2020-12-03 - Retribution

The shabby little house on Elm street is quiet. It's just past sunset, and there's light shining from the living and kitchen windows. Isabella's Jeep is currently not in the driveway, and Alexander is alone. He's in the living room, in a weirdly colored Christmas sweater (green reindeer? Who's idea was that?) and slightly baggy sweatpants, no shoes or socks, laying on his back with a beautiful white ragdoll cat on his chest. He's petting her idly with his good hand. His other hand is propped above his head; two of the fingers are bound and splinted, and his face is a riot of bruises with a large, potato-like nose that's clearly been recently broken. From the bedroom, Black Sabbath pounding the air, and his head is bobbing just slightly as he listens, eyes mostly closed.

There's no sound of a motor outside, just footsteps on the porch. The knocking on the door that follows is not in time with the music - it's sharp and definite, a little imperious. Like whoever's out there doesn't want to wait in the cold.

Blue Bell digs her claws into Alexander's chest at the sound of the knock, and he hisses before she jumps off and stalks away, tail in the air. He doesn't recognize the style of knock, which - since it's Elm - it means Alexander rises carefully, and reaches for his knife on the sofa-side table. He has to hold it in his non-dominant hand as he makes his way to the door, and looks through the keyhole. There's a blink, then a grimace. There's a delay in opening the door as he walks the knife back to its place, then returns to open the door. "Cavanaugh. Hello."

The sailor's in his long gray greatcoat, the black watchcap he wears, over jeans and dark t-shirt. "Evenin'," he says, tone level. "Came to talk. You free?"

Resignation flickers over the investigator's features, and he stares, motionless, at Joseph, clearly debating it with himself. Then he jerks his head in a nod, and opens the door widen enough for Joseph to come in. "Do you want coffee?" Blue Bell sits in the doorway of the hall, watching curiously, and the conure in the cage in the corner bounces up and down one of his perches, then rings his bell in protest to a stranger. If Joe comes in, Alexander quietly closes and locks the door behind him.

Joe, for his part, is utterly expressionless. Without that smile, his features are severe, even harsh. Whatever pretty young man Javier fell in love with all those years gone isn't to be seen there, not anymore. He waits, patiently, looking into the younger man's face. "Sure," he says, with no real enthusiasm.

They are equals in that, the lack of enthusiasm. But Alexander goes into the kitchen and fiddles with the machine to make a small pot. It doesn't take long to get it started and then he's returning to the room to stare at Joseph again. "You can sit if you want." He doesn't sit, himself, but stands there awkwardly, just staring. Waiting for whatever's coming.

But what is coming? That's the question. Joe does sit, deliberately....without a glance to the knife at his elbow. Almost at his ease. Still looking at the younger man, patiently.

There is no social skill that Alexander has in abundance, and the only upside of that is building a certain tolerance to awkward social situations, because he's in them all the time. He moves and sits down - not on the couch, but on the floor across from Joseph. He doesn't say anything, just watches Joseph watching him. It's not patient, exactly, but wary. Into this, Blue Bell saunters like the princess she clearly believes she is. She briefly brushes her body against Alexander's knee, but most of her attention is on Joe. She approaches to sniff his leg, then sits down and looks up at him with a rusty miaow.

He reaches down to offer a hand for her to sniff, petting if she wants it. He doesn't insist. But his eyes never waver from the younger man's. "Tell me what happened." It is not, for all the mildness of his tone, in any way a request.

Blue Bell sniffs the offered hand, then thrusts her head into his fingers. She wants. And is apparently willing to accept Joe as one of her devoted retainers. Alexander doesn't smile at it as he might usually do. He does raise an eyebrow at the not-a-request. His voice is heavy, but unhesitating, when he replies, "There isn't much to tell. Ask him what he wants to share, if anything."

Not even a flicker. "I'm not asking him. I'm asking you. Tell me what happened, in your own words." He picks the cat up, sets her in his lap. "Because from what I understand, you drugged, kidnapped, and abused my lover in multiple ways. I'm honestly surprised Javier didn't kill you. So why didn't he?"

The cat doesn't resist being picked up. In fact, she starts to purr in pleasure and immediately sort of melts in Joe's lap, bracing her front paws on one of his legs and gently kneeding while her eyes half-closed. She is living her best life in this moment.

Alexander? Not so much. Actual hurt flickers over his features. "I did not abuse him," he snaps defensively. Then, more hesitantly, "...did he say that I did?"

"You abused him. You drugged and tortured and humiliated him. You have no idea what damage you did," Joe's voice is flat, cold. "Why? Because you wanted him and that was the one way you could have him is my guess. Itzhak doesn't know or he'd've come over and beat you to death."

Alexander stares. "...what?"

He looks honestly, completely baffled. "You mean, sexually?" A shake of his head. "No. I've been in his head. It's beautiful, but it's filled with hurt and the desire to cause hurt. I don't enjoy either of those things. He's my friend. I want him to...I want him to be happy, and good, and safe. I don't want to fuck him." His brow furrows. "Why would you even think that? Nevermind. I don't need to know. But it's wrong." His lips press together. "But yes. I drugged him, because he would not come willingly. I humiliated him because there is a certain point in the process where anyone who can escape will escape, and even if I could subdue his mind, I wouldn't. If I could have--if I could have made it better, I would have. But I told him that I only knew the asshole way. He knew that. He knew that. And he asked for help anyway."

Up go those bronze brows. "He asked you to drug and kidnap him? Right then - leave without telling the men who loved him? I'm going to tell you again.....you don't have any idea what damage you did. Are you telling yourself that you saved an addict from his addiction? Because you didn't. You just tormented and nearly killed someone who tried to be your friend, and you're too blind to see it. And Javier and Itzhak and I are going to have to live with what you did while you go blithely on your merry way, thinking you accomplished something."

Alexander opens his mouth. Then he closes it. He nods, briefly. "All right," he says, quietly. "Was there something else you wanted?"

"An explanation," he replies, crisply. "As to what precisely made you think that was going to do any good. And a question.....if I did to Isabella what you did to Javier, what would you do to me?" He's still petting the cat, gently, scratching under her chin.

Joseph adds, after a beat, "And what precisely did you drug him with?"

Alexander thinks about it, then shakes his head. "No." Just that, to the demand for an explanation. The second question makes him frown. He thinks about it. "I would probably defer to what Isabella wanted done," he says. "It's what I've done in the past, and she's an adult, more than capable of exacting her own revenge if she desires it." Blue Bell is leaning into Joe's fingers, her eyes closed with bliss. To the last, he says, "Ketamine."

He keeps up the scratching with one hand, even as he leans over a little to pick up the knife by him. Turns it over in his hand, examining it. Not looking up from it, he wonders, "What drug did you think you were helping him with, or did you know?"

"Judging by the quality and severity of the withdrawal symptoms, a number of them, including opiates. I used the minimum necessary dose for his physical attributes to subdue him in the initial encounter and none afterwards, and attended closely to his physical symptoms and condition to the extent that he would allow it," Alexander says, tonelessly. He doesn't show any particular reaction to Joe picking up his knife. It's a beautiful thing, bone handled, long and kept wickedly sharp.

"And if his heart had started to fail under it, what would you have done, then?" Joe glances up, finally, and his expression is only earnest, curious. Not particularly heated. "Would you try to do this to him again, if he showed signs of relapsing into using again?" He tests the edge against his thumb.

"Heal him, or stabilize him until I could get medical assistance, if it was beyond what I could heal," Alexander says. "I knew that was a risk. I planned for it as best I could, under the circumstances." Then shakes his head. "No. I told him that. I told Itzhak that. I wouldn't do it at all, for someone who wasn't a friend."

A nod from the older man, who gently deposits the cat on the floor, shoos her away with a nudge of his instep. Then he's finally rising from his seat, knife still in hand....though he pulls a tissue from a pocket, wipes it down carefully, and sets it where he found it. No marking the steel. "Of course," he says. Only now does he seem to take in the extent of those injuries. "All that's Javier's, huh?" he asks, gesturing towards the bruises. "What'd he do?"

Alexander rises to his feet with Joseph, a little less smoothly. His head tilts to one side. "They're my injuries. But he did them, yes. We had a couple of fights." And it seems to be as willing as he's going to be to answer that question. He glances towards the kitchen. "Coffee's almost done. Are you staying?"

He's patting himself down like he's looking for his pack of cigarettes....but then, how long has it been since he smoked? Months, at least, since he's been seen in public with a Lucky in his fingers. Of course, that isn't what he comes out with....and there's the impact of the little leads, followed by the surge of current. Apparently he didn't trust his own abilities to do what was needed, and sought mechanical aid, instead.

Alexander isn't fooled by the patting down, and he's already starting to move back, but he was, perhaps, expecting a melee attack and not the taser. The leads hit him dead on in his chest. He doesn't scream - he can't. He crashes to the floor, cords standing out in his neck as he convulses on the floor. The conure in its cage screams, and Blue Bell scrabbles across the floor, running for the bedroom to hide under the bed. Alexander? Well, he doesn't do anything except shake, at least for the next few seconds.

That isn't the only toy he's brought to this little affair. Oh, he keeps his hand on it, pouring current down the leads. But he doesn't intend to finish it with bare fists, either. This isn't Javier and Itzhak's love for the brawl, the feeling of flesh against their knuckles. He's brought one of those collapsible batons, flicking it open in a slither of metal...and aiming it for the younger man's temple. Apparently he intends him to be unable to fight back by the time the charge is depleted.

It's hard to say if Alexander even sees the baton coming. His eyes are rolled back in his head. The baton lands with that particular, almost hollow, thunk of striking a human skull, and he jack-knifes on the floor one more time, and then, as the current fades, goes limp.

He's got no scruples about fighting fair or making sure that Alexander's awake for the rest of the lesson. None at all. Satisfied Alexander isn't going to wake up any time soon and zap him in reply, he gives him a very thorough working-over indeed. Enough that the injuries from de la Vega are mere prelude by comparison.

But when he wakes, it's clear from the aches that more bones have been fractured, if not broken. The wounded hand, especially, is far worse. No sign of the sailor, the front door shut neatly behind him....and the knife still gleaming on the side table.