Who: Loren & Micah What: Beers with a dash of murder.. dun dun dun. Where: Loren's apartment. When: Very recently? Warnings: VIOLENCE.
It was just after seven that night when Micah stepped out of the cab in front of Loren’s apartment building. A thoughtful guest, he had brought along a six pack of some craft beer the girl at the liquor store had assured him was quality. He wasn’t moving very easily that night, blaming it on the heat that was plaguing the country, but before long he was knocking on Loren’s door, one hand holding his cane, the other the six pack. He was dressed as he always did, in khaki trousers, though the button down shirt had been replaced by a dark t-shirt in charcoal grey. There was no nervousness for this meeting, as everything with the hotel had settled down for the most part. It wasn’t something that Micah had forgotten about by any stretch of imagination, but he tried not to dwell, to let it become something he lived around instead of living with. Some days were easier than others, and the addition of Hayden in his mind and her exploits did not make that any better. But he pushed through, he survived, and he waited for someone to answer the door.
Loren's most recent days had been eventful ones, greatly when contrasted with the way his days and nights usually recycled around uncovering Hannah's killer. After the ordeal with Meredith and subsequently kicking her out of his apartment, the nights grew longer. He stared at the steamer trunk that Jules had sent him, the note still closed and attached. It was intended for disposal of all Hannah's things, but Loren hadn't yet found the energy or heart to do so. Which meant that the books and bibles were still stacked in corners of the living room. Religious pamphlets were arranged in neat piles on the kitchette's countertop, where not much else remained except for a couple of candles. They were Hannah's as well. On his day off from Caesar's, which had been a couple of days prior, Loren took that trip down to Reno to the old PO Box still holding his name John Renown. Sam had not disappointed, and the file inside was thick to the brim with more pages and photographs and news articles than he could ever fathom somebody uncovering. Some hacker, indeed. The details made him gnash his teeth and it turned his stomach. The mass graves bound to his military unit's name, the tellings of rapes and torture and horror that matched Loren's nightmares too much to be a coincidence.
Loren had never forgotten his phone call with Sam, and there were certain details that haunted his interests for an entirely different reason. She'd said that the man who attacked her at the hotel was fond of knives, and that alone was a link to Hannah. The mention of an accent was the only thing she could really define about the man, and Loren put it as a kind of detail in the back of his mind.. not expecting something to come floating to the surface of his radar so soon. This wasn't to say that Micah was an immediate suspect, but Loren intended to sniff him out thoroughly. Even so, he pulled the apartment door open with a small smile when the knock came. The news was on, it usually was. Loren was still in the remainders of his work clothes, having wrapped up his security shift a couple hours ago but not yet working his way out of the wifebeater or belted slacks. Aside from the ghostly tattoo crawling down one of his arms, Loren could have been a regular businessman. He tilted his head, taking in the cane, height, weight, muscle mass, eye color, hand of preferential use.. all, immediately. It was an old habit, but a useful one tonight. That smile quipped again, not quite reaching his eyes, but he looked tired, so that was understandable. "Hey, Loren." He said in formal introduction, extending a hand while he stepped back to allow Micah entry.
It was difficult to tell if Loren met or failed Micah’s expectations for who he was meeting when the door finally swung open, but his smile was there, quiet and subdued, and after tucking the six-pack beneath the arm holding the cane, he offered his hand in return, giving Loren’s fingers a quick shake. “Micah,” he responded, his voice even, though the Irish lilt was absolutely unmistakable, heavy and almost hard to understand at some points. “Thank you for having me over,” he added as an afterthought before he stepped over the threshold ahead of Loren, heavily favouring his left leg when he turned to give him a look. “I brought something with me,” he said, holding up the six pack of craft brew, giving it a sidelong glance as blue eyes widened at his own amusement. “I’ve no idea if it’s drinkable, but the girl at the store assured me it would work.”
He took in Loren’s appearance, the slacks and wifebeater, the tattoo that stained one arm, but none of it told him much about the man other than the fact that he seemed employed somewhere with a uniform. Those kind of pants hardly got worn otherwise, at least to him. “Where should I put this,” Micah asked a moment later, glancing around at the interior of the apartment, the books stacked here and there, the steamer trunk against one wall, noting the little details that often built up a lot about the person who lived there.
"We can put it on the coffee table, kick back and open one up." Loren didn't recognize the beer by name, but he was a Miller High Life kind of guy, and not a big drinker even on his worst days. The fridge had a couple of six packs in it, usually on late nights home when he couldn't remember what remained in his fridge at all. As a result, the beer accumulated along with some left over chinese food containers. One of which was a bit old, some sweet and sour that had belonged to Meredith. He hadn't quite gotten around to throwing that out either. Despite the minor clutter of such things, the apartment was not in disarray. Meredith's little cleaning session had left a lasting impression, and aside from a quart of milk forgotten and left out beside the sink this morning, the apartment was basic. Utterly mundane, in fact. The furniture was bargain basement stuff, the kinds of scuffed up and poorly springed things that people bought at yard sales and church collection sells. There wasn't much for a man with no memory to own, except for that which mattered to him in recent times.. which seemed to only be these books stacked here and there. Loren took a seat first, kicking black socked feet onto the coffee table in a stretch of comfort as he looked over to Micah. "Been having a rough time lately?" The times he'd seen Micah's name come up on the forum in the past month hadn't exactly been under the best of circumstances. Loren had made certain to make a quick review of their past conversations and found one curious note that he'd somehow overlooked or tried to joke past until it really registered now. He had no intention of looking over the little things again. "I usually drink domestic, so if you need a bottle opener, we're out of luck but.." Somehow he knew, like a distant memory. "I can open 'em with a lighter, there's one on the counter by the candles if you don't have anything."
Micah wasted very little time before dropping into a seat nearby, laying his cane against the arm of the chair, a practised move that required very little thought. The apartment spoke very little about its occupant, so Micah knew if he wanted to learn anything more about the man he sat near, he would have to do so by observation alone. The sixpack was sat on the coffee table as instructed, and before he grabbed one, Micah shifted to the side and pulled his keys out of his pocket. “You can’t live in Ireland without having a bottle opener. It’s part of your required gear,” he joked as he cracked open one of the bottles and took a drink, giving a look at the label before he shrugged and settled back where he sat. Once he had a couple sips in him, Micah looked towards Loren, quiet for a moment before his shoulders shrug up just a bit. “A rough time is putting it lightly,” he finally said, swallowing back another drink before he let out a long sigh, stretching his good leg out in front of him. Something in his expression darkened at that, just slightly, a storm cloud passing over the sun.
Loren had never been very skilled at small talk, and even now, he felt out of his element. The only comfort to be found in the situation was the thrill of the hunt, and he teethed the corner of his mouth thoughtfully before reaching for a beer of his own out of the pack. He extended its glass neck toward Micah so that the pro might pry that little metal cap off. He could see it all now, really.. the cane, it was a good act. Hadn't Ted Bundy been the one to feign debilitation in order to lure in the goodhearted young women that he slaughtered like so much cattle? He didn't let sadness infuse his gaze because he did not let his mind stray to Hannah, and how willing she would have been to have ever helped anyone in need. Oh, the masks of monsters. It was clever if it was a ploy, and the only way to find out would be to rough the man up a bit and see what kind of fight he could really put into things.. but it felt a little early to jump to conclusions. Then again, Loren wasn't being honest with himself if he had yet to accept that all conclusions were already made. Long before Mr. Belfast walked through the door. "Ireland, I've never been.." Although after reading over his file, he knew that was a lie. A couple of political assassinations and religiously organized bombings here and there, it wasn't all that uncommon in the North. Or it wasn't several years ago. Resting his head back against the cushions, Loren tilted a glance at Micah. "I'm an open ear if you want to talk about it."
Micah leaned forward to take the top off of Loren’s bottle, putting the cap on the table before he leaned back once more, growing a bit quiet at the mention of home. “It’s a beautiful country. I grew up in Southern Ireland, Cork. I could recommend some places if you ever decide to visit.” The beer helped him to relax, bit by bit, but there was a note of distrust in him as Loren offered his ear to listen. His hand slid down the bottle of beer, toying with the perspiration on the outside of the bottle, his gaze going the slightest bit distant.
“As much as I appreciate the offer,” Micah started, giving Loren another long look, “it’s not really something I should be speaking of. Private, you understand. But I do thank you for the offer.”
Loren shrugged, unoffended by the dismissal of therapeutic conversation. Probably for the best, he assumed. No need to let these things get over with so quickly. He swigged his beer and stretched the side of his neck while his attention drifted to the television set. The news was updating on the continuing chaos in Syria and for a moment, Loren considered sitting up to seek out the remote and change it.. but then maybe it was a sign. He watched the footage of the latest militant bombing for a moment in silence, considering. Sometimes you have to cut off a finger to save your whole hand. "I used to think that I was a good person, I was pretty sure of it, in fact. I'm a security guard," he offered with a second tilt of his head so that husky blue eyes leveled on Micah again. This time there was a smile, a little faint, but definitely real. "It's my job to make sure that people are taken care of, that crime is at a minimum, that people have a good.. safe.. time." Another small sip from the bottle. "And I'm good at my job, I really loved it for awhile there.. but.." Sighing, he ignored the television in favor of Micah. And this time he did think of Hannah, and not just her but Meredith.. Tate.. everything. ".. my person on the other side isn't good, and he hurts people, and there should be some way to control those kinds of things, but.." This is probably the most Loren had ever spoken to anyone in the last two years of his life. "I don't know, sometimes I don't know what I'm capable of. Is it him or me?" Although since the arrival of the file, Loren knew exactly what he was capable of. The idea made him wince briefly.
Micah was quiet as Loren spoke, finishing off his first beer a handful of moments into the conversation, though he didn’t yet reach for another. The man’s words rang true with him, that uncertainty, the voice that questioned, the worries about who was doing what. His eyes lowered towards his legs and he let out a long, heavy sigh. “Strange as it may be, I do know what you mean by that. My person on the other side, they...” He trailed off, thinking about Hayden and that anger that festered so heavily inside her. He knew why she was angry, understood where she was coming from, but the seepage was worrisome. “Sometimes I think they leak into me. Not so much that it’s difficult to handle, but there are these moments where... where I feel like I’m not in control.”
He did lean forward to get another beer, pulling off the top with his bottle opener and settling back for a long draw from the bottle. “I wasn’t like this before her. Before Vegas. I was angry, sure, but that was mostly at myself. This is all different to me, this sort of fury.” Micah thought about the girl at the hotel, the knife, the blood, the sounds she made, the feel of her going limp even as he had his way with her. The colour had drained from his face somewhat then and Micah leaned forward to put his bottle down, his hand shaking. “Sorry. Just. Flashbacks.”
Loren tried to make a map of what he knew about the man that had killed Hannah. He knew that Jules had spoken with the one on the other side, but Jules' interpretation didn't match what Micah described. Jules had considered the killer's other to be afraid, but wanting the murders to stop.. not a creature of violence. Then again, for Loren, memory and imagination had a tendency to blur and what the hell did Jules know anyway? Given Jules' preference toward rough men, the scrawny blond probably thought a Sumatran tiger was innocent as a goddamn kitten. Loren frowned, sensing the honesty that radiated from Micah but perhaps only because it matched something similar in himself. Now was no time to get soft of course, and even when all of the color drained from Micah's face, Loren's blue eyes watched him curiously. "Flashbacks," the word made him smile although this time the expression was not one marked in even a sliver of enjoyment. "I get those." Although for entirely different reasons, and he ran a knuckle against his eyes thoughtfully while Micah polished off his first beer in a breeze. Only the Irish. Even considering the forum mention of a knife and a woman, it felt too convenient, too easy. Maybe it was the old him beginning to crawl through the scrap metal of his dented identity. This guy? Really? A predator should be able to sense their own, could snakes sense other snakes? "Did you come over with your family? Are there a lot of Irish in Las Vegas?" He winced politely. "You've just got a unique accent, and I've worked in the city for awhile now.."
Micah wasn’t one to lie readily to anyone, so while he may have left things out purposefully, what he said was the truth, as far as he was concerned at least. “I had a bad time in the hotel last time the world turned upside down on us,” he said by way of explanation. “Not that I’ve had a good time anytime something strange has happened.” Micah chuckled softly, though there was no true amusement in the sound. It was stressed and tired, but never amused.
As the conversation turned towards his origins, Micah gave a shake of his head, reaching back forward for his beer to settle back in to sipping it slowly. “No, it’s just myself over here as far as my family’s concerned. My parents have their thing back in Cork, and I needed some fresh air after some things there happened. The journal came around the same time, and Vegas seemed as good as any other place considering.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile as he shook his head in the negative. “Should have stayed home. The drama there was bearable. Here, it’s horrible.” Lifting his beer, he tilted it towards Loren. “To the insanity this place breeds?”
"I don't know if I can cheers to that in good conscience," Loren said honestly. "A lot of people have been hurt here recently, and nothing has been pleasant for far too long." Or ever, really. Loren couldn't even remember smiling since Hannah, but those were probably just memories lost in the afterglow that sucked up everything along the way. Even so, he tipped his mostly full bottle toward Micah's for a little clink of ceremony, and he took a sip. "Apparently my mother still lives up North, although I haven't contacted her in something like a decade.." Again, all according to his file. And according to his file she was a Russian lush running a beauty parlor out of Brighton Beach, which sounded like some kind of welcome home nightmare as far as Loren was concerned. No thank you. ".. but it's probably for the best in my situation." He paused before adding, "We never got along." Which he could only assume, but it sounded decent enough.
“It may not be particularly pleasant, but my therapist says I ought to try and find a positive side to things when at all possible, and I know people have been hurt.” I caused some of that was left unsaid, but there was a flicker of something in those slate blue eyes. Their bottles clinked together and he met Loren’s gaze for a moment before he took another drink, idly rubbing his bad knee as Loren spoke. “It’s sad that you and them don’t get along, but sometimes, that’s simply how it falls. I think I’m rather lucky that I am as close as I am to my parents, but I know that’s not everyone’s situation.” One shoulder rose in a small shrug, balancing the beer on one knee.
"So you have a therapist.." Loren made a face as if it was a concept that he didn't necessarily understand. It wasn't an expression of judgement, nothing good or bad, just muddy thoughts. Shifting against the couch and taking a swig of his beer, Loren fished his cellphone out of his backpocket aimlessly, hitting redial without looking and setting it facedown on the coffee table between them. The illuminated screen that said a call was in progress was hidden against the dark wood, save for a subtle glow of reflection against the dull varnish. Loren spared the phone's mouth piece so that it hung just off of the table's edge, sure to keep the sound nice and clear. He rested the socked sole of his foot beside it, sipping his beer in thought. "How's that panning out for you? Sounds like a pretty good hand to me." People in Vegas all picked up the same flair for words, all cards and games and throws of the dice as metaphors, it was a habit Loren learned quick. "The support of your family, a therapist, some.." There was a pause as he gave a discerning glance down the label of his beer. ".. pretty decent beer, what else do you need to cheers to?" This was all said with a second tip of his bottleneck toward Micah's. Cheers.
The removal of the phone from Loren’s pocket had Micah raising his brows for a moment, but he didn’t say anything about it, filing it aside as an afterthought the man must have had, or perhaps he was just tired of the phone being in his pocket. “I wouldn’t call it a good hand,” Micah started, his voice wary as he tipped back another drink, closing his eyes for a moment as he relished the taste. It was good, and he’d have to go back to that store if the girl always gave him good recommendations like this one. “My family is halfway across the world, I fear. We’re close, but we hardly talk now that I’ve moved. They were simply glad that I saw my way out of the house again after the accident.” His fingers gave a tap to the cane at his side to reference it, and he made no move to lean forward to toast to anything more. His world wasn’t horrible by any means, but it was not a life that he wished upon anyone. Constant pain, the darkness that chewed him through on the inside, the psychotic alter that was determined to die again and again.
"Things could always be worse," Loren offered as he leaned forward to drop the volume on the distant television screen. He doubted having the news, with its regaling of combat scenarios was helpful in the grand scheme of things. To be fair, it'd been in another life the last time he played secret spy. There was a shift of eyes at the mention of an accident, and he noted the cane again although he did not ask about it the way some people might. Loren wasn't that good at deciphering lies from truths, and it felt better just to assume the worst. Guilty until proven innocent, that sort of thing. He yawned and sipped with a smile that was all effort concerning the newly muted things on the news.. and everything else. "I mean, we could be stuck in the heads of our people on the other side.." Not that Loren knew the close call there, or that people actually experienced thoughts on the other side.
A shudder that was almost visible ran through Micah at the mention of being stuck in the heads of the other halves that existed on the other side of the door. “I would sooner not be stuck in that situation,” Micah said with a wry smile, shaking his head as he downed the rest of his beer, replacing the empty with a new bottle moments later, hands going through the practised motions of taking off the cap. “Life on this end may not be perfect, but it’s much less violent than the other side of that door. I’ll take this any day, I believe.” He paused, the bottle opening resting against his lower lip, pondering the simple fact that he had not told anyone on this side who he was when he went through the door, not that he wanted to parade Hayden around for all to gawk out. The girl garnered quite enough attention on her own without his assistance.
"Less violent is always nice," Loren said after a pause. He wasn't entirely sure that Las Vegas qualified as less violent for some of its residents, possibly not even himself. He tested a smile against the rim of his beer, but it didn't quite recent his eyes. It barely extended fully across his mouth as he considered the file that Sam had shipped him. Even if his past didn't make him any better than whatever monster had killed Hannah, that didn't mean he was going to endure the theatrics of her murderer. He stared thoughtfully at the man on his couch, trying to force Micah into all of his preconceived notions on Hannah's killer and Meredith's stalker. It really wasn't the kind of man that Loren ever envisioned to be capable of such a thing, and maybe he wasn't a perfect judge of character, but maybe he was missing something. The faded blue of his eyes cinched tighter, siphoning his stare as he attempted to discern anything new about Micah. Anything he might have missed. Micah didn't have the build of a fighter, but that wasn't necessary to overpower or kill young women. There were callouses on Micah's fingers, and Loren sipped. He didn't imagine Micah with his cane to be one for hard labor, he was probably some kind of musician. There was a tilt of the head, and Loren didn't recognize this stretch of silence to be anything unusual or overly lengthy. The buzzing vibration of his phone was the only thing that finally stirred him, and Loren drew an inhale of exhaustion before he reached for the phone with its text message. The number wasn't saved, but he recognized it as Sam's, and her single word reply was all the evidence he needed. Loren set the phone back on the table with a stretch, settling into the cushions once more with a new calm. "Alright, now we're going to talk about the hotel." He swigged the beer, which was going lukewarm by now with as much as he'd palmed the glass and peeled the label with the edge of his thumb. "And don't get up," he instructed on a tail end of that swallow, glancing toward the door in gesture. "I'd beat you there." Plucking up the remote control between them once more, Loren unmuted the news, and even brought up the volume a bit. If voices got raised, there was no need to alert the neighbors. He watched Micah expectantly, a tired expression that clearly said Micah better just spit it out.
The sudden change of topic of their conversation had the effect of putting Micah instantly on edge. There was no reason Loren would want to talk to him about the hotel specifically, not unless he suspected him of something. He could see the way the man had shifted, almost relaxed, after whatever message he had received on the mobile, and Micah’s eyes shot to it for a moment, studying the device before looking up towards Loren. “I think it’s quite time that I saw myself out,” Micah said, and though he made no move to rise, he did shift to one hip, pulling his own phone out of his front pocket, brandishing it towards Loren with brows that were raised, expectant. “I came here wanting no trouble, mind you, and I intend to leave without there being any trouble. I must say it’s rude to invite someone over for a drink and then act as you have.” His defensiveness likely spoke volumes, but Micah had no intention of simply sitting there and letting whatever Loren had in mind happen. The cane was brought in front of him and he put his weight on it as he rose to his feet, and there was no faking the shift, the grimace, the way he favoured one side of his body. The hotel was a sore subject for Micah, one he had taken to handling internally after the fiasco on the journals. Things had settled down, and even though he wasn’t naive enough to think that it meant it had been forgotten, he had hoped it would remain quiet.
His thumb ran over the front of the phone, punching in a number for one of the local cab companies even as he gave Loren his back and made his way to the door, ignoring that veiled threat about who would get their first. As soon as someone came on the line, he spoke. “Ah, yes. I would like a cab, please.” Micah’s voice was remarkably calm on the phone, a sharp difference from the wariness that had wound around his words only moments before.
Loren just watched him for a moment, dropping his pale attention to the phone in the man's hand. "Rude?" He asked, as if he wasn't entirely sure of how that word applied to their situation. He remained seated even as Micah relied on his cane to find his feet and made for the door at a steady, confident pace. Unfortunately, he'd never get a chance to finish that cab order. The blow seemingly came out of nowhere, as Loren made swift work in getting up from his seat and moving in behind Micah's hobbling escape. What was left of his beer was drained onto the carpet at his feet as Loren made his way through the noisy living room. The empty bottle came down for a solid swing at the back of Micah's skull. The glass shattered and that didn't look comfortable at all when Micah lost his footing and his phone on his way to the floor. Loren ignored the man now bleeding from the head, and rather knelt to collect the fallen cell phone. He slid his thumb across the back, separating its plastic shell and prying the battery out with a fingertip before letting all the bits fall to the floor. "I was willing to hear you out, but I can see we're going to skip the defense." Twisting his fist into the back of Micah's shirt collar, he wrenched the man onto his back, amongst the glass and the beer soaked carpet. "And that's alright with me." Which is when he began to drag the man toward the kitchen. Blood would at least wash off of the linoleum easily.
He was just starting to rattle off the address when something hard crashed into the back of his head. The blow dazed him, the sound of glass shattering against his head deafening as the phone fell from his fingers and he dropped hard to the carpeted floor. The phone was the least of his worries as he reached up to touch the back of his head, his fingers coming away covered in blood. “What the bloody hell was that for?” Micah snapped out, all pretense of politeness soaring away as he started to turn towards the other man. He didn’t get a chance to respond easily with the way Loren’s fingers grabbed the back of his shirt, prompting a shout from Micah that was drowned out by the increased volume of the television. “Seriously, mate, what the bloody hell is going on? What did I do to you?” Micah tried to dig heels in as he was dragged across the carpet to the kitchen, his heels gaining very little purchase in the generic apartment carpeting, instead serving for him to simply lose a shoe in the struggle. “I didn’t come here for a fight. Let’s talk. Talk!” He scrambled for any sort of relief he could get, grabbing at every straw he could to try and bring some end to this insanity.
"This isn't a fight," Loren clarified with a hard seethe as he deposited the man with a shove onto the linoleum, ensuring that Micah was trapped against the cul-de-sac of kitchen cabinets rather than near the exit that boasted of bloodied carpet which would lead back out toward the front door and the living room. Standing tall, Loren struggled for a calm breath as he put a bit of space between Micah and himself, not trusting proximity. There was a cool detachment lurking into his head, and he'd always thought that it was Tate, but now he was beginning to realize that it probably wasn't that boy at all. He couldn't even hear the echo of the young man's voice anymore, although if Loren really thought about it, he hadn't heard Tate ever since he'd driven back from Reno with that file. Pushing experimentally at the man's bum leg with the dark toe of his sock, Loren reached for the lighter on the counter and took the time to light the pair of Hannah's candles that remained on the kitchenette counter. It seemed like the holy thing to do. "She said you like knives," Loren added on thoughtfully as he pried open a couple of drawers and searched for anything sharp. Steak knives with their little serrated teeth weren't promising, but they were better than nothing, and Loren dropped one onto the floor at Micah's feet. "So let's make this fair.." And then he pulled a twin from the drawer with some consideration and sallow eyes. Not a hint of the smile that had tried so hard while the men had shared a couch, nothing of that was left.
“Not a fight?” Micah echoed as he landed on the kitchen floor, rolling over onto one elbow and pushing himself up as Loren stepped away, the back of his head wet with blood, his collar soaked with it. “Then you admit you’re attacking me.” Swallowing hard past the lump in his throat, he tried to size Loren up as best he could, the expression in his eyes, even the way he nudged at his leg. Micah’s gaze narrowed dangerously at that, his hand curling into a fist that was more than ready to lash out at the other, but he held back, at least for the moment. Flame flickered and caught as the candles were light and Micah found himself staring at them for a long moment, fire dancing, hypnotizing, and it was Loren’s voice that broke him away, drew him back to the here and now with a phrase that he didn’t understand for the longest time.
And then. Things clicked. The hotel. Knives. Her. Micah could feel the bile rise in the back of his throat, that sick feeling that came on the heels of dread and sick anticipation. He had thought things would stay as they were, leaving the pair from the hotel kitchen to heal in their own ways without ever truly facing who had been hurt, who had did the hurting, it seemed that it was not going to be allowed to rest. It was tempting to reach out, to grab hold if the knife handle, to let the anger that had become such an innate part of him take over, but Micah didn’t. Instead, he pushed the knife away with the tips of his fingers, letting it skitter across the floor out of reach. “I’m not fond of knives,” he said quietly, dragging himself up to sit, and then to one good knee, the process of getting up from the floor a laborious one. “And I’m not going to use one now.” these words were sharper, and as Micah hauled himself up to his feet, a hand stretched out to support his weight against the counter, Micah turned his gaze towards Loren. There was something dead in those blue eyes of his, just a hint of what the man was going through internally since the hotel.
"You sound surprised," although it wasn't a patronizing statement, Loren also sounded a little surprised that a man like Micah would find such a thing unexpected. He didn't have much to say on the subject of attacking Micah, the blood leaking from the gash in the other man's skull seemed to speak volumes. Loren backed up against the fridge, thinking that somehow he'd have been angrier when he finally found the killer. Anger made it all snap, and this Dead Sea calm was as unsettling as it was comforting. He waited for the other man to snatch up the knife, to jump to his feet, to come at him, anything that would give him the reason to unleash. Micah was disappointing in this, as the knife came clattering across the linoleum and back into Loren's direction in dismissal. That wasn't smart, and Loren eyed the discarded steak knife with a partial squint. What kind of man gave up a weapon? His blue eyes rolled slowly back up to where Micah was working himself off of the floor for a lean against the counter. That kind of pain didn't seem fake, and it made Loren dig his spine against the edge of the fridge in consideration. The plastic handle of that knife twisting in between his fingers. "Not fond of knives," he said with a nod. Confused, like he wasn't sure if that was supposed to be sarcasm or not. "She told me about the hotel, so why don't you sit back down.." That was more of a demand than a request. ".. and tell me about Hannah before I dig your kidneys out with this." Another idle twist of the knife.
Blue eyes followed each twirl of the knife in Loren’s hand, though he made no move to sit even with the thinly veiled command that came from those lips. “I’ve no inclination to sit, thank you,” Micah said after a moment, leaning back against the counter and letting it take some of the support, standing a little easier with its assistance. The hotel, that part made sense though he did not want to speak of it, even under threat of the knife. “I’ll admit to the hotel, but I’ve no idea who Hannah is.” There was honesty in his words, a sort of sadness that lingered around them as well. “So you can put the knife away, unless you’re keen on attacking an unarmed man.” Some of the panic started to ease, bit by careful bit, and though he was by no means relaxed, his heart beat at a more comfortable pace, his breath coming a bit easier.
“I don’t know what you mean to do to me,” Micah said, making no move from where he leaned against the counter, lopsided with the way he kept so much of the weight off of his bad leg. “I’ve said my peace. I cannot fix what happened, and I have ceased all contact with her.”
The partial confession was unacceptable and Loren shook his head with that warm hiss of hate on the rise, like steam from a busted pipe. "Hannah, you know who she is. I want you to say it.." Loren knew that he could make him say it, that he'd studied the kind of continuous, forever pain and fear techniques that were more at home in desert bunkers than inner city apartment kitchens. The mind broke considerably easy when sight wasn't a factor, be it a blindfold or the lights out. It made Loren think about the dark hotel, and that wasn't safe ground for either of them because it made him imagine a similar scenario with Hannah. Realizing that he'd taken a half step forward, Loren hesitated. He seemed cagey as a wild animal, but it wasn't because he thought he was going after an innocent man. The man wasn't innocent, somehow Loren trusted Sam's identification and the fact that the hotel was just confirmed was enough to cement the entire deal, Hannah and all. Despite the evidence, he wanted this to be over. He wanted it badly enough to force the hologram into place and make it so. He put a palm against the counter and leaned, knife against the formica edge while he watched the already wounded, while he attempted to decipher lies that sounded real - but what did Loren know? "You don't want me to put the knife down.." Glancing down to where the knife was balanced against the counter's edge under his spread fingers. It was an expression of Loren trying to neglect the object more than harbor it.. but again, Micah didn't want that. "If I put this knife down," Loren explained with tension singing through his jaw. He really didn't want to put this knife down, despite everything else he wanted. Nothing would be enough for what had happened to Hannah - and what if the hotel is what had happened to Hannah? The idea made him suddenly nauseous, and Loren turned against the sink with a wince. So this is what it what it felt like to be the hangman. ".. you'll die very slowly." The knife at least would be quick, even if it too would find a way to be slow.
“No, I don’t know who Hannah is.” Micah’s words were emphatic, stressed and high strung, and it left Micah wishing he had kept hold of the knife, if only as a security measure against a man who was showing himself to be exceedingly out of sorts and disconnected from everything that was going on. “The only person I have ever hurt in my life was the girl in the hotel. When things were dark and hard to see and nothing made sense!” His voice rose as he went on, rising to a shout that still wouldn’t be heard over the sound of the television roaring in the living room. He fought to swallow past the lump that had risen in his throat, wishing that he still had his phone, some means to contact the outside world for help that likely wouldn’t come. Who would have pity on someone like him? No one. He had hurt someone, assaulted her in the worst way possible. No pity for the wicked.
When Loren stepped forward, Micah edged away, working to keep as much space as he could between himself and the other man, a task made difficult by the small size of the kitchen. His gaze flicked to the knife, then back up to Loren’s eyes, worried by the explanation that was coming, and when the sentence finished, Micah felt a nausea well up that had nothing to do with the gash at the back of his head. “No one needs to die here tonight,” Micah said, and he lifted his hands, palms facing Loren, in a show of defeat. “I don’t want anything bad to happen here, mate. Enough blood has been shed, hasn’t it? So how about you step aside and let me leave, and I won’t bother anyone. Not you, not the girl, no one.” It was a desperate attempt to find some peace, and there was no counting how many times his gaze flicked towards the front door, gauging, assessing, cursing his body.
"You're lying!" Loren snapped, and with that grimace and those snarling, rabid bark words, he could feel the part of him that wanted to hold back disintegrating. Melting under high pressure and a spiking temper, why did everybody fucking lie to him? First it was Meredith with the bookclub, then Sam saying she hadn't really found anything when there was a whole file of horrors just waiting to be unleashed, and now this. Did they think he couldn't handle it, or that he'd act irrationally?
Suddenly decisive, Loren started toward Micah and shoved those palm-up hands of defenseless innocence out of his way as he did so. "You're going to tell me," and there was a strange element of sadness that pervaded the frostbitten blue of his eyes. He didn't really want to know about Hannah, and maybe part of him wasn't fully buying that the hunt could be over so quickly, but he was already closing the gap between the Irishman and himself. There was no point in turning back, not now. Dropping the knife into his right hand, Loren swug with a closed left for a cross hook that sent Micah back against the counter's edge. He twisted his body into it, with probably more force than necessary since he actually wanted the other man to continue talking. Loren stepped back, exhaling sharply and shaking out his hand with a panicked glance at the ceiling. This shouldn't be difficult, giving what he'd read in the file. Why was it fucking difficult? He ran a hand through his hair and pivoted, restless even as he pulled the journal from the kitchen counter and flipped open for a quick scrawl of a half-note to Jules. Somehow, finalizing it in written word made it so and Loren crossed back to Micah a moment later with greater ease. Less conflict waging war in his head. There was no other way for this to end, there never had been. Dropping the knife onto the counter in exchange for Micah's neck, he knocked the man's head back against the cabinets behind him. It left a smear of blood across whitewashed wood. "That's okay, I don't require a confession." He wasn't the police, and this guy wasn't going off to jail.
“I’m not fucking lying to you!” Micah shot back, his voice cracking against the words, escalated by Loren’s own rage which was steadily filling the room with a heaviness that would have even the most sedate and calm of individuals on edge. His hands were knocked away and Micah stepped back again, continuing that struggle to keep distance between himself and the other man, though it was proving to be nigh on impossible when Loren advanced again with a closed fist that caught him on one cheekbone. He stumbled from the blow, scrabbling at the counters to keep his footing, and it was the counter pressed against his back that kept him up. Skin had split open, staining pale Irish skin. Too much blood spilled, Micah thought to himself, as he dabbed at his cheek, feeling the way it had already started to swell. Glancing back towards Loren, he caught sight of him writing in the journal, his eyes widening in a combination of rage and shock. “You’re writing notes? Now? That’s what you’re doing?” he asked incredulously, getting ready to make a move towards the other man, if anything to swipe that journal from the counter with the anger that boiled and bubbled. He had just reached for journal, fingers stretched out, when fingers took hold of his neck.
Micah fought him then, his own hands coming up to grab at Loren’s, fingernails digging in as he struggled, trying to pull those murderous hands away from his neck. “Stop! I didn’t kill anyone!” he managed to croak out before Loren cracked his head back against the counters. The world stuttered in response, his hands falling away from Loren’s own in the seconds that followed, stunned. His vision greyed for a moment, his reactions slowly from the multiple blows to the head, but he wasn’t one to simply lay down and take what was going on. A hand snaked out along the counter, fingers curling around the knife that had been dropped on the counter. It was an act born of self-defense, a desperate attempt to save his own life, but it held no skill or coordination when he swung at the man. Just a nick, a slice, it’s all he wanted. For some of this blood that was coating his person to not be his own.
The knife wasn't entirely expected, although it hadn't been completely forgotten either. It was the kind of fuzzy-headed rookie mistake that could have cost him a lot more if that knife had been something a little sharper. Despite the serrated teeth, a little pressure went a long way and Micah's panic supplied it in spades. There was a glint of steel coming from the left and Loren released his hold on Micah's throat in order to raise his arm in something defensive and hardwired, so the blade wouldn't hit him in the throat. Flailing, the man's aim wasn't entirely true, and considering the glazed shock in the other man's eyes, he probably wasn't aiming at all. He caught fingers around the wrist with the knife and sent the death grip back against the counter's edge, where the formica had a sharp bite against the tender backs of hands. He slammed Micah's hand against the counter until satisfaction came with the metallic clatter of the knife hitting the floor. Tangling some fingers in Micah's collar, he caught him in the same cheek with another closed fist and jerked the man off of what was already unsteady balance for a slip and fall across the bloodied floor. He even ensured that Micah took a knee to the jaw on his way to the floor, and Loren had always thoughts that fights were chaos, but this wasn't. This was a sedated calm and crisp awareness. Then again, Loren had told Micah that this wasn't a fight at all, and he'd meant it. It was a funeral. Dropping to the floor alongside Micah, Loren took the bloodslick knife in his hand, almost half-wondering about the blood on the blade, before he drove it into the other man's stomach. Panting, he glanced down to finally notice the deep gash that made an arc through the flesh of his right forearm. Add it to the list of scars, at least he knew what this one was for.
It was a foolish thing to do, Micah knew, and that thought was cemented fully within him when Loren turned on him. All he could think was that he didn’t want to die, but that hope, that desire, it seemed so far away, so impossible, as the world flew to chaos. The pain was a distant thing, and he recognized that was likely a bad thing to not be feeling then and there as the knife tumbled from his fingers, the sound of it falling echoing in his ears. As punches fell, the knee to his jaw filling his mouth with blood, Micah still attempted to plead. His words were that of a man terrified, a man who was running from death. “Please, please, please,” he said over and over again, but the words silenced as the knife found a new home in his stomach. Gratefully, unconsciousness claimed him then, a relief from the terror and the pain as the Irishman grew so still upon the floor.
Loren didn't climb free from Micah's side until the other man went still, and all that begging slipped into blissful silence. He could still hear the blood pounding in his ears, and Loren took a moment to grab a dishtowel from near the sink in order to staunch the cut on his arm. The journal was still open and Jules' fresh reply caught his eye, even as he scribbled back with a new paranoia setting in. Pale eyes flicked back to the unconscious man on the kitchen floor even as his phone began to go off. Pacing quickly into the living room, Loren muted the television while acknowledging Jules' name on the screen before he answered. The conversation spanned an entire minute, while Loren paced back to the kitchen to rinse more blood from his arm. Hanging up with a decisive pivot, he winced at the sight of Micah crumpled like a fallen soldier on the floor that Meredith had once put such effort into cleaning. Getting to the hotel was good in theory, but how in the hell was he supposed to transport Micah? "Fucking.." Exhaling hard, he navigated around the broken beer bottle glass near the entryway as he slid on some shoes, ignoring the blood that still soaked his socks, which he'd managed to trample all over the carpeting. All of which could be dealt with later, and Loren made his way to the bathroom mirror in order to wipe any blood from his neck and face while he shrugged out of his stained wifebeater and transplanted it for something black, something that wouldn't show blood very well. Calling a cab wouldn't work, but Loren's nearest neighbor was a sweet older widow with nowhere to go, and when he explained to her that he just needed to drive up to the Emergency Room to get some stitches, she gave him the keys. Driving to the hotel wasn't that exciting of a prospect, and not only because he'd probably have to detail her car's interior by hand to get rid of the blood.. but it also meant giving over to Tate. Tate wasn't very reliable when it came to keeping people alive. Going through his door always felt like making a deal with the Devil, but there was nothing else he could do.
Pulling up to the stairwell, Loren made fast work of hoisting the unconscious Micah into the backseat. There was too much blood on Micah to make cleaning him up feasible at all, and Loren gave up after a few seconds of trying. Thankfully, he didn't pass anybody on the stairs while he dragged the man with the knife in his stomach down a flight. That would be hard to explain. The drive to the hotel wasn't long, but it seemed to take forever as he was forced to stop at every red light with the flow of evening traffic, which barely moved at all. He gave occasional glances into the rear view, where Micah looked pale and unresponsive. Loren suspected that Jules would be somewhat pissed if he let this man die, although he was obviously not innocent of certain crimes. Of course, neither was Loren in that respect. Even so, he couldn't in good conscience let the man die and Jules was right, going through the door made sense. Parking in front of the hotel, Loren cut the engine and stuffed the keys into his back pocket before hauling Micah into the building. He laid the man out on the mildewed carpet before his door, surprised that there was still a thready heartbeat despite the ghostly pale shade Micah had taken on during the car ride over. Fishing the key out, Loren unlocked his door before reaching for both of Micah's hands and dragging him through to the hardwood varnish of the other side.
If Micah had anything to say about how he was hauled this way and that, dragged over floors and here and there, he didn’t say, and consciousness was a thready thing that could not be relied upon comfortably. It wasn’t until he was dragged over the threshold that anything changed, though the biggest change was his appearance. A masculine body and cropped hair were exchanged for feminine curves and long, softly auburn hair. Her hair was matted to the back of her head where Loren had hit her several times, hands limp over her midsection, half-curled around the knife that impaled her. It took several moments for her to respond, first as a groan as eyes came open, blinking several times to try and clear the fuzz in her vision. “What the fuck,” Hayden groaned, every bone in her body aching, her midsection on fire, and her head feeling decidedly soft in the back. It was a lot to take in, a lot to make sense of when she couldn’t recall a damned thing leading up to it.
Tate dropped her rather abruptly and unceremoniously onto the hardwood of the house entry way. He'd been dragging her with his hands clutched beneath her arms, but now that he saw who it was, well.. being kind and considerate seemed rather unworthwhile. Tate let her go like so much dirty laundry, watching her head smack against the floorboards before he stepped around her body to kick the front door closed behind them. Although the trail of blood leading through the hotel to their door was surely suspect. He made a little hmph sound while regarding where she was spread out, knife still in deep. "History is merely a list of surprises. It can only prepare us to be surprised yet again," he quoted gently while dropping to one knee beside her. Curling his fingers around the handle of the knife, Tate ripped it free and tossed it cautiously over toward the living room. He wasn't leaving it anywhere close to her grabby little hands. "That's Vonnegut," he offered in standing and making his way in the direction of the kitchen. "Want a beer?" Surely there was something here to calm her nerves, wine or blood. No comment yet on what had transpired on the other side. Tate had only a fluctuating effect on Loren and therefore kaleidoscope glimpses through the other man's life. Rarely enough to put whole stories or situations together, but in this case.. the evidence kind of spoke for itself.
Want a beer? The words echoed in her head, a bit unbelievable considering everything that had happened, the facts of which were fuzzy to her but undoubtedly crystal clear to Micah. She didn’t have the strength to push herself up from the floor just yet, fingers closing over the stab wound in her stomach, shaking her head in amazement. “You quote literature at me, and ask if I want a fucking beer, and I’m laying here half-dead. You are a perfect fucking gentleman, Tate,” Hayden said, her lips pulling up in a dry smile. “What. Couldn’t get enough of killing me?” She might not have had the episode on rewind in her head, but he was the only one here, so he obviously had something to do with it. Him or whomever he lived in on the other side. “You’re a fucking creep. God. Just let me do this in peace for once.”
"Nooo," Tate drawled the word out nice and long from over his shoulder as he rounded into the kitchen and pilfered the cabinets for some kind of booze left behind. Nothing jumped out at him, and he briefly considered going through Dr. Harmon's desk drawers. That man had to have a flask of the hard shit stashed away if he'd survived in this house as long as he had. But eventually the search seemed rather futile, as Tate realized that Hayden didn't seem in the genial, drink sharing kind of mood. "You're completely dead," he clarified while returning to the scene of the bleeding. He pried the poorly crafted towel bandage away from his own wound despite the blood that ran in skinny rivulets down his arm. "You don't get to play the victim, Hayden, it doesn't suit you." The words brought a small, apologetic smile that said sorry, but it's true. ".. and whatever happened to you, it happened on the other side, so be glad I dragged your crazy ass into this house. Now, if you'll excuse me," he said with a turn for the stairs. He wanted to leave Violet a note before he left. She didn't seem to be home, she never seemed to be home.
“Technicalities,” Hayden shot back at his ‘completely dead’ comment, giving a roll of his eyes. She was in no mood to converse with the house crazyguy, so at his continued words, she simply lifted one hand, flipped him a finger, and then closed her eyes. Things would heal, in time, and until then, she would simply wait. Death and dying just weren’t as cracked up as some people made them out to be.