With a knife at his throat, Alex becomes a lot more co-operative, and it's easy to walk him back into the lounge. He has him sit against the back of the sofa, ties his wrists together, looping the rope around one of the feet of the couch. He feels eyes on him as he settles down in front of Alex, legs crossed with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his fists. "So," he starts slowly, because they've got a few hours and maybe if he gets this weird, thirsty curiosity out of his system then he'll be able to get around to the killing part of his routine. Then he notices the movement of Alex's arms, slow, muscles bunching in his forearms and shakes his head. "I wouldn't bother," he advises him matter-of-factly, and Alex's eyes snap up to meet his. He blinks a few times, then gestures to the sofa. "It's- I bolted it to the floor last time I was here. It was part of my plan, y'know?" Alex swallows and it looks like he's fighting not to start shaking again. "You've been in my house before?" He whispers, and Jack shrugs. "Dude," Alex almost recoils at the informality of it, like killers don't speak like normal people. "Nothing goes right without preparation. I know this house back-to-back, man, I can tell you where you last had those dumb beer socks." Alex presses his lips together and tips his head back against the sofa, closing his eyes and looking like he's trying to remember how to breathe.
"Open your eyes," Jack snaps and Alex does, reflexively, confusion mixing with the fear in his eyes for just a moment, and Jack hurries to cover up his quickly growing obsession. "Can't have you passing out now, not when I want you to..." He spreads his hands in a generalised gesture. "Tell me about yourself." Alex's eyes narrow and his voice has almost lost the tremble from earlier. "Why?" He tries for aggressive, misses his mark. "Apparently you have a file on me. Just consult that." A corner of Jack's mouth quirks up at his cutting tone. Spunky. Awesome. "I mean things that I don't know. Like... What's your favourite ice cream flavour?" Alex snorts weakly. "Favourite song?" He gets a cold look in response and sighs, picking up one of his knives. Alex stiffens because he doesn't know that this is just for show. Doesn't know that inexplicably, with every passing minute, Jack's desire to cut his throat and watch those fucking eyes slip into a dead stare lessens.
"Listen, Lex. Can I call you Lex?" Alex shakes his head robotically, eyes on the knife, and Jack shrugs in dismissal. "You're under my control right now, Lex. 'Kay? I have a knife- well, three of them- and you're tied to your furniture. You can't get away unless I let you, and I could kill you with a flick of my wrist. That means that it's in your best interest," he jabs the tip of the knife in Alex's direction and he flinches, "to go along with whatever I say. Whenever I say it. Capische?" Jack sees the idea of rebellion warring with survival instinct behind Alex's eyes and presses the tip of the knife into the wood flooring. The conflict dies, and Alex grits his teeth. "Cherry garcia," he mutters finally, and vague flashes of grocery store freezers light up in Jack's mind. He makes a mental note, though he has no idea in hell why. "And right now it's probably- probably Everlong-"
"Foo Fighters?" Jack interrupts with a grin and Alex looks like a tiny, tiny rabbit in very large, very bright headlights. "What?" He scoffs, affronted. "Just because I break into people's houses at night with the intent to kill them I can't have good music taste?" Alex just stares. "Okay, that was kinda distasteful. I get it." He spins the knife between his hands, drilling it slightly into the floor. "I'm really sorry about all this." He looks up from under his eyelashes to meet a gaze that's part scared, part questioning. "This," he repeats, looking pointedly at the knife and then at Alex. "Not being able to kill you straight away. Not putting you out of your misery." Alex looks incredulous. "You're apologizing for that?" He asks weakly, wrists pulling instinctively at his binds. "Well if I had my shit together, this would all be over by now. You'd be dead. I'd be just about getting done..." He winces uncharacteristically, never one to be fazed by blunt phrasing before, "you know. Disposing of you."
Alex shivers and he frowns, about to open his mouth. "Don't," Jack warns, "don't ask me why. You've already asked me once, twenty minutes ago - I didn't know then, and I don't know now." He rubs his hands together almost anxiously, knife left beside him, unsheathed in case he needs it. "If you'll pretend that this isn't the most cliche thing you've ever heard, you're different. From the others. I thought you were just the average deal. I was going to be in and out of here in thirty minutes. And then you looked me in the eyes, and..." He trails off in frustration, and when he meets those eyes, Alex's eyes, he feels inferior for the first time in his life. He has always been the powerful one; the one with the knife, the bigger guy, taller, more dominant. And then here comes Alex Gaskarth, victim number five, a nobody, looks right into his fucking soul with no warnings or fanfare, makes Jack feel like he's stripped bare. Doesn't take away the need to hurt, to dig in blunt nails and squeeze or pin down frightened prey, oh no, but he soothes the itch. And that's it.
A laugh bursts out of Jack, abrupt and seemingly random. Alex obviously shits himself, looking at Jack with wide eyes, wrists pulling again. "Y-you're an ointment," He chuckles helplessly through his words and Alex eyes him like he's a fucking psycho. Which he is, to be fair, but right now he's feeling a strange sort of clarity. Alex doesn't scratch at the itch to kill, he doesn't rake his fingertips against it and chase it out of his body. He smothers it, numbs it. Instead of giving Jack the satisfaction of temporary relief, Alex and his eyes let Jack pretend there isn't an itch at all. "Wow," he says breathlessly, when the giggles subside. His eyes flick up and he doesn't know what Alex sees in them, but whatever it is presses him back against the sofa. And Jack-
Jack doesn't know what he's doing. Like a man possessed he pushes himself silently to his knees, moves forward until he's between Alex's legs where they're splayed, relaxed position a contrast against the rest of his... Well, everything. He looks down at the currently mute man and eases himself down onto his heels. Face to face, now, he brings his hand up, frowning with a disappointed kind of understanding when Alex flinches away from the brush against his arm. His fingertips meet warm skin again at the base of Alex's skull, and before he can pull away Jack's fingers are twisted deep in his messy, sleep-ruined hair, tight against his scalp. He pulls, forcing Alex's head back and the slightly older man makes a small noise of discomfort and vague panic. His breathing, open mouthed, is upset by tremors again; he's afraid, afraid of whatever Jack is about to do, confused and helpless. It makes him even more irresistible to a sick minded individual like Jack, who has surged forwards and pressed his mouth against Alex's before he could take another shaking breath.
