Dark eyes surveyed the home, flicking over the curtains that'd been still for a while now. It was just nearing four in the morning and Jack had been staking out the house for two hours; the lights had gone off an hour ago, plunging the rooms into darkness. All the better for Jack to work in. He notes the modest car in the driveway, the welcome mat on the front porch, the pole in the back yard that yields a flag with a smiley and the words 'smile, kid' printed in large letters underneath. Looks like it should be a regular chump, easy to pin down and fun to dismember. Jack follows the flag's advice as it whips viciously in the wind, snapping sounds parallel with his inner animal, teeth frothing as it strains against the leash. Jack knows he can't wait any longer and slips out of his car onto the sleeping street, heart pounding with anticipation.
Everybody around him is unconscious, he knows that; but it doesn't stop him casting furtive glances around himself as he crosses the road and sidles around to the side alley, jumping the gate carefully and entering the back yard. He knows the layout of his victims houses perfectly, knows where the windows and doors are, knows the rooms. He fiddles expertly with his lock picking tools until there's a subtle click and the door opens, just a crack. He waits a few moments, but when there is no movement or sound from inside he steps into the back lounge, avoiding the creaky floorboard that's slightly to the left of the doorway. He's been in this house before, of course, just to scope it out - waited until his target left for his job at the music store downtown, Flyzik's, before sneaking in and getting a feel for the place. Mapping it out in his mind. Making a plan. He taps lightly on the back of the sofa with one gloved hand, smoothing his fingers along the leather. He really likes this place.
Moving along the corridor, he meets the bottom of the stairs and takes the first step. Which is, naturally, when the upstairs lights click on and his target comes into view, rubbing across his closed eyes with one hand. Cursing inwardly, Jack backs up, walking backwards silently across the hall and into the kitchen. The moment he hears footsteps on the stairs, he realizes his mistake. When somebody wakes up in the middle of the night their goal is usually one of two; take a piss or get a drink. Jack knows the toilet is upstairs, knows he would've heard the doors, the flushing. Knows that his target's destination is the kitchen, the very room he's hidden himself so stealthily inside.
His mind churns quickly, because he doesn't have much time. His plan is ruined, so, what now? He can either knock him out and come back another time when everything has settled down, but that runs the risk of law enforcement getting involved, family and friends staying over and, worst of all, Jack having to wait when the urge for violence is already clawing at his insides. Or he could make a break for it now, out of the kitchen and through the front door. But the footsteps are almost at the bottom of the stairs, now, and he'd be seen if he tried. That leaves only one option; abandon everything he'd planned out and just go for it. When he steps into the kitchen, push him back out. Use the momentum to smack his head into the opposite wall. Daze him, drag him into the back lounge away from the street-facing windows and the front door. Lock the back door while he's still getting his bearings.
He's just solidifying the plan in his mind when the kitchen light flicks on. He doesn't give the man in front of him time to do more than widen his eyes, just barrels into him and sends them crashing against the wall outside of the kitchen. He tries to remember the name of his potential victim, but his head is swimming with adrenaline and his eyes can barely focus. It all goes perfectly - confused and unbalanced, it's easy to drag him into the lounge and throw him onto the hardwood floor. He groans with the impact and Jack steps over him to flick the key clockwise in the door, taking it out and tossing it onto one of the sofas. He notes where it lands, just in case he has to make a quick exit, but he's not too concerned.
When he gets down onto the ground over him, a knee either side of his waist, he's blinking focus back into his gaze. Jack takes his three favourite knives out of the back of his belt and lays them on the ground next to the poor guy's head. He waits to make eye contact because it's his favourite part - he wants to draw this out as long as possible. Unfortunately, that's when it all goes to shit. The click of the plastic sheaths on the floor seems to activate something in the man underneath him, and it hits Jack that he's made the second fatal mistake of the night - underestimating the victim. "Get off of me," is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, voice already rough from the disuse of sleep. "Fuck- what the fuck-" He raises his arms and starts fighting, throwing blind punches that Jack avoids easily.
The hips under his ass twist and thrash, trying to throw him off, but he's had this before and even if this one has more fight in him than he'd given him credit for he's not going to be put off that easy. "Stop that," He says boredly, belittling the seriousness of the situation to intimidate the panicking man he's sitting on. After knuckles graze his collarbone, he grabs one wrist and then the other in quick succession, his biceps tightening against the still-frantic movement of the other man's arms. "I said stop," he growls. He feels and sees his chest puff out, knows exactly what he needs all that breath for, and in the same movement one of his hands is slamming both wrists down above his head and the other is planted hard over his mouth.
He leans down, looking at the eyes that are squeezed shut against his own gaze. "Alex." He says quietly, and the body underneath him freezes up at the use of his name. Well, at least he got it right. He can't stop himself from trembling, though. "If you don't stop struggling, I'm going to cut off your fucking arms." That gets through to him, because he goes limp. His wrists relax, hands falling flat against the floor. He's breathing hard through his nose, and while it was a rocky start, Jack is pleased with the current situation. He's got Alex where he wants him. He knows he fits Jack's 'criteria' perfectly - lightly tanned skin, brown hair, brown eyes (he knows that from the photographs) and in his mid twenties. The last four had been the same. Like he said, perfect. He deliberates what to do next, because he needs another hand for a knife but unfortunately, he's only got two and they're occupied. He's just thinking that maybe he should try and tie Alex up when he opens his fucking stupid brown eyes.
He doesn't mean to look at him, not yet, because that's not how he does things. But he does, and their gazes lock, and Jack fucks up again. He loses concentration, lets himself get sidetracked. He's lost for a moment in Alex's eyes, as gay as it sounds, and he doesn't know what it is but something in them completely fucks him. They're so dangerously disarming. Turns out a moment is all Alex needs; he must have felt Jack's grip slacken on his wrists. He takes full advantage, impressively quick on the draw, throwing both hands forwards and punching Jack full throttle with both fists. He falls back, cursing and blinded by the sudden pain, and Alex has yanked his legs out from under Jack, grabbed a knife and shot up the stairs before Jack could even wipe the blood from under his nose. Well, fuck.
