereas Damien's hair has peppered white in the temples, this man's hair is gradually being eaten up white. He has a vertical scar starting at his lip and creeping up his nostril in a clinical straight line. It's the most distinct thing about him, other than his hair. If you put him in a military uniform, he'd be lost in the ocean of soldier same-face.

"Wight keeps it this cold?" Malcom broaches and his generic face grows an ounce of character in the way it hardens and simultaneously goes soft. Clenched jaw, widened eyes, he doesn't ask, only goes ah at the dead foliage and heavy smell of decay.

"It felt like she'd be around forever didn't it?" He muses and adds, "Ya'know when I was grumpy she'd call me Malcontent. Used to drive me up the wall..."

Malcom thumbs at the red smear in his pants, rubs the gathered blood between two fingers.
Frowning, he looks at Damien. "Don't I remember you with a gimpy paw?"

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

"Yeah, well, apparently the agreement I made with Sheppard got flushed down the toilet drain too. Maybe that would have been a worthwhile message," the words leave the ex-cop's mouth without much conscious thought, said too monotonously to be a proper accusation though in many ways it is one. And it makes Malcom's condolences ring hollow - Damien's not sure where his family has left for or when they're going to be able to return. And when they do return, he's not sure if he's going to be able to see them without putting them in danger.

Not to mention what a target all of this has put on Kaden.

Leaning on the capo, he tries his best to banish frustrations that feel useless in the present situation, to mixed results. Mostly because of Finch himself - at the same time that his presence is grounding, it is frustrating in its necessity, especially when Malcom reveals what Delilah did to get him out of the way. It all sounds eerily familiar.

Eyes still narrowed, the ex-cop glances to the man at his side.

With a couple of quiet if firm assurances that he can stand up on his own now, he attempts to detach himself, even if the way he puts his arms out to maintain balance makes him look like a tightrope walker, and a bad one at that. It's a ridiculous sight, he is aware, so when the mercenary chooses not to address his current state it's a small blessing. Though Malcom's question briefly makes Damien wonder whether he's supposed to take offense or not. 'Gimpy paw' is a choice description.

"You remember correctly," he looks down at his until recently maimed hand with a frown, "The High-Rise- TreaTech, they've developed some kind of miracle cure. Powerful enough to sew together tendons and close gunshot wounds. As well as apparently bring people back from the dead."

In the worst way possible.

The memory of MacDarragh out on the ice is vivid, the imagery of his writhing flesh like something straight out of The Thing. A shudder Damien fails to hold down nearly has him falling flat on his ass again before he miraculously manages to remain standing, refocusing on Malcom. He considers asking once more why the mercenary is here, yet the question seems... inappropriate. Painful, even lacking any definitive context. Against his better judgement, Damien's expression eases minutely.

And even more against his better judgement, he extends his own brief condolences, "I'm sorry, about Wight. I didn't really know her, but there's never a good reason for something like this."

How many times has Damien been told those same words?

"... It is surprising to see you here. I would have assumed you'd be trying to go after Delilah," the statement is directed at Malcom. Mostly. With the drug-induced fog lifting (thanks to some drug-induced focus), the ex-cop can't help thinking that Kaden's presence is also kind of a surprise. He could have left him locked up here. Or tied up. Or both. To go rescue his boss alone, just like he'd planned yesterday.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

"I was. This is my attempt at regrouping." Malcom waves a hand over the empty room to let it speak for him.
"No offense, but you look just as spent as I am- miracle cure or not. I came to get an ammo refuel too, but now that feels too much like desecrating a grave."

"So you're giving up?" Finch asks, and doesn't bother keeping the barbs out of his voice. The argument he started but never finished only minutes ago has left him low on patience.
Blumenthal is standing on his own and without the grounding weight he feels untethered, aimless and of course, mad.

The plane canvas of Malcom's face wrinkles subtly.
"You can't save someone who doesn't wanna be. I've been pushed away enough as it is. Ortiz is nutty like an Oh Henry bar, but he won't hurt her. He'd cook my entrails on a hibachi grill though, or make a kabab with my severed fingers. All for someone who's already dying..."

Perhaps the man is too cowardly to say I'm done so he puts the declaration in the shrug of his shoulders instead. Kaden watches, both dumbfounded and surprised that this is where the finishing line is drawn. Sheppard has almost an endless list of flaws, but she would never give up if the positions were reversed. He wants to say that, should say that, and yet he doesn't.

"I can take you out of the city. Everyone's looking for you, but I have a guy that can get us through. You can't stay here, and going there would be a death sentence."

Kaden takes a step forward. "Do you have two boxes to lock us in?"

Malcom gently shakes his head, not entirely in answer. "I shouldn't have been a part of that. That and a lotta other stuff. I trusted her. Not much of an excuse, I know, but it's what I have."

Malcom worries at a wedding band on his ring finger, twisting it with repetitive rubs of his thumb. "I'm not going to force you, but I have space and you're both welcome. If it means anything, it's probably what Delilah would want."

Kaden snorts. "It's always been about what she wants."

Regardless he turns to Damien with what he knows will hurt and says it anyway, "I think you should go with him."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Nothing Finch says or does is a surprise any more, or at least it shouldn't be. Yet for the umpteenth time, Damien's eyes widen as he stares at his partner. Maybe less in disbelief, and more in helplessness. What more can he do?

Several times it looks like he's about to say something only to bite back a retort at the last moment, jaw clenching. Frustration still simmers right beneath the surface and there's a lot he wants to say, but what would even be the point of more bickering? The fruitless argument they had earlier has left Damien feeling nothing but exhausted and disheartened.

Maybe that's how Kaden feels too.

It's nearly absurd, really, how impossible it is for the two to see eye to eye on anything right now. Especially when yesterday had felt like progress, and Finch had offered so readily the exact words Damien wanted to hear, "You said you wanted me with you..."

And he wanted that to mean something, so so badly. It's pathetic, really.

"Fuck you, Kaden," Damien spits out, nearly on instinct.

With everything that's happening it's unfair and unproductive, yet it comes out anyway and, brows furrowed, the ex-cop swirls his head towards Malcom despite the sharp movement rattling the headache around in his skull, "Can I bum a cigarette?"

He can't, because of course out of the droves of people that smoke in this forsaken city Malcom is not one of them. He's got nicotine gum though, as if that compares to the real deal, but Damien doesn't voice such complaints when he snatches the proffered piece. Only when the mercenary apologizes for not having actual cigarettes does he remember to even thank the guy, even if at that point he's already making his way down the hallway and away from Kaden and Malcom, supporting himself with a hand on the wall. He knows that he's just running away from a situation in a childish huff, but what more can he fucking do?

Damien pops the nicotine gum in his mouth with mild disgust. He's tried this before, back at the halfway house when he got out, less in an effort to quit and more so in hopes of saving some money because smoking is not a cheap habit to sustain. What a disappointment when gum turned out to be the more expensive option, on top of tasting kind of like shit. The ex-cop punctuates each step with a slow chew, feeling that peppery taste release as the inside of his mouth begins to tingle, and he moves the gum to sit between his gums and the inside of his cheek.

Yeah, it really sucks compared to the real deal.

But at least it's some form of nicotine being absorbed into his nicotine-starved body. And maybe by the time he finishes his trek to the outside, his headache will finally quiet down if not his frustrations.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

The effect his words have is immediate. The man looks at him with his water color eyes, lost, sad and so so beautiful. So when Damien tells him so eloquently, fuck you, Kaden nearly gets whiplash.

He stands uselessly while the man has his vices tended to by Malcom, then watches equally as useless as Damien marches off in a huff. And it hurts to hurt Damien, as it always does, but he never remembers how awful it is to be alone until his request is accepted.

"I can wait," Malcom says tactfully. He twists the package of gum around before giving it a long look, then pocketing it away. "A little while anyway."

Belatedly, Finch nods. These most recent days have stretched on too long for him to feel anything as pedestrian as social awkwardness, but Malcom clearly struggles as he finds anything to stare at but Kaden. He plays with his ring again, stepping away as if it leave and then oddly staying.
"You don't remember me," he says with a confidence that's so afraid to be right it ends in a question.

"From two nights ago?"

The sudden eeriness that washes across him like smoke comes before the shake of Malcom's head.
In an effort to be more casual, the mercenary leans into the wall Kaden had been pressed to mere moments ago when he nearly killed the man.
"I guess I never did come around that often, but I didn't think I'd leave that little an impression."

An unusual desperate frustration makes him rake over Malcom's features once again. This time not in assessing his charm, so much as trying to fit his face somewhere else. If he's recognizable, it's in the same distant fuzzy way an actor seen once in a film decades ago.
"I don't remember you," Kaden says as coldly as he can in hopes it'll discourage whatever this is supposed to be. He watches the hallway Blumenthal disappeared down and balances the pros and cons of going after him this soon.

"The Arizona trip, you don't remember that at all?"

That prickling, awful sensation crawls up the back of his head like little spider legs. Coincidentally it never goes much further than the trigger buried there.

"You were small, but you weren't that small."
"I...suffered a head injury," Kaden says, and hopes that will suffice when he knows it won't.
"I know, I visited."

Finch looks at him once to glare, but Malcom's eyes are washed over with memory so he doesn't notice nor appreciate it. Or he isn't phased by it.

"But," he starts up again, "the Arizona trip. We were looking at some new batch of marijuana...or maybe it was fentanyl. I can't remember. The twitchy guy who was giving out the recipe couldn't leave the state and wouldn't sell it to anyone from a distance so we went there to get it personally. And it was November and who wants to be here in November?"
"I really don't remember this."
"We stayed in RV parks and did camping stuff. I taught you how to pitch a tent until Delilah got sick of sleeping on the ground and we got a camper. I think the dogs worried her, what with having a kid. Just these big black mongrels sniffing through trash."

Kaden minutely shakes his head. He's never left New York.
Malcom sighs, crossing his arms to lean more firmly into the wall. He frowns, partially in thought. A moment later his expression blooms into a fond smile.

"Most places had a recreational building with books and a TV. VHS tapes, that kinda thing. We'd go there and play board games, but this one time they had an Easy Bake oven. I was younger than you are now so I was stoked as heck to try it. They didn't have any cooking stuff so we used...I dunno, garbage basically to mix the little packets. Like a milk carton I think."

The words strike so hard they may as well be a viper's bite. An Arizona rattler.
The hidden grief he has perched in the back of his mind like an old painting he both hates and admires shifts. In some ways it grows heavy, changes shape so drastically Kaden has to support himself on the same wall.

"Was it brownies?" He asks, almost hoarsely. "Is that what we made?"

Appearing as if he's made a mistake, but he's not sure how Malcom nods hesitantly. "Far as I can remember. They tasted like the lightbulb used to cook them, but it was still a fun time. I thought so anyways."

People have been cruel in the past. They've taken things from him, lied to him, hurt him and yet he can hardly recall ever feeling more violated than he is now. Or at least in this niche, sore way. Something no one should have been able to steal is suddenly gone and for the first time in years Kaden thinks he might cry, that he might really start pouring out until he's a dry husk and this room is a foot under salty water.

Of course it doesn't happen. Everything stays locked where it is and he swallows what little emotion erupted.

"... I've gone and put my foot in my mouth somehow, haven't I?" Malcom mutters, leaving the wall to take a step closer. "I didn't mean to drag any thing up."

Kaden shakes his head, stepping away from something he's irrationally worried might be a hug. Malcom scratches at his cheek and doesn't come any closer.
"I'll..." He says, coughs, "I'll wait in the car."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

A fresh layer of snow has fallen overnight - the signs of yesterday are more or less gone except for slight divots in the white cover to show that anything even happened in the first place. Only the tracks from the car Malcom arrived in mar the terrain. Well, that and tiny, barely perceptible trails like crosshatches where small birds seem to have waddled in search of food.

Yet, in the morning light there is no birdsong and the air remains deadly silent, almost unnaturally so. It's still cold as hell.

Damien curls his crossed arms further into himself like that's going to keep him any warmer, considering he's chosen to sit down to sulk on the stone steps of the manor. With a shiver, he exhales. Each one of his breaths is accompanied by a puff of smoke and once more he laments the lack of a cigarette's comforting presence held between his lips. How long has it been since he even had one? Damien can't decide if Eli would be impressed that he hasn't touched a cigarette in 3 days, or if she'd be disappointed by his shaky impulse control sustained solely by virtue of being under shit circumstances.

Maybe he should have taken MacDarragh up on that last-meal offer...

When he bites down hard on the inside of his lip, he can barely feel any pain through the tingling.

For all of Damien's complaining, the nicotine gum has been doing its job, and bit by bit the buzzing ache inside his skull is receding into the background.

His memories of last night, however, are nowhere to be found, swallowed up in some dark abyss. The sole thing left in their wake is an empty feeling of loss.

He can't remember...

Subconsciously, Damien's hands trail down his sides to clutch at the fabric of his borrowed trousers, fingers digging into his thighs - pressing, pinching like the sensation of pain will bring back what he's desperately searching for.

He is in the lounge with MacDarragh.

Was it real or a dream? The ethereal glow of candlelight makes everything in the recollection seem fake. Yet the way the hitman grins, sharply and gleefully in the most revolting way at the words he's about to speak is too tangible for the ex-cop's imagination to conjure up on its own. There are many ways Damien knows how to hurt himself. This is not one of them.

He used his final breath to beg for his family to not be harmed.

Despite his best efforts to bite it down, a small sob escapes past Damien's teeth.

The taste of copper bursts at the tip of his tongue as he keeps relentlessly biting regardless, leaning forward. He won't cry. He can't cry, because it feels like if he started he wouldn't ever stop. And he detests how pathetic and self-pitying that fact is. Who the fuck is he to feel sorry for himself, when he isn't the one that died because of someone else's stupid ambitions!

Though he should have been the one that died.

The fingers prodding at flesh and fabric suddenly feel upon something hard in his pocket. Shakily, Damien takes out his chrome lighter. Almost in a trance he traces the engraving, and despite his eyes beginning to blur he knows the words by heart. Fidelis ad Mortem. Faithful unto Death. Michael gave him this lighter. Not even as a gift. Just... as something to have. ("Finally you can stop bugging other people for a light.") Neither of them could have expected it would be the only thing Damien had left of his friend in the end - when he was released from prison, this was one of the few possessions given back to him from the inmate property locker. A knickknack, that miraculously still worked all those years later.

With a practiced flick the lighter's lid opens, and the ex-cop runs his thumb over the spark wheel. Click. Click.

No flame comes to life.

Another sob escapes against his will and Damien hates himself so fucking much.

The smooth surface of the lighter distorts his reflection into a featureless dark spot, yet still he can feel the calloused eyes of the man he doesn't recognize staring at him in cold judgement. Calling him a failure. He's done none of the things he set out to do - no vengeance has been meted out, no justice served. The last 15 years of his life- no, really his entire life has been a waste.

But it has been a waste either way, really. Vengeance or no vengeance, he's barely even half a person. Purposeless.

In a bout of what surely must be madness, Damien snarls back at his mirror image. He squeezes the lighter and if it didn't mean so much to him he'd throw it in the snow to be lost forever.

Give it back.

Give back all the time he spent destroying himself, all the time he spent degrading the memory of his best friend when this was never about Mike! His name was just a comforting, selfish justification... God, he hasn't even been to his grave... But really, how could he go? When he's failed in every conceivable way - as a son, brother, friend, cop, avenger, and whatever the fuck he is to Kaden.

Really, he can't help even a single person. If anything, the harder he tries, the worse it gets.

"What do I do..." Damien quietly asks the person that should be alive instead of him.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

The puppy bed is empty, flattened out of recognition and crusty with the frost. He thinks of Wight's elaborate story; Delilah pulling little dogs into the world and wiping their snotty noses off on her shirt so they can breathe. She most likely rubbed them down too, coaxing them into a life not for the faint of heart.

Finch unfolds a white sheet and drapes it over the figure slumped in her reading chair. She'd asked whoever found her not to disturb this room, not in request for peace but so they could save their noses. There's no smell. When her face disappears behind the linen she is preserved by the cold. No one falls asleep looking so blue and pale, but nor does she look completely gone.
He takes up her cane and rests it in her lap.

"Keep it as remembrance of the lengths people will go to leave you far far behind, indeed," he says, forcing his hand to linger on that cane.
The letter he was supposed to burn he leaves there as well, folded up in her lap addressed to know one, but desperately wanting to belong to someone. She not only died alone, she died lonely.

Closing the frozen window in all it's frustrations and trials somewhat disturb the atmosphere of a final goodbye, the loud grating shriek as it finally clamps shut awakening any ghosts still here slumbering but it feels necessary.

He must leave her far far behind, but he can't leave her cold.

***

Damien must hear him because more of his messy curls fluff up against the wind as he tucks his head away; angry with Kaden or hiding his distress. Possibly both.

He nearly drapes the coat the man left behind around his shoulders, but the mere thought of repeating the gesture brings him a shiver the wind isn't alone responsible for.
Instead he holds the jacket out, waiting in the stillness for it to be taken.

"I..." He inhales, feeling every inch of his lungs as they fill with ice fire.
"I need to be with her, Damien."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

If he curled even further into himself, he wonders if he could just disappear. He wishes he could. He really, truly does.

It's all too much.

Tucked away against his chest, an array of emotions flashes across Damien's face - refusal and anger and sadness, and surely it's not healthy to feel so much all at once, but at this point he's forgotten how to experience only one thing at a time. Uselessly he tries to rub it away, back of his hand pressing into damp eyes until they begin to sting and he can school his voice enough to mutter back, "I understand."

He does. That's the most painful part. He's understood since the beginning.

He wishes someone needed him again. Though, really, he's the one that needs, isn't he?

With one last sniffle Damien pockets the chrome lighter before rising from the frozen steps and turning to face Kaden. He can't look the man in the eyes. If he did it feels like his already paper-thin veneer of composure would break, so instead he reaches out to hold onto the jacket. He doesn't take it back.

"They're going to try and keep you."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Damien's hands fold over something small and silvery and important. It reflects the light before its stuffed away, never to be seen again.
The storm in his watercolor eyes has nearly reached a tipping point, but not quite. He wipes the buildup away like a child, rubbing at his eyes.
Bouncy locks curl around his red tipped ears and Finch would like to push them aside to touch and to warm. He wishes he would look at him, but this way his profile is contrasted by the dark mansion behind him and he is beautiful.
Finch holds it in his mind's eye, even when this face will haunt him everytime he dreams.
Damien's hand touches his through the thick fabric of the coat.

"I know," he says.

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien's bottom lip trembles and he nods.

He doesn't know what to say or what to do. Not just about this - about everything. He's so utterly aimless that if he wasn't holding onto something it feels like a light breeze would blow him away. Slowly, he pulls the coat out of Kaden's grasp. He doesn't put it on.

In one fluid motion Damien drapes it over Kaden's shoulders, even if it forces him to look up at usually soft lips that have gotten chapped from all the cold and the pain and the loss. Still he would like to kiss them. He looks down.

Damien's fingers dig into the lapels of the coat, holding onto Kaden, anchoring himself in this moment for just a while longer, just a couple more precious seconds of time he can steal even if they'll only hurt in the long run.

"Don't go alone. I'm not asking you to take me with you-" even if that is what he wants, so so much, "Just- Please, don't go alone."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

The coat comes around his shoulders, a sheet putting him to rest. The juxtaposition lies in how alive he's felt with Damien. He's lassoed, drawn in but he doesn't for one moment feel trapped or stifled. Instead he's barred from the cold, protected.

"You're the only one who would come with me."
If Blumenthal is going to touch him, perhaps he can as well. He wants to trace the outline if his nose and instead rests his hands over Damien's.
He smiles.
Cold and dry, no doubt the same as his.

"Tell me to stay. Order me, and I will."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

"Stay."

Kaden's hands are cold, but the touch fills Damien with warmth. Suspended in time and space, he imagines a reality where he really could hold onto this man, telling him to stay. Wouldn't that be nice? For once maybe he could have a good dream.

Choking on something between a mirthless laugh and yet another sob, Damien shakes his head, "I don't want to order you, Kaden. And I don't want to take you away from her again."

His hands let go of the coat to instead lightly surround Kaden's, cupping them together. Leaning forward, he breathes out slowly onto his partner's cold fingers, trying to warm them even if the winter air will just render his efforts pointless. Damien is not a religious man, yet this feels like one of the closest things he's done to prayer in a long, long time. Somewhere in his exhale, there's a whispered wish, "Come back."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

Damien's softly spoken stay isn't a command. The fallen hammer of a last word locking him down doesn't happen. They imagine it happens, testing the word and how it would feel.
How it would feel to stay if Kaden's freewill was honed down, not by Delilah but by Damien. He won't do it. Finch knows that before the humorless laugh leaves the man.

His hands are brought together, the cold acting like a second layer of unfeeling skin until Damien breathes overwhelming sensation into them. He suffers it, and wishes he could suffer more.
"I won't," he murmurs and leans in past their joined hands to kiss Damien's forehead. The wind makes a few strands of hair tickle his chin.

He pulls away so he can look at the man fully one last time. Too soon his hand dips into his pocket, past the coat hanging around his shoulders, to pull out MacDarragh's phone. He reinserts the SIM card, the soft click nothing like the reassuring snap of a loaded magazine but the physical motion somewhat similar.
It shouldn't be a surprise that typing Ortiz's number auto fills, but it is and a not very pleasant one.

"It'll be over by tonight. Put Michael to rest and see your mom, Damien."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

"I won't," Damien murmurs back, partially for the sake of being difficult, one last act of small retaliation against the inevitable. But it's mostly because it's the truth, and he doesn't want to lie. Not now, not to Kaden.

The kiss on his forehead singes just like the one on his temple did yesterday. It seems that Kaden only kisses him before he does something horrible to him. This might just be his most cruel act yet - the echos of this touch will be the last memory he has of this man.

Finally, the dam breaks.

Or he wishes it broke - if he started bawling his eyes out and doubling over, stuttering out in between hyperventilating that he won't fucking accept this, would Kaden finally finally listen? Would a tantrum be enough to force him not to leave?

Damien is quiet as the tears run down his face, each blink sending a fresh trail of moisture down cold skin. He tastes salt and copper, and the inside of his mouth still tingles from the nicotine. Any words he might have dissipate within that numbness. How does one let someone they care for slip out of their grasp? How does one say goodbye when that is the last thing they want? The truth is they already said their goodbyes, weeks ago. But if walking away was painful then, it's excruciating now.

Tentatively, he looks into Kaden's eyes - a chance sun ray has illuminated half of the man's face, and in this glow one of his obsidian eyes has turned to honey, the unique ridges of its iris stark and visible. If Damien were just a step closer, he could map the details out.

Crossing his arms, he takes a step back, and despite everything he smiles, "I'm really happy to have met you."

The tears don't stop as Damien turns on his heel to make his way to Malcom's car.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

He can see the way this cuts into Damien, as so many things do, but this doesn't shimmer beneath the skin in pinched, hurt scowls or hide in a harsh tone.
It renders straight to the bone. The man bleeds on the inside, holding in tears until they give way all at once in a silence that's painful to hear.
And Kaden wishes this was what changed him. He wishes that sad smile and wet eyes had lead him to some higher self.

Instead it's the glistening blade of Damien's cheek as he turns to leave.

With pathetic endurance he out lasts the first few crunching footsteps. One shallow breath followed by another echoing in his head alongside his heartbeat, and he tells himself it's just one painful breath after another and each one will be easier.

"Damien," he utters in his next breath, like some kind of curse and hopes so deeply it was loud enough to be heard.

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien isn't sure what he hears - Kaden's voice or the wind whispering. Pathetically, the sound makes him falter, when it took so much effort to walk away in the first place. Pulled forward by inertia, he does manage to take a couple more shaky steps towards the waiting car. Poor Malcom, forced to witness all of this. Including the moment Damien stops dead in his tracks, fresh trail of tears on his face.

Out of all the nonsense his mind could conjure up, it take him to the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, and he knows were he to turn around now it would be his undoing. Well... if he turns around both Kaden and he are doomed; but if he leaves, they're both doomed still.

It's so unfair.

Arms tightening across his chest, Damien slowly turns around with a frown at yet another knife being stabbed in his back. He can't stand it - swung between being pushed away and being kept close. Yet what cuts the most is the hesitant hope trying to sneak its way into his chest. Hope is the worst of all evils. And it's precisely with this most vile emotion that he quietly stares at Kaden.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

This is where he should fill the aching air with an admittance that he was happy to have met Damien as well. Regardless of how turbulent it began and how sour it ended.
An eager, faltering step forward tightens the bindings keeping him in this dead place, and pulls on the ones Damien will always carry.

He can't let him go this time.

For one confusing moment he thinks shooting the ex convict under the bridge would have been the merciful thing to do. Putting down the fox, when he had yet to know how horrible things would become.
This lapse of silence lasts long enough for the waiting jeep to beep impatiently.

Why do you want to die so easily?
Wilson wanted to die badly, not as in he was in a hurry, but as in he would die hard if he had to die at all. Angrily. Badly.
Easily is giving it up like this, for nothing.
Finch doesn't have to ask out loud because he knows, but that doesn't justify holding his hand out for Damien to join him in this coffin.

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

For several moments that stretch out into eternity the world doesn't exist, all of it swallowed up in quiet whiteness. All of it, save for an outstretched hand. The edges of Damien's vision blur until it's all he sees.

A thought emerges at the front of his consciousness, stark and searing - this is literally all Kaden has ever had to do. What he's wanted him to do. Back at Nirvana. Back at the hotel. Here at the manor, moments ago.

It's so awful that it's only happening now, at the end of it all.

Damien could still walk away. Some part of him reminds him of that fact, of how pathetic and painful giving in like this would be, yet such reasoning never really stood a chance. The steps he takes to retrace his path through the snow are the most determined ones he's taken since he woke up dazed and confused.

And when he reaches out to clasp Kaden's hand, his hold is somehow simultaneously light and steady. Or is it steadying? Maybe both... When Damien speaks, he can't help the way his voice breaks against the words, "You're the worst."

Fuck, he's so incredibly stupid. And so incredibly, devastatingly relieved.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

The muscle melting, all encompassing relief in Blumenthal's face stands in an odd contrast to the miserable tears freeze drying on his cheeks. Now? that face seems to say. After all that's happened, this is when Kaden chooses to let Damien be. And perhaps he knows this is the exact opposite; Finch being selfish and possessive to a truly villainous and cowardly degree but Damien doesn't care. Or he can't help himself.

The hand that slots into his is cold and stays that way, but he can feel the contact perhaps more starkly than he would like. He squeezes, relishing in this discomfort because it's here to experience and it shouldn't be.
"I know," he says, drawing this man in, "I know."

The quiet buzz of the car window retracting is followed by Malcom's polite if insistent grunt as he pokes his head out.
The hurried worry deepening the shadows of his face shift into confusion, and then a sober resignation.

"Trying to make me look bad, huh?" He asks, and slumps back against the seat with his hand on the steering wheel. He looks ahead, or perhaps at the wedding band Kaden knows is there and shakes his head.
After a moment's pause that's either to convince himself to stay or to wait for Blumenthal to leave, the mercenary gives a wave that's less of a shake and more just the open palm of his hand.

Watching the man leave is a different pain to watching Damien almost leave, and as the sound of the engine fades when the vehicle rounds the bend that feeling settles in. There is nothing he could possibly say, so he only holds Damien close. He doesn't hug him; that would be too deja Vu even for Kaden but he keeps him in close proximity and if he were a black dog, a real one, he'd love Damien by eating him whole so he could keep him forever.

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

----

In the end they didn't have to wait long. When the fleet of serious looking vehicles spill out dozens of serious looking, black uniformed policemen this feels like the tower falling all over again.
There's no building to collapse - beside the spiritually dead one they're waiting in, but things have a feeling of falling down regardless. Or falling inwards.

Ortiz comes in alone, not running but not walking either. He leaves the door open, if the sudden burst of uncomfortable cold is any indication. Kaden tightens his hold on his partner one last time before letting him go (ha!) and readying the needle he filled with the contents of the vial.

Most people who walk through here do it tentatively either from uncertainty or respect for the charming interior. The situation as it is, Ortiz makes it to the lounging room in record time so he can give Kaden a look that holds none of the forced comradeship and guarded suspicion.

Finch poises the needle over his thigh, "This will kill me in a matter of moments. Take me to Delilah- let Damien be, and I'll surrender."

Ortiz looks across the room, pulling his hand away from the wall to wipe the crusty pieces of dead foliage from his skin. He has to bow his head to get past the structural arch that leads in.

"Where is Cade?" The man asks, eyes flicking past pillows and curtains as if he expects the gangster to be hiding underneath one. Finch glides a sweating finger up the surface of the needle.

"I let him go with MacDarragh."

MacDarragh is a trigger word for a lot of people; the Mafia boss is instantly in front of Kaden and he only has enough time to reassure Damien with a subtle shake of his head before it happens.
Ortiz ignores the needle inches from Finch's thigh when he snares a fistful of his shirt. With a hearty yank that he accomplishes with zero effort, he brings Kaden nearly nose to nose. He resists the urge to push away, particularly when he's forced onto his toes.
With surprising calm the man says softly, "You had..." Interrupted with a stiff hard swallow, eyes narrowed with contempt eclipse, "...both of them?"

Kaden produces a dry swallow himself. He nods.

For a brief moment the hard edges of his face soften, not with the affectionate and tenderness he buttered his lovers with but a slack horror. A defeat so palpable it makes him a stranger.
Immutable rage banishes the look a second later, and if Damien wasn't ready to catch him Kaden would've hit the floor with how intensely Raul tosses him away.
Finch checks the tip of the needle, feels at his thigh. Nothing's damaged, but a brief albeit intense encounter is only the appetizer to the tantrum Ortiz treats them to. He hurls lamps, launches stone busts, upturns tables and chairs. Even the vase Malcom had set straight with such care becomes a pile of powder. To his credit, nothing is fired in their direction but Kaden doubts that's on purpose.
An intermission leaves the Mafia boss, panting, in the fireplace.

"A..." Ortiz clears his throat, crackling from fury. He rolls his hand, looking for the words, "spot of blood. Anything?"

The stained blankets he burned, the knives he cleaned.
Standing in place, Kaden gives a hollow shake of his head. As if to accent this crushing moment with some much needed levity, Damien and Kaden have both been fighting to put the other out of harm's way, something they already agreed was futile but can't see to help.
At this sinking feeling, however, he finally lets himself be put shamefully out of sight.

"A la verga. Mierda!" Ortiz rests an arm on the framework, his forehead on his arm. The giant docks himself there, slow deep breaths unnecessarily growing his already substantial frame. Introspectively he lifts his head to glide his hand down the smooth mantel. It's several inches thick, as apart of the fireplace as the surrounding stone work is.
Such a fact is apparently trivial to Ortiz who plants his hand, one side on the end and the other underneath. The wood splints, a vicious crack filling the air. The stones framing it in sprinkle and tumble to the floor, joined by mortar and cement.
Damien has to shove them to the side; Ortiz launches the 36 inch width chimneypiece through the bay window and straight into the bird bath outside.
The men scatter and flutter around like worried ants and Ortiz does nothing to alleviate their anxiety. The bird bath carries on courageously under the weight but succumbs in an avalanche of Terra Cotta. A gust of wind knocks the slivers of broken glass out of the frame.
With a sniff, the underboss turns away. He only stops briefly to pick up a picture frame that didn't survive the onslaught. It's freed easily from the shards of broken glass, admired and given all the care this room never got as it's carefully folded away.

It's the most important thing he takes from this room.

Even with it suddenly vacated, the breath he was holding only comes out in a rigid sliver. The next is absurdly difficult to take in.
He looks at Damien and perhaps they have the same thought; is this easier?

They can't stay so as awkward as it is they follow in Ortiz's thundering footsteps, from a comfortable distance. Being handcuffed and bagged is a humiliating experience but being captured like this is curiously degrading too.
As soon as they're across the threshold the throng of tactically armored men and women rush them, stopped preemptively by Ortiz swatting the closest one like a fly.
"The chicos stay with me."

No one disagrees with that statement but in the same sense no one steps up to escort them either. They follow Ortiz, like lambs to the slaughter because this is what they chose, this is what was bearable.
Ortiz drives a modest dark blue Acura Honda - a luxury car but just barely. It's most likely for his compelling campaigns, but the windows are tinted and the interior so clean Finch greatly doubts this is actually his personal transport.

The man doesn't so much as open a door for them. He opens the driver's seat, slams the door and once again they're forced to climb into death's open mouth themselves.
Kaden tucks inside first, the subconscious ingrained societal friendliness of letting someone else go ahead burning.
With how far back the driver's seat is, Damien has to sit in the middle and closest to Ortiz and Kaden instantly regrets his decision to go first. He still holds the needle over his leg where it can be seen, but the gesture feels pointless.

Ortiz's keys clink together like wind chimes. There's a small wooden bird hidden amongst the keys, peaking out like a real bird through stalks of metallic trees.
"Are you with them?" He asks, with such a conspiratorial undertone you would think Kaden had been the one to go against Delilah and not the other way around.

"No."

"Vivien's attack dog doesn't leave people alive, and neither do you."
"We're not-"

Whatever protest Kaden was going to spit at the back of this man's head is interrupted when he opens the glovebox and retrievers a firearm. He slams the box closed with the barrel of the gun, then lays his arm languidly on the rest between the two front seats.
"Your hand is looking better, Blumenthal."

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

It's the second time in so many hours that someone has made note of his not-gimpy paw. Though maybe for different reasons.

Eyebrows furrowed above a glare, Damien flexes and unflexes the fingers of his healed hand.

"Your doctors patched it up well," it's only at the last moment that he manages to hold the snark in his voice back, turning the sentence into a monotone statement instead. Not a very constructive one, but technically true nonetheless. It's possible that Kaden will be peeved with him over it anyway, but if he was supposed to act entirely meek and quiet they shouldn't have dried his face. Not that Ortiz would have been swayed by something as embarrassing as crying. It feels like there are very few things that would sway this man...

The ambassador is just as unpleasant as Damien remembers him.

There is something particularly insulting about his demeanor and the whole situation. It's not the act of getting "caught" itself - though it is uniquely humiliating - but the sheer callous disregard the man shows for Kaden's safety. Maybe he's calling his bluff. Maybe he genuinely does not care if he dies or not. Potentially it's some combination of both of those, but is it really worth it to Ortiz to gamble so recklessly with the High-Rise getting exposed?

The threat of the needle still hovers above Kaden's thigh, yet it feels... utterly disregarded. Has the ambassador even spared it a passing glance? It's like the information hidden at the base of Finch's skull doesn't matter at all. And that part- now that part Damien can't stomach. The fate of thousands, if not more, depends on a single actions and this man just... doesn't seem to give a shit. Though deep inside Damien can admit it's not really the fate of thousands that pains him as much as as the memory of one.

Does anyone fucking care? Delilah evidently didn't, and now it seems like Raul doesn't either. Because there is something more important occupying his mind - someone more important.

Is it worth it burning down everything for a single person?

Jaw clenched, Damien's itches to dig into his pocket, to reach for the chrome lighter, but an action like that would be an even dumber move than talking like a smart-ass and poking the metaphorical bear. Instead, his hand finds the hem of Kaden's jacket - well, the ex-cop's own jacket still draped over his partner's shoulders - and his fingers latch onto the fabric.

"Though I guess TreaTech's cure healed it in the end."

Staring into the rearview mirror, Damien tries his best to catch Ortiz's gaze (while doing his best to ignore his own weary reflection). Leaning slightly forward, he attempts to put some kind of barrier between the mafia boss and Kaden, despite fully knowing if anyone is getting shot that's most likely himself.

Shot to kill, anyway.

Some part of Damien snickers that the action is kind of like putting his neck on the chopping block.

"But MacDarragh was merely a means of getting information, we're not with him," fervently, he insists with a shake of his head, "And Cadence ultimately made his choice who to ally with."

"The reason either of them left is because we weren't aware of the implications," when Damien's voice drops lower it nearly sounds like an apology. It isn't one. More so a terrible realization. Suddenly those insistent texts the hitman had been getting badgering him about retrieving Cade take on a wholly new, unpleasant meaning. And the ex-cop feels so out of his depth.

He can't even know whether what he just claimed is actually true - he lacks context, last night erased from his mind, but... based on what Ortiz's outburst means, Damien can't think of a world in which Kaden would have let either MacDarragh or Wilson walk away unaccosted. A part of him wants to turn to his partner, yet keeping the mafia boss in his sights feels far too pertinent. For all the good that'll fucking do....

"Has-" the ex-cop mulls over how exactly to ask this - if he should even ask it - and all the options he can come up with are either awkward or insensitive. So before common sense can override his curiosity, he simply settles on being direct, "Has Delilah taken this cure?"

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

To counter Finch's unease, Ortiz barely indicates he hears anything Damien says. The gun stays where it is, loosely held and almost dwarfed in the man's hand. All the while Raul looks out at the boney trees surrounding the estate. Each tiny shift makes the leather chairs squeak and whimper, and Finch feels sick. He really does, watching this man be so thick in memories of a woman that was never his. And at the same time it may be the only thing keeping them alive.
Ortiz taps the gun on the seat, restlessly and insistently, and it isn't a threat.

Even now Damien belies his fearlessness by gripping at the jacket, gently lassoing and binding Finch into this moment.
He slides his hand up to Blumenthal's knee and squeezes; is he even trying to rein the man in? Or savor the warmth of his living body? And across this retched canvas of feelings is a broad horrible stroke of comfort that it's here to savor and feel go cold at all.

And he thinks his heart stops beating when Damien asks a question Kaden should have asked, that he's desperate to know even if rationally, logically he knows it's pointless.
He looks at Damien and follows the curves of his profile for a long, long time.

But... "No," Ortiz says, and then shakes his head, "Si. Yes, in tests. The little- termites don't know the difference between a healthy brain and a sick one. It could be like giving her more cancer."

The last word hangs, for more reasons than one. The confirmation the basic strain wouldn't work doesn't crush Kaden as much as he thought it would.
As the silence stretches on Kaden feels the need to fill it, with anything.
"MacDarragh and Cade never had a condition like hers."

"MacDarragh was dead," Ortiz states, like that's all that's needed and it almost is, "For a long time. He was decomposing."

The image of Neil's torn hand coming back together comes to mind, overlaid by Wight slumped in his lounge chair not a floor away.
Raul moves, fast enough to make both of them jump but it's only to scratch absently at his salt and pepper scruff.
"They think a trained professional can remove everything that needs to come out, and these things will fill in the empty spots. And she'll still be Dee."

How...certain is any of this?

"Do you have any..." Ortiz's accent is thick - he's still the individual who tore a fireplace apart, and not the one who put them up in a nice hotel and paid for dinner.
"Any idea of where they might have gone?"

That rotten feeling writhes in his belly like a worm.
"He wants my help..."Cade had said, and was never forced to elaborate because Kaden was stupid! Because he thought anything Cadence was involved in wasn't worth knowing. He thought in comparison to Damien he wasn't worth keeping.
He sets the needle harmlessly along his thigh, no longer an open threat if it ever had been.

"MacDarragh needed Cade for...something," Kaden offers lamely.

Ortiz shows the first genuine interest since entering the mansion. Even Finch knows the things a man like Neil would need help with are small, the things he would ask for help with even smaller. This chain of thought is reflected in Raul's eyes as he gives the trees another scalding once over.

"Chupacabra will know," Raul says cryptically, and drops the gun in the seat so he can crack the gear shift into place.
It's a remarkable thing the man doesn't go into reverse; had he seen Damien physically Kaden has little doubt this wouldn't end sooner than it's going to.

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

Damien stays rooted in place, maintaining his position like he's waiting for Ortiz to do something, to reach for the gun once more and strike. Yet it doesn't happen. As the car starts to drive away, leaving the carcass of Wight's manor behind, the ex-convict allows the motion to press him back, sinking into the leather like he's a mostly empty cardboard box and not an actual person with a will and a body of his own. Even less a cardboard box and more so an old pair of gloves discarded weeks ago then promptly forgotten once they fell under the seat. An accessory, and a purposeless one at that.

They are being driven off to who knows where for who knows what. Some wild chase. Damien's head fills with images of gangly creatures that feast on the blood of goats, and of flesh puppeteered by silver strings in a mockery of life. If it wasn't all so disturbing it would be ridiculous in its incomprehensible absurdity.

Is it what Delilah wants? He thinks about telling that to Ortiz. He thinks about telling the man a lot of things, like he's rushing to speed up the inevitable. Perhaps it's a preferable outcome - death is not as horrible as the anticipation leading up to it.

Damien wonders if that's how Michael felt when it happened. He wonders if that's how Delilah is feeling right now, left alone while Ortiz scrambles to save her. Internally, he knows he would be a hypocrite to begrudge the ambassador his efforts, but, well, he is a hypocrite.

What is he doing here?

The sole thing keeping the cardboard box that Damien has become from tipping over is a familiar weight on his knee, and when he looks to the side he knows the answer to his question. It's a bizarre dichotomy of emotions - nothing's changed; he's still so useless, so utterly helpless to do anything to actually help a person he cares for and he hates himself for it in the deepest, most intrinsic way. Yet, as his shoulder brushes against Kaden's, he's so so glad to be here- to have chosen to be here. Is it enough?

For whatever time he has left, Damien plans to be here when his partner needs him.

 

[dreaming enthusiast]

---

Neil isn't sure exactly what lulled Cade to slumber - the sheer emotional exhaustion after bawling his eyes out, or the soft rumble of the car as the hitman drove them around the city streets. They should have arrived at their destination a fair while ago, but he took the long route. The very long one. Not necessarily in service of letting the gangster rest, though considering what they're about to do Wolf will need the energy. He hasn't slept for several nights in a row. Neither has MacDarragh, though that's nothing unusual for him. If anything, the amount of sleep he has been getting as of recent is out of character.

The Modafinil he took out of the glove-box crunches in Neil's mouth as he crushes it against his molars. The hitman didn't take it because he was feeling sleepy or anything. He hasn't really felt sleepy since he came back from the dead. But a habit is a habit.

Chewing on the pill like it's hard tack candy, MacDarragh keeps staring out of the car windshield.

He really took his sweet time getting here. So much so that the first rays of dawn are already beginning to break through the smog that seems to perpetually suffocate this fucking city, even in winter after freshly fallen snow should have diminished it at least somewhat. Up above the cover of filth, however, he can see the reflected glimmer of the sun bouncing off of skyscrapers.

The towering hunks of metal and glass cast their domineering shadows on the surrounding cityscape.

Swallowing the bitter chunks of the Modafinil, Neil turns to his companion only to huff. Cade hasn't woken up yet. He hasn't even stirred - cheek pressed up against the window, for all his imposing physique the gangster looks like a baby huddled up in the passenger seat like this. Or maybe that's the effect of the dry trails of tears on his face. The guy truly tuckered out within seconds of them setting off, like some switch flipped in his head and it was lights out. When it happened, the hitman for a second genuinely believed that that fucking rat had given them fake collars and was readying himself to turn back to finally put Rory out of his miserable little existence while he still had the time, only for the rhythmic rise and fall of Cade's chest to put his nerves to rest.

And for all the bullshit that has happened - partially because of Cade - Neil finds it in himself to snicker at how funny this all is anyway. Cute too.

With the practiced fingers of an expert thief (or an expert lover, though what's the difference?) Neil takes off the collar from around Wolf's neck without disturbing the man. Their long drive should have provided more than ample time for the biorobotics in their blood to charge up. So MacDarragh's own collar comes off as well, to be put away out of sight at his belt. There's no need for Vivien to know they went to see Rory. Unless boygenius has already phoned his ladylove, though if they play their hands right MacDarragh can explain that away. Easy.

With the same dexterity he took the collar, the hitman also retrieves Cade's phone, sliding it out of his pocket, as well as the pair of magnetic handcuffs from his personal duffel bag of goodies. There's some vicious pleasure in gently sliding the metallic bands around the wrists of the man responsible for kidnapping him twice, even if MacDarragh has... forgiven him that transgression.

Mostly.

Kind of.

For the time being. He's not the type to hold onto grudges - after all, he doesn't activate the handcuffs. Yet.

With a tilt of the head, the hitman leans back to observe his handiwork. Everything should be ready to go, as long as Cade agrees to the plan he has in mind. And he will. He has to... It might be Neil's only chance...

The press of a button on the driver-side door produces a light click from all the other doors as they lock in unison. It's a necessary precaution - Wolf is a creature of instinct that bites first and foremost; who knows what his reaction will be at the sight of the familiar TreaTech building a little ways away.

Inhaling, MacDarragh wills the confident grin that has been his lifelong comfort back onto his face, and when he leans in to whisper right into Cade's ear, it's with a purr in his tone, "You're adorable, but it's time to wake up, Cadence."

 

[SquigglyWiggly]

He doesn't even get the chance to ask himself how he fell asleep in his car - or why he would move into the passenger seat to do it.
His brain registers sound - not a voice and it jolts him hard enough to smack himself a good one against the window.

"Not 'dorable," he slurs rubbing the ache in his head before it melds away into nothing because it's important the familiar sound knows his stance. It's important he defends himself because behind this feeling is a... really rancid one.
And he knows once he finishes a good long stretch and scratches the pointy gunk out of his eyes he's going to know what it is. It won't make it less bad, but at least it can finally settle enough for him to start picking at it like an old scab. Maybe if he were left alone for a while he could go back to sleep and deal with it later...

He needs some air. The revelation the door is locked when he goes to open it is one that comes with an irritated sigh to the universe. The heavy cuff building a layer of sweat underneath it gets a little more pulse out of him. And then like a cherry on top the shit sundae, TreaTech is a stone's throw away.

On how fucked up is fucked up, this doesn't just take the cake it takes the whole damn bakery.
And it doesn't even hurt this time. It doesn't feel great obviously, but it's not going to kill him. Same thing when he smashes his fist into Neil's head- but he was waiting for this and instead Cade takes the headrest clean off.
By the time he remembers he's belted in, he's made half a dozen ridiculously bouncy attempts to scramble into the back that it's no longer an option and he makes another swing at Neil.
Anything to get enough time to smash his bracelet covered wrist into the glass and dive out yet another window.