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Realistic or Modern LOVE, LOSS, REVENGE

His best is all Finch can ask for.

Kaden can feel, intimately, when his words cause the ex-cop's breath to raise. He can hear the sharp spike of air filling his chest, the way it makes his heart beat that much faster.
The capo smiles to himself; rabbits must have slower heartbeats.

"For the first time in my life..." The steady drum of Damien's heart beats against his ear. It's done this for the last fifteen years, with no one to hear it and listen. No one to appreciate it.
"I'm not sure."

With a breath he pulls away, carrying the rhythm in his head like a song.
The warmth of Damien's chest lingers over his cheek.
"I've always done and been what Delilah wanted. I...I don't think I know who I am outside of her."

It's now admiring the subtle laugh lines framing Damien's mouth and the ruffled eyebrows that desperately need a pat down Finch realizes Damien is the first thing he's ever wanted.
Not in a possessive manner, although there will always be an element of that to his character. But in a terrifying and visceral way, in which he has no control over himself.

"I don't want to be with the organization that killed Michael and ruined your life," he says, shaking his head. It's not a far cry from what his life has always been about. In fact he may even lead a less violent life with Delilah.
Finch brings his arms up around himself, a hand on each elbow.

"But I don't know what else there is for me," he says with a helpless shrug. He had had similar trains of thought in the past, and they all stop around the same place. How do you leave? Where do you even begin?
"I have a few private accounts, but other than that... no home, no family, no assets. Nothing. I don't even have a grade twelve. All the personal documents I have are fake. I... essentially do not exist."
 
Damien misses the contact when Kaden moves away, but at the same time at least he can try and get his pulse back under some semblance of control. Even if the man simply continues the conversation casually, while still wearing only a towel.

A deep shame is digging at Damien's mind, but his focus is fortunately pulled in by Finch's words. The ex-cop's gaze softens when Kaden tells him he doesn't want to be with the High-Rise. Currently, that is a very legitimate option for him, what with Delilah being associated with the organization. Yet even if he supposedly doesn't know what he is outside of the woman, the capo says he doesn't want to work with these people that have caused so much hurt. It manages to produce a small smile from Damien.

"You could come with me," he blurts out the offer - the ex-convict that has little of his own extends a very insufficient hand. It takes him a moment to realize that, and that maybe he sounds too forward, so he adds a second later while rubbing at his arm only to find the plastic cast, "If you wanted, of course."

Damien wants that, but it's entirely Kaden's choice, and if he decides to make his own way... he would be more than capable. The ex-cop is certain of that - Finch can find himself, he can bounce back up and be better than before. Still, if Damien can provide any help along the way he will.

"Really?" the ex-convict is surprised to learn Kaden doesn't have a grade twelve. With the way he speaks and carries himself, he'd just assumed... Well, not that education level equals intelligence, "You of all people I'm certain would have no issue getting your GED."

"And as for the personal documents, you could track down a copy of your birth certificate. There might be legal obstacles to go through if all your identification is fake, but... Eli, my sister could help. She works in those circles," there's always a way. The ex-cop's smile widens slightly, "I could help too, with anything."

Damien stares at the person before him - this man that apparently does not exist. Whose touches from earlier still linger all over, ghostly echoes.

A thought crosses his mind and it makes the ex-cop's eyebrows furrow, expression dropping a fraction, "You don't have to answer me if you don't want to, but... is Kaden Finch your legal birth name?"
 
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Before more than a moment can pass, Damien offers to take Kaden with him.
His hands tighten over his skin.

The capo's eyes shoot to Damien, lips thinning when he mistakes the man's surprise as judgement. Of course his lack of a formal education isn't something Kaden likes to advertise and a vague feeling of shame and regret settles over him knowing that Damien now knows and he'll never not know again. How could he let something like that slip so casually?

"My mother's name..." He says, beginning to say more he'll regret.
"I know it was fowl specific but as they couldn't find a woman with the last name Finch the foster agency wouldn't let me keep it. She... she was just 'mom' to me."
Kaden reaches out for Damien, taking his good wrist and pinching.
That familiar pulse bounces under Kaden's thumb. It's something to anchor him here.
This close to a dinner where his wits are required he can't afford to drift.
This is a strand he can hold on to, small as it is. Damien's pulse is constant and ever present.

Pulling gently, Finch leads Damien to bed. He sits at the foot again, taking the ex-cop with him.
The bed covers are soft and gentle against his skin. If the placements of their suits mean anything, this is meant to be Damien's bed. It's identical to Kaden's, but Pawl's little crate is absent.

Somewhere, he has a genuine birth certificate and SS number. There was a period when he was in an out of foster care so logically there must be some paper trail made. If Damien's sister is anything like him, she would be able to help him. He could become a real person, have a real life.

"I'm Kaiden Smith, legally," he says, pulling Damien's hand into his lap. Between the towel and his sleeve, the stimulation is more than tolerable.
"K-A-I-D-E-N. But I don't remember ever spelling it like that and she taught me how to spell my name."

It was a long time ago he was forcibly tied to these hands. Now one has been brutally maimed because of him.
Kaden clenches and unclenches his own before attempting a touch. He traces a palm line, following the gentle curve.

"I don't like that. I'd want to change my name to the one I have now. And that would only be one small hurdle. I would be starting over, Damien."

The man's abandoned him before, for good reason. If Kaden makes more mistakes, he won't be able to blame Damien's abrupt departure but he won't have any other support systems in place to rely on. None besides Delilah.
It's too much to ask of the man.

"What if I did something to push you away again?"
 
Kaden doesn't remember his mother's name.

Damien feels a sharp pang of pain at the revelation - he knows next to nothing about the woman, and tragically it seems like the capo doesn't much either, but Kaden speaks about his faint memories of her with such fondness and care. It's unfair. Why the hell couldn't they let a child keep his last name? How fast did the foster agency simply give up on tracking down her information? How hard would it be to trace back now, so many years later... Damien has to believe it can be done, definitely. It would be difficult and convoluted and likely even painful, but not impossible with the right steps and the right help. As long as they don't relent.

There's a hand around his wrist, holding it securely but not too tightly. Shocked out of his thoughts, Damien chances a glance down - all of Kaden's touches are light. He feels ridiculous. When the ex-cop had finally gotten his pulse back under control, it threatens to speed up again, and as Finch leads him to the bed he can give no protest, following the gentle lead until he finds himself seated next to the man.

Kaiden... Kaiden Smith. No, it doesn't sound right, it doesn't fit him. Even just that additional 'i' somehow throws the whole thing off, as if in a fundamental truth that needs no explanation it simply does not belong there.

Just like Damien's hand doesn't belong in Kaden's lap. The ex-cop can't move, feeling more and more ridiculous by the second. He's going to kick the smoking habit only to have hypertension or a heart attack put him in an early grave. There would be some cosmic humor to that, maybe. However, when Kaden touches him - not through a sleeve - the sensation is... actually calming.

"You know, maybe starting over doesn't have to be such a horrible thing," maybe a clean slate is what they both need, "The obstacles might be many, but... I think it would be worth it in the end."

He can hope.

Damien is mesmerized by the soft finger with its impeccably cared-for nail trailing across his palm. Is Kaden following his heart line or his head line? Damien forgets which one is which. A girl in his high school art class used to know all about palm readings - about tarot too - and of course both are a total sham, but it was harmless fun to have her going around "predicting people's fortunes". It was a silly fad, one of many. Did Kaden ever even go to high school? When did he drop out? Did he go through all of the silly experiences of that stage of life? The thought that he didn't sends another pang of pain through Damien's chest.

What if I did something to push you away again?

"Please don't," his gaze shoots up to meet Finch's, eyes pleading.

He doesn't want to be pushed away, doesn't matter the reason... But what if it's something unintentional? And if so, would Damien have the patience to ask him to stop instead of leaving outright?

He sighs, "I didn't want to leave the first time, and I don't want to again. Just... talk to me instead. Be honest with me instead, and I'll do the same."
 
Would it be worth it? How does Damien know? In many ways the man is also starting over. Is he happy? Is he satisfied?
Rather than move on, Damien dug himself in further. What if Kaden's the same way? What if he can't let go?
The touch of his finger pad to the gentle skin of Damien's palm sends micro bolts of electricity up Kaden's hand.
This man is intensely too much and this is only one small touch. What would further contact do to Finch?

Trying to hold on to Damien too tightly cost Kaden the man entirely.
"I can try," he offers finally and a flower of optimism blooms in his chest. This man appreciates him for things no one ever has. Finch appreciates Damien for things he's never noticed in other people.
None of it is his strong suit, he has experience with none of it. As long as Damien understands what he's getting himself into, maybe Kaden can be okay too.

The strange phenomenon of wanting to be close to Damien rears it's unusual head. The aversion to touch doesn't go away, but the desire to climb into the man's skin persists despite how uncomfortable and unrealistic that would be.

"You are an encouragement to me. I feel better," he declares, regretfully setting Damien's hand aside.
With a breath he gets to his feet.
Untying the knot, the capo lets his towel drop to crowd around his feet at the floor.

Joining Pawl behind the divider who enviously gets to avoid dinner, Kaden dresses himself.
It's a mundane and tedious procedure considering how boring the attire is and yet he smiles to himself.

He could have a real life. And maybe one with Damien.
The flighty anxiety and excitement flutters over his skin, tampered down with the setting rustle of clothes.
As predicted, the dress shirt hangs down further than it should. The belt fixes the looseness of the pants, however. Finch refuses to let it dampen his spirit.

Pawl garbles a mew and Kaden unzips the bag to give her a soft rub down her back. If she means to rub up against him, she misses completely and slides against the interior of the bag instead.
He'd have more time for her too. He could take her out for walks. He could take himself out for walks.

Rezipping the carrier, Kaden steps out fully dressed. He feels utterly ridiculous. He hasn't had the time or the resources to do his hair properly or his skin. Without a corset he feels unkept and stupid looking.
The shoes are nice.
They've been polished recently and shine accordingly. But who cares about shoes? They'll be under a table for the majority of the night.

"I think this counts as psychological warfare," he murmurs, picking at his dress coat. Finch removes a bit of lint with a grimace.
"Your mid driff still looks brilliant so that's a relief. Are you ready?"
 
Kaden says he can try, and that's enough. It'd taken him time to start asking permission for things, but he's seemingly gotten there, and this would be yet another potential step toward accommodating Damien, one the ex-cop will remain patient for. Yes, he has changed. This is still Kaden, but the glimpses of humanity that were always in there now shine brighter. It dampens his mood to once again think this shift might be because Finch just suffered a traumatic event - he has lost more or less everything. Fuck, he nearly died, paralyzed and suffocating on the floor. It was... terrifying. A cold shiver runs down Damien's spine before he banishes the imagery with a light shake of his head.

What matters is the present, the one in which Kaden is alive, saying that he feels better. That the ex-cop is an encouragement to him.

"I'm glad," Damien smiles slightly around the reply. What more can he ask for than to support the capo under the present circumstances? Considering the fact he can't extricate the two from underneath the High-Rise's thumb, not at the moment at least. Speaking of, a dinner looms on the horizon - not a desired one, but a necessary one.

Kaden gets to his feet, doubtlessly to go get dressed.

Something hits the floor, and it takes Damien a bit to process what is in front of him. His brain short-circuits just long enough that he gets a good look at Finch sans towel, before his arms shoot up to cover his eyes. He's not thinking of the fact that one is in a cast. He's trying his best not to think of anything, so it serves him right when he smacks himself with the plastic straight in the face. Damien lies back fully on the bed as the capo mercifully disappears behind the divide. If he could crawl away to hide in a hole somewhere right about now, that'd be preferable.

Kaden is an ass. Damien groans internally at the poor choice of words.

Kaden is a dick. Okay, that's not any better.

Kaden is the meanest person he knows. Why the hell did he just do that? Does he have no sense of modesty, or is he doing it on purpose? He has kind of undressed in front of the ex-cop once before, but the context of their relationship was entirely different then. Finch has to know the way he gets under Damien's skin, surely. In which case, this is the type of psychological warfare that's bordering on war crimes, and who knows how long the two will be stuck sharing a room. The fact that deep inside that idea is appealing makes Damien rub at his brow with a sigh. The spot he hit a second ago has already stopped smarting and he sits back up as Kaden returns, only for the guy to hit him with another tease. He'd forgotten this part of the capo's character.

"I still don't know what that means," Damien frowns. He's begging himself to stop acting like a teenager or to at least retaliate somehow... Eyes slowly taking in Finch, the ex-cop hums after a second, "You still look great, though."

He really does, like always. Even if the tux hangs slightly in some places. Did they give him the wrong size or... has he lost some weight? Hopefully they'll actually get to eat at this dinner.

"I'm ready as I ever will be."
 
No one knows what it means besides Topher, and yet Kaden can't help but agree.
The man's face is all red again and the capo finds that he enjoys making it that way. The ex-cop dived fearlessly head first into certain death for Finch, but a bare butt makes him lose his composure.
Damien finds him attractive.
He preens under Damien's observation and he wished he had something better to wear for him to see him in. Not revealing necessarily, but simply better.

But before that he'd wish the night never had to happen in the first place.

"That will have to suffice," Kaden says with a curt nod, and mentally packs away his feelings for the evening.
Decluttering, but it's not an easy thing to do in the present context. Attempts to refocus only draw his attention back to the ex-cop.
This is a meeting that has precious little to do with Kaden. For once, nothing is really expected of him and the uselessness makes him antsy.

After one cursory glance over Damien's suit, he turns to the door.
Their would be guards don't bristle at the opening door, not when it's to be obedient.
Malcom glances at the both of them, quick darts of his eyes. Neither man is in their intense, restrictive armor anymore, instead dressed down civies more appropriate to the environment.
"How's the cat?" Malcom asks and Finch gets the sense the man is genuinely curious rather than just being friendly.

"Getting there," Kaden says with a brisk nod, closing the door shut after Damien.

And that is apparently all the conversation necessary.
They walk in silence.
The hotel is lavishly beautiful, cream colored walls with faux gold siding. Each corner has a vase of flowers or an elaborate sculpture. The carpet is a bold red and if anything, their commitment to keeping it clean is the true feat.
Kaden takes a grounding breath, even though he has no right to be anxious.

Walking side by side, his hand brushes Damien. Kaden grips the man's sleeve.

---

The restaurant is empty.
Only one table is set.
Raul and Delilah are already seated, making Damien and Kaden's arrival seem more like an interruption than a planned meeting.
Raul's eyes are on Damien's as soon as he comes into view. Kaden drops his sleeve immediately.

As soon as they're seated, Malcom and Clive step back and yet Kaden is bluntly reminded of their presence as they don't leave the dinning room completely.

It's horrible deja Vu sitting at a table with Delilah to have a business meeting.
There's no cultural cuisine of living animals dressing the table, mearly a basket of bread and wine, but the similarities are there regardless.
Is she thinking about that night too? The last night they were together?
What had Kaden done wrong to push her away?

She's wearing a ruby red wine dress, jewelry hanging heavy around her neck and her hair all done up.
If this was a dinner with any other suitor, she would wear an overcoat to cover up her arms.
Raul has only ever encouraged her to show herself off so now she doesn't.
Through intimate conversation, he knows this bothers her. Normally she would wear whatever she likes but due to Raul's endorsement she feels obligated to wear something he wouldn't like.
Upon realizing how infantile that is, she decides to wear what he does like. In the end, she's disgruntled with the fact that any of it matters in the slightest when it truly doesn't.

Apparently, dressing as a woman is a complicated political statement that only grows more complex when a man is involved.

Raul is offensively underdressed. To Finch's understanding he hasn't changed out of his slacks and has merely put a dinner coat on.
It's infuriating.
Kaden hides his utter distaste with a sip of water.

"They have a sourdough bread made from a starter here that they've been growing since the place opened. I highly recommend it," Raul says, taking a dinner roll from the basket to mutilate and fill with butter.

"I ordered you both the streak," Delilah says, propping an elbow on the armrest of her chair.
It's presumptuous, but then again this isn't really a dinner.
Although it may be just an extension of the hotel itself, the restaurant still boasts a small bit refined menu. At a first class restaurant, Raul orders spaghetti.

"Let's get on with it then." The old marine crosses one leg over the other, taking her wine glass to swirl it around.

"Business before pleasure. I've always loved that about you," Raul gushes and Delilah smiles, thin lipped.

He sits back, ripping little pieces of bread off to chew.
"Mr Blumenthal, I'm Raul Ortiz, as I'm sure you know."

The old fashioned man doesn't offer to shake Damien's hand. This is as far as his politeness and hospitality extends.
It's... Odd.
Raul won't let Damien drift from his attention, his hard and unforgiving stare smoothed over with a blanket of business friendliness. The ex-cop has no weapons and no leverage, Damien and Kaden both are flies on the elephant's back.
This amount of consideration is unusual and unnerving.
"As you must know, I support several non profit groups for sick children. I like to make up for the rest of it, you see. I even have a few patents I'm pushing," he says, and glances at Delilah in an odd way.

"I know you're feeling some kind of way about us and I completely understand and respect it. That being said you've overstepped and if it wasn't for Delilah we wouldn't be having such pleasantries. Sheppard here has, what's the expression, gone up to bat for you?"

She does like him. Finch is sure of it, and yet he can never tell with Delilah. Not anymore.
He wished it didn't matter, but it does.
Sheppard acts like she isn't part of the conversation, twisting the stem of her glass in her hand.
The same intensity Raul has is growing in her eyes.

Why? What is Kaden missing? Sure, Damien is troublesome, but he can't be this big a threat, can he?

"A vote from her is as good as any," Raul confesses, reaching over the table to rest his hand over hers briefly. Delilah doesn't return the affection.
Kaden prepares to hear the ambassador's offer. He should have rehearsed this with Damien, what was he thinking?
The man will have no concept for how much to ask for based on how much he's worth.

"I'll give you a half a million."

Finch chokes on his next sip, hand shooting to his mouth to smother his coughs.
Fifty to ninety thousand had been his approximation. That's what he would have given someone he already had imprisoned in his company, and even then that would be high.
Delilah's good word is that well regarded?

Finch grips Damien's knee, an action that's hidden under the table.
He's missed something important, something he didn't have reason to consider.

"Call it... emotional compensation," Raul murmurs, ignoring Finch's outburst and steepling his hands. They're rough, calloused things with the aged lines all filled in black with years of hard work.
He eyes Damien with a special glint in his eyes.
"And payment."

He inhales dryly, dropping his crust of bread.
"I don't know how you did it, or why you thought you could do it and not expect retaliation..."

Finch glances from Damien to Raul. Did what?
Helpless, he looks to Delilah but she's locked into the conversation unfolding before them.
Her expression doesn't shift, but her eyes dart. Her mouth parts, just a crack.

"I'm willing to let it go if you do. Without all of it, and let me tell you, you don't have all of it, you'll only be hurting us at best. And hurting yourself at worse."

The hand gripping Damien's knee tightens.
The ex-cop neglected to mention any sort of progress he might have made regarding his one man siege against the High-Rise.
Raul is scared of Damien.

"Is that really worth losing any more life you might have left, Blumenthal? You were a young man when you started this. You'll be a dead one before it's over."
 
Any meager hopes Damien had of actually getting to eat are quickly dashed. Sure, Delilah ordered him and Kaden stakes, but those are going to go cold by the time this talk is over. This is not a dinner, it's a business meeting masquerading as one.

Apparently criminal organizations enjoy holding negotiations over food and drink. To the ex-cop, the charade seems pointless, especially the whole dressing-up part. And in the midst of it is Raul, clothing bordering on the casual, though his gaze is anything but.

Damien meets the man's intense, unwavering stare with one of this own. Raul Ortiz - that had been the sole introduction, the rest he had presumed the ex-cop already knows, and the truth is he does. An ambassador. One that works with nonprofits for sick children, like that makes up for anything. Damien nearly glares at the statement - Moore's thing had been donating to charities, maybe as an active attempt to give back to the world, maybe as some kind of subconscious guilt. He is not sure as to the reasoning behind Raul's philanthropy, but for it to be brought up in this context comes off as... sleazy.

Does it help you sleep at night? The ex-cop almost asks Ortiz the same thing he'd asked Tom. Almost. He nods silently instead.

So, this is one of the people the High-Rise has working for them. Damien has no idea of their internal structure, apart from the fact that it's convoluted and starting to seem decentralized. He cannot be sure where exactly Ortiz stands in the hierarchy, but if he does have superiors to answer to as Kaden suggested, then how did Delilah manage to convince him not to have the ex-cop killed outright?

Raul is infatuated with her... Damien's eyes drift to the woman, trying to get any kind of read on her. Why would she use her sway to keep him alive? That's the more important question. First Sheppard gets him treatment at the hospital, now this... Is it really because she has Finch's interest in mind, or is there something more to it?

How far can Damien push her goodwill?

I'll give you half a million.

Surprisingly, it's not the ex-cop that chokes at the offered sum. No, it's Kaden, and Damien's immediate instinct is to reach over and pat the man on the back as he coughs, yet a hand firmly gripping his knee under the table gives him pause, movement stopping mid-way... Fuck, he should have told him. He should have at least given him a hint.

He knows. Schooling his face into an expression of neutrality, Damien turns back to Raul. The ambassador says he doesn't know how the ex-cop did it, though, so it's possible he's unaware of Nat and Eli. It's possible he's unaware of what exactly Damien has in his possession either. He won't fill in the blanks for the man, yet the High-Rise likely has Simons, if they haven't disposed of the lawyer already. Tying up loose ends. That's what Damien is to them now as well, and Ortiz is trying to pay him off. Kaden's prediction was right.

"You think that's enough? This "emotional compensation"," the ex-cop keeps his tone measured, even if it feels like bile in his throat. Ortiz tries to contain the last 15 years of Damien's life within those two words - Michael's murder, the damage done to their family, the stagnation of imprisonment. He offers a life-changing amount of money to make up for any transgressions as if a price can be put on what has already been lost.

Not that this is what the negotiations are really about. The fact of the matter is Ortiz couldn't care less about "emotional compensation". This is payment to stop poking around. Half a million dollars all because of one tiny key - it's excessive, in a nearly funny way. Damien could not have asked for better confirmation that he's on the right track.

Sure, he might not have all of it, but if investigating further would merely hurt the organization, Ortiz wouldn't be so worried over the prospect. Under the scrutiny of Raul and Delilah, Damien raises his chin. A part of him wants to bare his teeth and scoff.

It would be on-brand - yet another stupid and reckless thing. It would also be the furthest possible course of action from respecting or valuing his own life...

Raul claims- he threatens that Damien will be a dead man before this is over. A month ago he wouldn't have cared. A month ago he didn't think he had anything left to lose. He won't be intimidated now either, but...

Maybe it ends here.

Damien feels like tearing himself apart, and the ambassador with him. The man had had the audacity to call what the ex-convict did overstepping. The steady pressure on his knee is the sole thing keeping him grounded.

He takes in a deep breath, reaching for his glass of water.

"I don't want your money," the ex-cop grimaces, swallowing down expletives and feelings of revolt alike by taking a long sip of water. The very thought of accepting payment from the High-Rise makes his skin crawl. He would be tying himself up with them further if he agreed.

Damien straightens out and places his arms beneath the table, reaching for the sleeve of Kaden's dress jacket to hold on to as the capo had done on the way to the restaurant.

His jaw is so tense it takes some effort to open it to speak, "If I am to let this go, I have two conditions."

It's definitely his own voice uttering that sentence, yet the sound seems almost foreign, like he isn't the one speaking. Like Damien is simply a listener on the sidelines. Can he let this go?

"First, there is a young man, Officer Daniel Conley, currently in hospital after suffering a gunshot wound," the ex-convict suppresses a shiver at the imagery that enters his mind unbidden, pushing forward, "I want all of his medical expenses seen to, and any therapy he might have to undergo to make a recovery provided. All of this guaranteed beforehand, not given in increments."

"Second, I want to be released. Free and unaccosted. The same stands for Finch if he so wishes," Damien's fingers on Kaden's sleeve curl into the fabric. The muscles in his legs feel taught, on edge. It's the same sensation he gets when he feels the need to run. The ex-cop still has no idea if this is what he should do. Is it really what Finch wants? "The High-Rise - that means you and your ilk as well as anyone else - is to stay away. Like we don't exist to each other."

This is only an 'if' situation. Kaden said Damien didn't need to come to a decision now... Can he play this the right way? "Live and let live."
 
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Dread like ice poured down his veins spreads over Kaden at Damien's refusal of the money offered.
For a moment, Ortiz looks genuinely surprised before the expression hardens back into the slick business facade.
Delilah smiles, one so faint it would be most people's resting faces.

Damien isn't being difficult, he simply doesn't want blood money. That's reasonable, isn't it?
Daniel Conley.
Why is that name so familiar?

"That's easy enough," Ortiz agrees with a soft nod. It's almost too easy, too cheap. An exchange so unbalance it seems too good to be true.
Depending on how hurt Conley is, half a million would be more than enough.
A face attaches to the name, slowly and then all at once. A coffee shop, sharing a table, interrupted by a young face...
Now Damien has to bare the weight of Kaden's expression as well.

And then Damien pays for Kaden's freedom, assuming a price was ever required payment. The capo glances at Delilah, a brief and hurried thing.
The fingers gripping at his sleeve are steady, kneading. Damien must feel as frayed as he does.
It has been a long day and this feels like an unusual crescendo.

"That's it?" Raul asks after a pregnant pause. He chuckles, a short burst of disbelief.
Or perhaps relief.
"You drive a hard bargain, boy."

He really doesn't.

"You wanna go with him, Kaden?" Delilah asks, and it's said in the same impassive voice one would ask what dinner's going to be.
Finch doesn't know what leaving would entail, but he does know if Delilah stays with Ortiz it would mean they likely wouldn't see much of each other ever again.
Not considering the deal Damien's making.

"I...would like to consider it."

Delilah leans forward, both elbows on the table.
"That would mean going straight, kid. Finally. You want that?"

It's hard to want what he's never known. In the past he's wanted it. Now Finch is getting to be so old, he might not get another chance to want anything ever again.
He looks at the woman he's known nearly all his life and feels the livid ache of leaving her all over again so soon.

"If Damien doesn't work out, you can't come back. You're out, means you're out," Delilah states, and he doesn't understand why it has to be so definitive.
In the past she said she'd always be there if he lost his footing and couldn't handle going straight on his own.
Why is she pushing him away?

"I would never see you again?" Kaden asks, and he doesn't mean to sound as quiet as he does. For a moment he worries he'll have to repeat himself.

"Ah kid," Delilah huffs. She looks away, face darkening. She already promised she wouldn't leave. They said nothing about Kaden leaving.
Without a word, Delilah shakes her head.

In the silence that follows, a primly dressed waiter sets down their plates of food.
It isn't the steaks, not yet. This is merely the first course of what is the most painful dinner Kaden's ever had.
No, the appetizer is salad with nuts and cranberries interspaced about. The white flakes on top must be bits of coconut, if Kaden's senses can be trusted. It's unfortunate he once again doesn't have an appetite, even if his stomach groans at the sight.

"It's lovely, thank you," Ortiz mumbles to the help, as if speaking too loudly is inappropriate at a time like this.

"Mi vida, me and Blumenthal have come to an understanding. Assuming they stay and don't run off to cause trouble, I don't see why Kaden can't take the night to think on it. We can figure out the finer details tomorrow."
Ortiz cups her shoulder, rocks her gently when that doesn't get a response.
Kaden hates how he touches her, he hates how he talks to her. Subconsciously, he grips harder at Damien than is strictly necessary.

He hates that Ortiz is negotiating in his favor.

"Yeah. Yes, fine." The old marine breathes in deeply. She pulls away from Ortiz's touch.

Rather than ask for the pitcher of water, Delilah reaches for it from across the table. The movement shows poor manners and unfortunate consequences. The handle is moist from condensation and it slips teasingly from Delilah's grasp leaning heavily, ice water sloshing.
Numb, Kaden catches the pitcher but not before it's spat a liter over the edge of the table and straight into Damien's lap. The cold droplets are a shock to Finch, he can't imagine what it must feel like to the ex-cop.

"Shit," Sheppard says in place of an apology as Ortiz dabs at the table with a cloth napkin like a worried housewife.
Kaden sets the pitcher aside, taking his napkin to swipe what little he can from Damien's pants before it completely soaks it.

"I'm going for a smoke," Delilah declares, stepping away from the table.
It becomes obvious napkins aren't going to be sufficient when the ex-cop is left with an unfortunate dark spot over his lap.

"I'm sorry about that. I hope this doesn't count as being accosted," Ortiz says with a shy smile that would look handsome on anyone else.
"The men's room is down that way. Why don't you go clean yourself up?"
 
Damien grows quiet with an air of neutrality as he listens to the voices around him. The sounds are coming through muffled, delayed - it takes the ex-cop several seconds to discern the meaning of the words being exchanged. In some ways, this is kind of like an out-of-body experience, but he isn't hovering and observing from afar - it's more like he's stuck in his own head forced to watch himself function on autopilot at his own negotiations.

That's stupid. It was Blumenthal of his own free will that "came to an understanding" with Ortiz. Damien can put the blame on no one but himself. He bargained with the High-Rise, and rather childishly at that, yet... if he is to make a deal, these are the only two conditions he can think of.

The things that matter to Damien.

Kaden is considering coming with him. Or at least he'd "like to consider" the possibility. The ex-cop's eyes move between Finch and Delilah, their conversation still blanketed by whatever mental state he finds himself in. When the voices do penetrate, they feel like ice setting his nerve endings ablaze.

Or maybe that's just the cold water drenching his lap.

"Shit," Damien hisses out instinctually and slightly raises his arms as the sensation shocks him back into the moment; back into his own skin only for him to shiver at the uncomfortable wetness soaking into his dress pants despite the capo's best efforts. Still, the gesture is nice, but... truly, what a mess of a dinner. And this is actually the least messy part about it.

If what Raul says about the accident hopefully not counting as being accosted is supposed to be a joke, it's not a particularly funny one. However, the man's suggestion to go clean up is probably a wise choice, for multiple reasons. Damien nods.

"Excuse me," he states, more to Kaden than to Ortiz, before rising up from his seat to head for the door.

The ex-cop feels like a child pardoning himself from the table after doing something wrong - his parents were the ones that taught him to always be polite and say 'excuse me' in such situations. They also taught him, rather involuntarily on their end, to keep collected as he walked away. But the closer he gets to the men's room, away from prying eyes, the more he feels his footsteps quicken. Seconds after the door closes, one of the taps gets turned on and Damien splashes his face liberally with water, sending another shock through his system.

Live and let live? What the fuck was that all about?

His eyes meet those of the man in the mirror, searching them for some kind of answer, though the endeavor is fruitless - he still doesn't recognize the person staring back from behind the glass. They have the same characteristics, sure - same hair, same irises, same proportions; they are dressed the same, with the same dark spot in their lap. Yet, does Damien have the same weighty, judgemental expression the reflection directs his way? Under its scrutiny, he feels fragile.

If you go through with this, will you be able to live with yourself?

Damien bites at his lip. He splashes his face with water again, droplets soaking into his sleeve and collar as he presses his palm over his eyes. The ex-cop breathes in deeply.

There is a chance Kaden might come with him. Raul proposed the capo take the night to think on it, yet whatever he decides... Damien is terrified to his very core. He doesn't want to be separated from Finch - he doesn't think he's ever wanted to hold onto someone more. However, if Kaden does choose to walk away from this life... will Damien be enough for him? Can he offer a real life when he himself is torn in this way? There is a heavy pressure in his chest. The way Finch had questioned whether he'd be able to see Delilah again - barely a whisper - had been... heartbreaking. Whatever she might have done, the woman is someone special to him, yet after they've finally been reunited she says they might not meet ever again. Why? Because of her association with the High-Rise? Because of Damien? This is the worst. He doesn't know what to do - Kaden is in distress, and he feels powerless.

The ex-cop's hand slowly trails down his face before dropping at his side. Delilah said she'd go out for a smoke. Damien's used that as an excuse before... Is she distressed at the prospect too?

The spot on his lap is a persistent discomfort - the fabric there clings to skin, numbing it slightly. How do you even clean up a water stain? All you can do is allow it to dry. With a sigh, Damien passes his palm under the hand dryer on the wall and stands close to the warm air, in some poor attempt at hurrying up the process. This feels particularly pathetic.

It feels even more pathetic after the door to the restroom opens. The first thing that draws his attention is the reflection of her red dress in the mirror. Eyebrows furrowing, Damien half-turns to face Delilah. Part of him is not as surprised at her presence as it should be.

"I thought you went for a smoke."
 
"Changed my mind," Delilah says, closing the door behind her. The old marine flips the lock on the door, muscles in the open back of her dress bulging when she tests the handle.

When she turns back around she glances down, face plain.
"Sorry about," she begins, pointing vaguely.
Anyone who didn't know the backstory to the stain might think it's origin was different to a spilled bit of water.

"This place is like a palace, huh." It's not necessarily said like a question, most likely because it hardly needs to be. The floor shines enough to put a bloody reflection of Delilah's red dress in it.
There are multiple sinks, in fact really just one long basin and multiple taps. It's supposed to be fancy, but to Delilah it looks more like a food trough.

"Kaden told me women's bathrooms get their soap dispensers refilled almost twice as much as men's do." As if in some effort to change the statistic, or simply for the animalistic joy of it all, Delilah triggers one of the sensors.
A swirl of foam soap spits out into the basin with a mechanical chirp.
"He's probably the reason it's not three times as much."

There's a notable pause. A weighty inhale.

"I've never had this conversation before... " She mumbles, rubbing at her chin.
Finally, straight faced she comes out with, "I know whatever happens, you'll do better with him than I ever could."

It is a truly mortifying conversation to have in a men's bathroom, but the Mafia boss seems compelled to have it regardless.
The door is locked, no one's coming in and to leave would be a serious challenge.

Delilah bites at her lip, before catching on the waxy residue of lipstick and coming to a jarring stop.
The woman crosses her arms, rubbing scuff marks into the floor.

"You'll never have anyone more determined, doting or loyal, but you will hear every anecdote in the world. I'm not sure how important this is to you, but he doesn't have a huge appetite for sex either. It's probably due to the huge stick up his ass," she explains, ending it with a soft shrug.
She looks at him and with the sharpness of her eyes it isn't completely ridiculous to imagine she knows everything about whomever she studies.
The woman has that sage-like appearance.

"I trust you, Damien. If it's too much, I'll understand. No one's going to come in the night to break your kneecaps if it doesn't work out. That being said if you know it's not going anywhere and you know the feelings are fizzling out, you drop him like a hot potato, got it?"
Her voice lifts, going hard and faster as she speaks. It goes cold and dead on the last word.
Delilah looks back to the locked door.

"Cuz he won't know and that won't be fair to him. You do right by him, okay? Even if that means cutting early."
 
Damien's muscles tense at the same time that Delilah tries the door she just locked behind her. Is it so no one can come in or so that no one can go out? Probably both.

"It's fine," he hums vaguely at her apology in some form of acceptance, maybe, though he's much more busy keeping his eyes on the woman as she moves further into the space. The casual way Delilah talks doesn't exactly help ease the ex-cop's nerves - it merely makes his eyebrows furrow further and further in a mixture of confusion and curiosity. Why is she here? Does it have to do with the possibility of Kaden leaving? He has to trust she won't hurt him, but... if Sheppard has come to threaten Damien or dispose of him this is an awfully long and awkward prelude.

In the midst of listening to her small talk - and he calls it that only because he can't find a better word for what is happening - it occurs to the man that it would be especially humiliating to die in a hotel restroom with a stain on his pants looking like he pissed himself.

Immediately some silly, extremely unhelpful part of his mind mocks that if he does perish in this place, at least he doesn't have to come to a decision regarding the High-Rise. He has to tell himself that now's really not the time for such musings.

I know whatever happens, you'll do better with him than I ever could.

His stiff muscles don't relax and his confusion doesn't dissipate - not at all - though Damien's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. The hand dryer is still going off with a low mechanical whirl, clothing either half-dry or giving the illusion of being half-dry due to getting warmed up, but regardless the ex-cop moves away from the device, taking a couple of steps toward Delilah to be able to hear her better. To make sure he isn't misinterpreting what she has to say.

And she has a lot to say. It's... It's not at all what he expected. It's bizarre. Ludicrously, it sounds like Delilah is talking up Finch (kind of), almost like a wingman would. Hell, she says she trusts Damien; leaves him with some advice as well. The more he listens to her, the more his eyes widen.

He waits for several moments to make sure Delilah is finished before speaking, "I care for Kaden, a lot, and I do want to do right by him. I want to do my best so that it does work out... If it is important to you to know."

He takes another step forward, not breaking eye contact. Somewhat against his will, his voice softens, "And I think it is."

It's with a strange mixture of frustration and relief that he realizes that... yes, Delilah cares for Kaden. She has to. Why else did she come to save him? Why else would they be having this conversation now? Honestly, it makes things so much more painful.

"But you can't just pawn off your son, Delilah," if the ex-cop could cross his arms over his chest he would. Instead, he settles for clenching the one good hand at his side, "Do you think he'll stop missing you?"

"Some people you can't just "drop like a hot potato"," the expression comes out in a snarl - maybe not as harsh as his usual, but with distaste nevertheless. To talk in such a way about the man she called her son... Damien can't accept it. Subconsciously, he takes another step forward.

"Why did you leave? Why are you working with the High-Rise?" he searches Delilah's face as if the answer can be divined in her stern features, like reading the lines on a palm. She said she'd understand if it's "too much". What does that even mean? Was it too much for her? Earlier she said she'd never asked for him... he doesn't want to believe that's true, "Please, I want the truth... And I promise I won't tell Kaden. Because I think he deserves to hear it from you."
 
"It's a tumor."

The confession isn't whispered, but it is said in a secret way. Like it's something horrible and wrong.
And yet she holds herself strongly, as if it means nothing to her.
Each word she faced, expression softening even when Damien's message was cruel. The man was gentle, but forward and persistence.
He's been that way with her son to.

"It's in a part of my brain no one'll touch. I thought Raul could help- he's made his money funding that razor's edge, but..." Delilah rolls her shoulders in a casual way.
She tightens the grip of her crossed arms.

"I thought I had more time... But I'm going away whether I like it or not and I'm not- he's not gonna have anyone to take care of him."

Except you.

It remains unsaid because such a horrible burden isn't fit for anyone to shoulder. Delilah of all people would know that.
The last thing she would want to do is tether down another man who has no business spending his life on her shortcomings.

Damien has bridged the gap between them. He's taller than she is, like most men, but the woman has a way of making others feel small regardless.
She holds a room, even if the air filling the bathroom currently is frizzled and small.

"I know I shoulda told him, but I didn't know what to do. I still don't, not really. I just knew I couldn't leave and have him stay in the life I made for him."

So she tore it down with him still inside.

Delilah rubs her face. She has to make a conscious effort not to smear her eye makeup.
"I have my own paper trail on Ortiz and the High-Rise. Ortiz thinks it's yours. Judging from the deal you made back there, you've got your own dirt on him. Maybe enough to make mine actually worth something. But if you give up your piece he's going to realize someone else has been duping him for a year. Or worse, he'll think you're holding out on him."

She looks at him, head on a tilt.
"What do you got?"
 
It's a tumor.

Damien feels his eyes widen again, even more than before. Like mother, like son - Delilah and Kaden share similarities, including being able to shock the ex-cop into silence by simply speaking of such painful things so casually. The woman utters her diagnosis like it's nothing, and maybe at this point to her it is nothing, just old information she's had to digest and accept over and over again. How long has she known? How long does she have left? It feels wrong to ask.

This revelation is the last thing Damien anticipated. With the way Delilah carries herself, he never would have guessed. This woman that commands so much respect is terminally ill. What an insensitive observation. Damien almost speaks his condolences, but that feels like it would somehow be even more insensitive, and unwanted too, maybe.

So instead all he does is hold her gaze as she speaks about Kaden.

The ex-cop... was rash in his judgment of the mafia boss. It brings him a modicum of shame even if he maintains a resolute facade on the outside. Pierced by her eyes, it seems like she knows how he feels regardless. He can't be sure if Delilah has always been like this - especially knowing the ways she's hurt Kaden- the Butcher in the past - but for all intents and purposes it sounds like her adoptive son is her main priority now. It's a bit ridiculous to think a competent man like Finch would need to be taken care of, yet Damien feels like he understands. Holding in a breath, he nods his head.

"You should still tell him," the words are spoken quietly, an almost whisper. Not because he is uncertain in what he's saying, but because it's the only tone of voice that feels appropriate.

Damien sighs, rubbing at his temple.

"I have info about a law group involved with the High-Rise, potentially," that's a tentative connection at best, one he himself cannot pursue, but he mentions it first anyway, because what he's actually investigating sounds kind of flimsy proclaimed out loud, "And a damn key leading to I don't know what. But the ex-chief of police tried to use whatever he has locked up to bargain for his life, so... I hope- I believe the evidence he gathered is substantial. Just need to get my hands on it. But then if I do get my hands on it, the question becomes how to expose it."

Something to ponder another time. Damien runs his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands.

"I'm not going to give up what I have," his voice is resolute, chest filling with a familiar resolve. The disgusting taste of indecisiveness is gone from his mouth, and he has Delilah to thank for that, "But it's probably stupid to tell Ortiz to fuck off. Where does he even stand within the High-Rise?"
 
Damien doesn't offer his sympathies, even when the woman seemed prepared to be lashed by them. The tension in her shoulders ease when he spares her.
She nods in silence at his advice to tell Kaden.

"No... you'd be interrogated and killed immediately. Ortiz is the head honcho's nephew. Through marriage. I think."
A worrisome amount of emphasis is put on that last word.

"But no, we'll have a nice dinner for now. I might come get you some time in the middle of the night, but the moment you leave these grounds you're enemy number one. It doesn't matter if I'm his 'vida' or whatever, you're his real life. And everyone else's too."

The ex-marine rubs at her chin, brows furrowed in thought. Her eyes flick to and fro, as if seeing the numerous possibilities playing out in front of her.
Each hypothetical ends unfortunately if the twitch of an eye is any indication.

"There's celebration and disorientation now that the Black Dogs are gone, but I don't know if it'll be enough. The High-Rise own this city and you're their main target now."
For things the man has done and for things he hasn't done. Mostly for things he has.
But even if Damien rolls over now, it won't be enough.
Not when tomorrow comes round and Ortiz sees vital information missing from Damien's stockpile.
The situation won't add up and Blumenthal will become a lying scapegoat.
Damien was ruined the moment he stepped into the police raid.

She studies him once again, eyes resting on his cast before weighing over the whole of him.
"How long can you tolerate torture before squealing? No, don't answer that."

Even if Damien's endurance could buy them time, it wouldn't be worth it. Not to her.

"You really landed in it this time. Second time too," Delilah says after a moment, a reasonably soft utterance in comparison to how she usually speaks.
Sheppard shakes her head with a soft scoff.

"Where's this key? I need everything you have."
 
Damien thought he was nothing to the High-Rise. He hoped he wasn't, but considering the size of their operation from even back in the day, it was unrealistic to believe Kell and him were that much of a concern. They dealt with both cops easily enough, after all. He considered himself an annoying gnat at best, one to be swatted away with a heavy off-hand. Maybe it would take several times and Blumenthal could bite on the way down, but that was that. What he wanted was to matter to the people directly responsible for Michael's murder, to know they knew who he is and the damage they have done. But to be called the whole organization's main target is surreal. They have their sights on the man for both things he is responsible for and things he isn't, and Delilah can't help with that.

The fact that it sends equal amounts of anxiety and excitement down his spine says a lot about the ex-cop's psyche, not none of it necessarily good. He's always wanted to be something, and now he's something in a very dangerous, lethal way. Maybe he's suicidal, maybe he likes some danger. It puts a lot of choices he has made into perspective.

He's well and truly in deep shit.

Even if Delilah tells him not to answer, Damien has to consider how long he could last being tortured, yet it isn't really something that can be measured without having first-hand experience. He grimaces at the thought. The expression only deepens when the woman asks for the location of the key. Damien has already told her a lot, too much. A part of him considers that this might just be some elaborate ploy to gather up all of the evidence and hand it over to Raul, then the ex-cop can be disposed of without issue. In the silence that settles, his eyes narrow at Delilah.

"... It's on 226 E 79th Street on Lexon Hill," fuck, he wants to trust her. Maybe it's stupid, but he wants to, "Up the stairs, first door on the left. The second drawer on the desk in there has a false bottom. It can be lifted up by fitting a pen refill through a small hole underneath."

Because a false bottom is the kind of thing a kid has in a home where they feel unwelcome, lacking even the most basic privacy. Unless they can "earn it".

"The key is the only thing there," Damien hardens his tone for the next part, "The place belongs to my sister, and she might have friends over. Do not do anything to them... I'll alert her that someone will be arriving beforehand."
 
The old marine nods at the address, lips ghosting over the words. Her fingers twitch, as if counting the numbers with them.
The trick drawer is an easier thing to remember, the request for a violent free night even easier.
If the act of trust Damien shows by giving away his sister's home surprises Delilah, she doesn't show it.

"Got it." Sheppard nods again, this one curt and to the point.
"Lex Hill. East. Two, twenty six. Seventy-ninth street... I've got brain enough to remember."

With a look to Damien's half dried crotch, Delilah turns back to the door.
The locking mechanism gives a cold rasp as she unhinges it.
With a hand on the ornate handle she looks back at Damien, his face this time.
She worries her bottom lip again, makeup be damned.

"If things don't work out, if I don't get the chance... you'll let Kaden know? About everything?"
 
Damien's jaw tenses at Delilah's request. His instinct is to tell her she will get the chance; to insist that she tells Kaden everything herself, yet that doesn't feel like the right move. Not in light of everything he's just learned. His eyes take in the woman for several long moments - this myth he's only heard tales about, teeth worrying her lip in an awfully human way.

"I will," the statement is definitive, coming out far more decisive than the ex-cop feels on the inside. Really, this is the least he can promise Delilah, but the assurance feels way loftier than should be expected of two simple words. Does it bring her any comfort? He doesn't get to ask.

Delilah exits the same way she came in, without much fanfare, leaving Damien alone once more, yet not at all in the same state he was in earlier. Where there had been indecisiveness in his mind, now there is something else - in some ways better, in some ways worse. The man's mirror self moves in tandem with him, hand reaching up to tug at stands of hair to ground himself. His eyes trail down the tux, landing on the drying-up wet spot.

Damien sighs. He needs to go back to the dinner. He doesn't want to, but he doesn't have a choice. The hand dryer comes alive again with a whirl. The ex-cop will wait a bit more in order not to walk in right after Sheppard, and then... he'll pretend to have a nice dinner.
 
---

Cade is sure of one thing;

He is so fucking sick of driving.

Between getting to and from the house, seeing Oliver and of all things to do after collapsing a building, grocery shopping, he's done driving.
In fact when he pulls up to the dark dreary house squatting alone in the woods, the first thing he does after getting out is to rest his hot ass against the frozen door of his car.

And this finally is his car, but with changed plates.
That was another headache he had to deal with, along with ditching the bloody piece of crap he got Neil here with. The guy he goes to for this kinda thing didn't seem happy to see him.
Maybe because some gangs will want to take the Black Dog's slice of the pie, or maybe because Cade is technically the idiot who should be composing the next fractured gang with whoever's left.
That's how this bullshit usually crumbles.

All in all, it has been a fucking day.

The sun's finally setting.
It casts long black claws over the snow bank as it sinks down into the forest. They never came here in the winter time. It's almost like visiting a childhood memory in a dream; there's always something off.
Across the deep grooves of tire tracks is the stubby pattern of a raccoon's ass dragging itself through the snow. Poor short bastards.

His stomach makes a growl, an angry one that would be perfectly placed in an Alien movie to signal the inevitable horror of a chest burster.
Right, he didn't even get breakfast today.

The snow bites like fire when he stoops to grab a handful, pressing it to his face. His skin burns through it and the droplets tickle as they drip down his neck.
The gangster sweeps the snow up over his scalp before shaking his hand dry.

It's been a day.

The sooner he gets settled, the sooner he can eat.
The shit goes inside, the door gets locked (does he have to lock the door this far away from anyone?)
And he checks up on Neil. There's no hotel room, no alleyway to bump into him in. Theoretically, he knows exactly where the guy is and that's a bloody first.

You'd expect the light flicking on to wake up the mustache twirling villain sleeping like a princess. It doesn't, so Cade takes the time to sweep up the broken glass he left.
It wasn't part of the china set, thank goodness. His mother would be rolling in the grave.

When he comes back with another glass of water and Neil's next dose, he's still lying there.
The food's out in the kitchen counter, which is more or less a stone's throw away from this guest room.
It puts a tantalizing aroma in the air, the kind you can almost taste.
Call Cade a little shit, but when he was a kid his favorite thing to do was put a piece of salami right next to the family dog's nose while she was asleep.
Drool would pool in her mouth before she started chomping on air. When she woke up to chow down with a wagging tail, dreams weren't just attainable they were a real part of the big bad world.

But mostly it was funny as hell.

It occurs to Cade he could honestly have a fucking corpse lying here while he reminisces. As if this place wasn't haunted enough as is...
Cade ghosts a finger under Neil's nose and a moment later breath pours warmth over it.

"You're a sound sleeper for a kidnap victim," Cade murmurs, soft enough not to completely shatter the vibe but not a whisper.
The guy's lips are stretched around the gag in a way that wasn't meant to be comfortable. The shoelaces have left white streaks in his cheeks from the pressure. Before he can stop himself, Cade traces a lip. It's soft under his finger, catching on Cade's thumb like it wants to keep him there.
He continues his journey up to the laces.
The knot is a stubborn thing, and that's after Cade finds it in the nest of hair that still needs a good wash.

The gag needs to be dragged out, even after it's been freed. It's disgusting, the gag is. The weasel is still tied down so it did it's job but the sock goes straight into the bin otherwise.
The blanched lines in Neil's face turn pink with color.

Pulling back the blanket doesn't reveal any red.
Neil's bandages are still dry.
Maybe he honestly is this exhausted...

Neil's hanging mouth closes with a gentle click when Cade guides it shut.

"C'mon, wake up." The hitman's warm, but not bad warm. Not concerning warm.
Or is he? How hot is bad hot?
Cade gently taps at Neil's cheek.

"Hey, stop fucking around."
 
Take advantage of it and sleep it off.

Sleep it off, that's what Cade had "advised" Neil. Easier said than done. Sure, the Percocet goes a long way to making the hitman pain-free and drowsy, but the fact remains that he has been left gagged and bound in a completely unfamiliar location, and with Cade gone that last point is somehow much more discomforting. Not in a scary way, but in a wrong way that makes the man want to trash around. Without any distractions, the deeply ingrained instinct in his gut that pushes him to keep fighting flares up, adrenalin contesting the oxycodone in his bloodstream. Some people might call it panic. Those people are idiots. Not that he knows what to call it exactly himself, but that doesn't matter. With or without an exact term, there is something old clawing at his insides to break free, like a cat stuck behind drywall.

He feels trapped.

Neil's eyes sweep over his surroundings once more, searching for any way to get out, landing on the medical restraints softly keeping him contained. If his mouth was free... He attempts a tug at the binds only to wince when it feels like his right shoulder is being cut open. Well, it has been cut open, and if he keeps straining it it might start bleeding again. Fuck. Shit.

In between grumbled expletives, Neil breathes in through his nose to settle his nerves. It's fine, he'll get out. All he has to do is wait, and MacDarragh is nothing if not patient... Now that's a funny joke.

Wolf said he'd be back. The hitman wishes he could fall asleep, that'd make the wait go by faster, yet he isn't the type of person to really sleep. He's the type to nap in his office while pulling several all-nighters in a row, popping Modafinil to keep awake when sheer willpower falters. Because he's a busy professional. If he discounts being knocked out by a crumbling building, the last time Neil slept properly and actually enjoyed it was, well...

He shuts off that line of thought simultaneously with shutting his eyelids. Fine, he'll rest. Or at least he'll try. Neil thinks he dips into slumber several times, yet whenever he's on the edge of being fully submerged into unconsciousness, his body attempts to roll onto its side in a more comfortable position, and the movement reaffirms the presence of the restraints, rather rudely and painfully in one shoulder. Disruption - that's the name for the archaic execution method of having one's limbs tied to and pulled apart by four horses. Being tied to a bed is not at all comparable, but that's where Neil's mind decides to take him when he has no other stimuli to keep occupied.

Wolf said he'd be back. He said he'd be back in six hours with food, but it feels like more time has elapsed. At this point not only is Neil restless, he's also growing bored. What's taking Cade so long?

It's the aroma. That's the first sign the man gets that the house is no longer occupied solely by him - the smell of a meal, and a potentially good one at that. Okay, so either Cade is going to prove MacDarragh's earlier guess false and the guy can actually cook, or (and this is far more likely) he went out and bought something. The scent gets stronger once the door to the bedroom opens and the lights flicker on. Neil shuts his eyes, going completely still where he lies. He's not sure exactly why he does it - maybe it's out of pettiness after being kept waiting.

You're a sound sleeper for a kidnap victim.

The way Cade is talking and maneuvering through the room is almost like he's being careful not to wake up said victim, at least not too abruptly. It's a bit ridiculous. Any other captor - MacDarragh included - would have barged into the space nonchalantly, would have shaken the person they have tied up back to consciousness whether they wanted to wake up or not.

Yeah, and you're awfully lenient for a kidnapper. The hitman muses.

He chuckles to himself, not audibly, of course... If he keeps pretending to be asleep and helpless will his generous captor undo his binds?

Of all things to do, Cade traces Neil's lip - slowly, lingering - before ungagging him. The hitman fortunately doesn't choke, though a grin threatens to bloom on his face when Wolf oh-so-gently taps at his cheek instead of slapping it. He bites down on his tongue to wrestle control from his mimic muscles in order to keep up the pretense of sleeping.

There is almost a note of... concern in Cade's voice at the fact that MacDarragh is not waking up.

The hitman doesn't usually end up in situations where people need to fuss over him. He doesn't end up in such situations ever, really. This is not a type of attention he's used to, and its novelty isn't exactly unpleasant. The boredom from earlier is quickly dissipating - the gangster really is an entertaining guy. At this point, Neil's not opening his eyes not only because he's hoping the restraints will be removed like the sock-gag, but also because he's curious. How concerned will Cade get?
 
"Neil?"

Cade pushes the hitman's hair out of his face, cradling his head. No horrible green eyes flicker open to light up the rest of his face.
He's dead weight in his hands, the same way he'd been at the tower.

"Get up," Cade orders, and it is a fucking order. His voice stays hard.
"You always get up."

Was he so much worse off than Cade thought? Was the fucker too full of himself not to tell Cade he needed more help? Wouldn't Marley have known?
He shouldn't have fucking left him. Not this long.

Cade's hand smooths down the slope of Neil's neck, over the crest of his back. He can feel the shallow breath with the subtle rise and fall of the body underneath his palm.
The shoulder wound he leaves, but Cade finds the scratchy gauze at his lower back and, using two knuckles, burrows into it.
 
Neil basks in the attention, relishing the warm touch of worried hands cradling his head. The way Cade speaks is harsh, yet the way he says that - "You always get up" - well, it makes the hitman preen a little bit, grinning internally. That's true, he does always persevere.

He almost cracks his eyes open at the praise. Almost.

But then Cade's hand trails down his back and he decides to let the man's concern grow just a little bit further. Not only because this feels nice, but also because hopefully soon enough fingers will find their way to restraints.

It's a bitter, painful disappointment when they dig into one of his stab wounds instead. A whine leaves Neil's mouth and he buries his face into the pillow to try and muffle it. The hitman's body reacts against his will, attempting to shirk away despite him not being able to move, hands gripping at sheets. Okay, yeah, this is more like what other captors would do. So much for pretending to be passed out.

"You fucking bitch," MacDarragh hisses, turning his head to send Cade a narrow-eyed and thin-lipped grin, "I would get up if I could."

Neil pulls on one of the restraints meaningfully. He's been stuck in this position for however many hours, muscles going stiff.
 
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Cade is balancing the pros and cons of an emergency Marley call when the muscles under his mean touch spasm. Like dominos, the rest of Neil's body goes tight with long suffering life.
A whine Cade never ever would've imagined coming from a guy like this is music to his ears.
And it is a whine.

"Asshole," Cade bites, more air than teeth. If it's not one thing with Neil, it's another.
"That's real fucking funny. Don't you ever pull that shit again unless you're actually dead."

Or capable of fighting Cade in the slightest chance he actually did catch him off guard, if that's what the schtick was about.
To his credit, Neil looks to be leaning more towards the pissed side of the two human emotions he's capable of. It makes him look bratty, every bit the leprechaun Cade's trapped in order to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Man, for a second there he really thought they'd skipped to the last act in Misery.

Cade weighs a hand over Neil's. With the other he searches for the buckle keeping the soft wings of the restraints wrapped snugly around the wrist.
"I'm letting you out because I don't wanna feed you or wipe your ass. And frankly I don't think your giant fucking ego could handle it."

The clip releases with a gentle pinch. Cade reaches over to unclip the other arm. And then the rest of his limbs.
One leg he pauses on, checking it even when he has absolutely zero clue what he's doing. Apparently it's not broken, just bruised and banged up. A rock fell on it and it's bruised.

Neil's strong, somewhere in his prime, but he's still been torn into and sewn back together.
For a moment, Cade just stares at Neil like he's a problem to solve.
He's never helped someone with these injuries, or from the piss poor position of being on their stomach. His shoulder's going to be the main issue.

"I'll be right back. Don't try to move," he says, heading out the door for one of the bags he brought in.
He can't be gone more than a minute or two but when he comes back the rumpled sheets and a very huffy looking assassin paints the picture of an idiot who tried to move.
With more time, Cade doesn't doubt Neil would be able to power through. Power through right to the floor, probably, but nevertheless power through.

"This is going to hurt and you're going to deserve it," Cade says because he's an asshole. He drops the bag near the bed where he can grab it up again.
"We're going to get you on your side, then get you to sit up, okay?"

With a knee on the bed, Cade scoops an arm under Neil's chest.
The idea is to move Neil's shoulder as little as possible.
It's a rigamarole, it always is, but using persistent force gets Neil where he needs to be. He's heavier than what Cade is used to, but he's also not fucking stupid and puts some team effort into the situation.

Cade has to round to the opposite of the bed once Neil's on his side.
He slides an arm under the shoulder touching the bed, the other at the crook of Neil's knees. With apposing force, he pulls the hitman into a seated position, feet on the floor.

"Wasn't that hard," Cade exhales, bracing Neil with the front of his body.
"You're a natural."

The gangster reaches for the bag, pulling free one of the two shoulder braces he got from the pharmacy. He bites through the packaging, spitting plastic.
It's an intense looking immobilizer, all black with straps that will keep Neil's arm trapped against his body while his shoulder heals.

But it means Cade doesn't plan to tie Neil back into bed (probably) so that's gotta count for something.
"I think it's your color. You ready?"
 
"Had you fooled there for a bit, didn't I?" even if Neil can't revel in his theatrics coming together and flipping the situation on his captor, for the time he can at least find some joy in the fact that he had him worried. By the sound of it, though, Cade's gone from concerned to annoyed. Sharp grin not falling, Neil rolls his eyes and huffs, "It is really fucking funny, glad you can appreciate it."

He's the one that should be peeved. And he is. The injury that was unceremoniously dug at still throbs with a dull pain, yet then all of a sudden as if in reconciliation, the restraints finally come off. It's a surprise, regardless of Cade's reasoning.

It's an even bigger surprise when Cade actually leaves the room after freeing the hitman. A particularly hilarious surprise. The second he's out of the door, Neil tries to move - did the guy honestly expect him not to? No, he is going to get up and the instant the gangster returns, he's going to ambush and lock him into a hold, and-

MacDarragh's body has other plans. When he tries to will it to shift it only aches angrily in response, muscles that should be eager to move seizing up instead. Neil's eyebrows furrow. He keeps struggling, only to end up exasperated and short of breath tangled up in the sheets. How dumb that after he finally finds himself free - both of binds and of Cade's presence - the hitman can't scramble away, all cause of some uncooperative limbs.

It's a small miracle when the gangster finds him like this and doesn't make any "witty" comments, then it's a curse when he goes to help Neil sit up in bed. Fuck, this is the type of thing you do for a senile old man on his deathbed, the kind who wears a diaper and whose joints crack with each movement. MacDarragh's own vertebrae pop, and the thing is it is that it feels fucking great to finally not be lying on his stomach, even if it hurts on the way up. So he goes along with Cade's aid, as humiliating as it might be.

Neil scoffs at the witty comment Cade does end up making, shirking away slightly from the way the gangster is bracing him, "Yeah, and you're a natural at playing nurse. Consider a career change."

There is a rustle of plastic, and Neil isn't at all shocked to witness Wolf tearing open a package with his teeth - he's the type of person he can imagine removing bottle caps the same way. That earns a small chuckle. Combined with the penchant for sweet things, his dentist must either hate or love him. What does shock Neil is what nurse Cade produces from the packaging.

"You bought this?" MacDarragh raises an eyebrow, inspecting the black shoulder brace. His captor is back to behaving not like other captors. What an unnecessary thing to purchase - he could have just left Neil to put together a shitty temporary sling until they go see the High-Rise... The hitman's eyes find Cade's and he smirks, not at all as sharply as before, "Gotta decide if you're going to dig at the wounds or leave them to heal, you know."

Neil stays quiet for several seconds before tilting his head. In lieu of confirming that he's ready, he extends his right arm forward for the immobilizer to be slipped on, covering his rotator cuff and bicep. The hitman doesn't let Cade do all the work, of course, but there are certain straps MacDarragh simply can't do up, so he allows himself to lean against the firm wall that is the gangster and wait.

In his periphery something catches his attention at the bedside table - there's a glass of water and the next dose of pain medicine there. Cade must have brought these in at one point earlier and Neil simply didn't notice because, well, he was too busy pretending to sleep. While Cade is in the process of helpfully affixing the strap around his chest, the hitman reaches over with his good arm, popping the pills in his mouth before gulping them down.

"Go tighter with it," Neil requests around the rim of the glass, though it sounds more like an instruction. But that's as good as it gets with him.

Things need to be kind of snug if the brace is to have any effect, but once all of it comes together properly, the change in sensation is... immediately relieving. MacDarragh shifts the positions of his shoulder ever so gently, looking down at himself. He can't help but agree with Cade's assessment - black really is his color. It helps that the thing actually looks kind of cool.

Neil hums appreciatively, partially at himself for the new look, mostly at Cade who his eyes rise back up to take in, crinkling at the corners. Much like his lackluster request, this is as far as his gratitude goes, but it's gratitude nonetheless. Kind of. He'll go back to plotting payback later, maybe after he's eaten. Wolf did promise him something spicy.

"So, what food did you get? Sure took your sweet time shopping for medical supplies and a meal."
 
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Neil jokes about Cade becoming a nurse full time and he chuckles dryly.
That would be funny, all things considered. Evil incarnate actually seems surprised Cade went out of his way to get him something, as if Neil wouldn't have tried to do the same.

Gotta decide if you're going to dig at the wounds or leave them to heal, you know.

"I thought you'd appreciate some gentle ribbing. You can dish it out, but you can't take it, huh ya big baby?" Cade teases, and it almost feels like familiar ground.
Almost.
Neil's not wearing a shirt, which means Cade gets an eyeful and a handful at the same time. Each graze of bare skin bring up flashes of memories he can't deal with right now.
A few straps go over the opposite shoulder, one just underneath Neil's bust. This is different than tying him up. Obviously.
Neil offers himself up, assists where he can. More than once their hands bump into one another's and when there's nothing more the menace can do, he rests against Cade and relies on him to finish the job.

So, yeah, it's different.

That being said the hitman is still freakishly good with his left hand. Grabbing a cup and some pills doesn't exactly make him Houdini, but the ease in which he does it suggests he could do more.
Cade honestly has to not be jealous of the cripple showing off his ambidexterity.

"You're the boss."
If it were Cade, this would already be tighter than he'd like.
But this is closer to Neil's wheelhouse than Cade's. With a tug and a grunt, the hitman's tightly bound. The only pain he'll have there is the usual, 'ow fuck my arm's been sawed through', and not the, 'ow fuck my arm's been sawed through and it moved unexpectedly.'
And if he didn't know better, he'd think Neil was flashing him a genuine smile. It's soft around the edges, around his eyes.
Maybe Cade knows the feeling. Yeah, he'd been an absolute sadistic bastard about it but when Neil actually took care of him it was... Well, it was something.
A rough time is so much better than a gentle one. It just is, and maybe they'll be able to get back to it soon.
But a more likely scenario is they'll split paths for good this time.

The gangster picks up the pieces of garbage the brace came in, stuffing them into the cardboard box to be thrown out.

"I had to see my brother. He still thought I was in jail for decking the nice policeman," he says in a sarcasm soaked smile. It's hard to believe that was just a couple days ago...
The confession feels good, even if it's this piece of work he's telling it too. Neil can't hurt him with it if Cade already knows he's a piece of shit brother.
It's better than the alternative.

Oliver wasn't even mad. He was sorry.

He said he loved Cade.

He's a piece of shit and Oliver still loves him.

The floor gives a creak as Cade stands up.
He offers a hand, but Neil doesn't look like he needs as much help walking. He won't be running tonight, but he can do A to B.

He can leave the guest room he must be sick of now.

Neil's never seen the outside on account of the fact he was drooling into the car seat at the time. He doesn't know this house is masquerading as a cabin in the woods.
Inside it's all modern, with an attempt at the outdoors. The kitchen and living room are all open concept, one giant ass room for people to gather in. It's high ceilings, with a chandelier made of fake moose antlers.
Again, an attempt at woodsy decore that probably wouldn't fool a genuine mountain man for more than two seconds.
Like the fake fur cushions on the black couchs and the wood finish on everything that isn't an appliance.

"I got you Indian. Butter chicken," he says, haunting Neil's flank in case he decides to take a dive. Marley said chicken and rice, so he's getting chicken and rice.

"I went there a lot because fuckin' Finch liked it and I know it's good. Felt like going there one last time. Because I wanted to."

And that's probably the last time he'll go.
It's so fucking weird. Surreal.
Once Neil's settled in a dinning room seat, Cade turns back to the kitchen.
For the time being, it'll probably be a good idea to keep Neil away from the silverware. He's still not sure where they stand on the killing thing, but the guy would know where to cut to hurt Cade the worst while not necessarily killing him right away.
He's that good.

In other, less intense news Cade also may or may not have gone ham at an unsuspecting gas station.
It's real white trash garbage esthetic covering the kitchen; chips, drinks, brownies and donuts which are pretty much cubes of sugar and fat dipped in chocolate. There was a moment of reflection and thoughtfulness somewhere in that haze, must be because he also got eggs for whatever reason.
But he was hungry so he got cookie dough, instant noodles, frozen tater tots, chicken fingers and some foreign dumpling he thought looked weird.
And a liter of chocolate milk and rum for some mudslides because yeah, Cade is still an adult. More or less.
He got a baggy of sour keyrings in case things get real crazy.

Road food is how you celebrate a change and how you kiss goodbye a period of hell and this seems like it qualifies.
And it's almost funny side by side Neil's actual food.
Cade shovels a mound of rice from the styrofoam bowl onto a dinner plate. He fucking hates rice and chicken. He is so damn tired of rice and chicken.
The sauce goes over top and Cade has to refrain from stirring it in. He doesn't know how Neil likes it. For all he knows, the weirdo could like it on the side like Kaden did. All he knows is he can taste the spice from a foot away and if Neil actually wanted to incapacitate him for the night, he'd feed him this.
The only thing bearable is the bread. The naan or whatever has stayed warm enough wrapped in tinfoil so he leaves it as is.

The rest goes into the microwave for a minute of radiation and then there's nothing for Cade to do but stand in his mother's kitchen and pop a mini powdered donut into his mouth.
Not to get too graphic, but the powdered sugar melting in his mouth does make him weak in the knees.

It's been a long ass day.

Even though four of the extending leaflets aren't installed into the table, it's still big enough to feel lonely.
Definitely big enough to make Neil look smaller than he actually is sitting there.
It's still such a mindfuck he's actually here, in this house.

"I never really noticed your accent," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Where'd you grow up?"
 
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