[MQ] Kross Residence - Main Apartment
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When presented with a problem that he's truly invested or interested in, Alexander /obsesses/.  This is precisely the reason why he has been keeping (for him) odd hours, watching the Kross house while doing a little bit of business on the side - and it's why he has witnessed Liesel leaving her home.  Without Reinhold.  Which means this is a perfect time for a little one-on-one chat.  It takes the metamorph very little time to make it to the front door of the house in question, and a bit of creative coaxing opens the door.  He closes it quietly behind him and then lets silent footsteps take him down the hallway, during which he discards his coat and jacket to leave himself in a remarkably fine vest, shirt, and trousers, complete with extra-shiny shoes.  Alexander can be a non-slob when he needs to be.  He cleans up very nicely, too.  And those shoes?  He's broken them in.  A lot.  Sneak, sneak, sneak.  The metamorph's fingers curl around the sides of the chair's upper back, and very suddenly his face appears next to his victim's.  "Afternoon, /sir/.  How's your lunch?"

Son of a /bitch/.  Reinhold had /planned/ on enjoying a quiet afternoon to himself -- he loves Liesel more than anything, but it is nice to have the house to oneself.  He even has his pipe out on the end table at his elbow, having planned to catch a few puffs in the comfort of his warm living room without hearing his wife's complaints.  The sudden appearance of a /nuisance in trousers/, therefore, does not sit well with him.  Particularly because he's in the middle of chewing a mouthful of sandwich when a /face/ appears in his peripheral vision.  The man gives a slight choke, swallowing the half-chewed substance in a quick gulp and then coughing the crumbs from his throat.  The hand not holding his sandwich snaps to his walking stick.  "You ruddy little /louse/," he coughs; "what in /God's/ name are you doing back here?"

Well, at least Alexander resists the urge - and it's /quite/ an urge - to snicker horribly at Reinhold's little coughing fit.  "That's no way to talk to a family member, /sir/.  I'm just here to see if there's any way I can make you more comfortable or otherwise improve your day.  I hear that voluntary euthanasia is /very/ popular this year.  Care to consider it?"  The thief straightens up again and proceeds to drape his arms over the pack of the chair, leaning against it casually in a way that more or less conveys that /he owns everything within his sight/.  "How's that knee of yours doing, then?"

Oh-ho, /no/.  No, Alex does not own /anything/ here.  Reinhold scowls horribly, lifting his stick to whap it at whatever part of Alex he might be able to reach.  Head, knuckles, elbow; he's not picky.  /Off my chair/.  "You can improve my day by getting out of my house.  Trying to make me choke to death on my lunch is not exactly favorable behavior."  /Harumph/.  "As for popular trends, I've never been one for them.  Perhaps you are, though; you might consider trying it /first/."  The comment about his knee is ignored.  It should be /obvious/ how it's doing, given that that leg is once again propped up on an ottoman, the joint in question still almost double the size it ought to be.

Alexander recoils from the chair like lightning, but not before his fingers get painfully smacked by the stick.  With a scowl he lifts the more abused hand to his mouth, briefly sucking on the back of an injured finger.  Reinhold's a mean old fucker.  "Getting out of your house," he finally states, "isn't on the list of acceptable activities.  Someone needs to keep an eye on you to make sure you don't croak before you apologize to my wife for being an asshole for more than two decades."

"Has it occurred to you that /you/ are the asshole, you little runt?"  Reinhold is /still scowling/, and that one hand is still firmly holding to his stick.  "You are the most uncivil and insulting little brat I've met in an age.  /Get out/ of my house."  It seems this last demand has become almost habitual by now, as Reinhold only says it in the same tone as the rest of his spiel and follows it up by taking another bite from his sandwich.  He doesn't expect Alex to listen, but that doesn't mean the demand isn't going to be voiced.

At first, the only response to Reinhold is an annoyed stare.  "You seem to be fixated on the word 'little'.  Are you trying to tell me something about yourself, or are you just jealous of people who can move around without smacking their heads on everything?"  Obviously, a lifetime of tallness has taken its toll on Reinhold's brain cell count.  Alexander clears his throat and returns to his leaning position on the chair, letting out a long breath through his nose.  "In any case, I'm serious.  You and Amelia need to get over this /nonsense/."

"I've rarely smacked my head on anything.  I'm the one smacking /other/ people's heads in most cases."  As though to prove his point, this time, Reinhold /aims/ his cane for Alexander's head.  /Get off of my chair/.  "It's not my fault you're a /little runt/."  Snort.  "As for nonsense, I don't like repeating myself, but your failures in memory seem to make it necessary.  This 'nonsense' is because /I do not think you are good enough for my daughter/.  I didn't then, and I /don't/ now, as you are /still/ proving yourself to be an intolerable little snit."

"/Shit/," hisses Alexander, pulling back once more so he can rub at the side of his head.  "You had better have never hit Amelia."  Rather than continue to put himself in danger of being smacked with the cane, the metamorph moves away from Reinhold's chair and heads towards the nearest wooden one, pulling it around and turning its back to face Reinhold so he can sit in front of the older man, his arms folded over the back.  Because sitting backwards is fun, and he's not going away.  "I know why you're being an idiot.  I /don't/ know why you're not /stopping/ your idiocy.  You have a grandson that you and your wife have only met once.  You haven't seen your daughter in ages.  So I'm not good enough for her - so what?  I try to make her happy.  /You are not making her happy/."

/Harumph/.  "Don't you ruddy lecture me in my own home, brat," Reinhold all but roars, shaking the knob-end of his stick in Alex's direction.  "And no, for God's sake, I never laid a hand on my daughter.  I /love/ her, you twit."  An exasperated, almost growly sigh rumbles out of Reinhold's nose, and he settles back a little in his chair.  "The /reason/ I haven't gone to her is that she wants me to apologize.  I miss her, but I will not /lie/ to make her feel better.  I don't like you.  I don't approve of you.  And I still think she made a mistake in marrying you.  I will not tell her otherwise to mollycoddle her and her feelings."  The elder man punctuates the sentence with a rather ferocious bite to his sandwich.  /Hmph/.

"You love her /so much/ you haven't talked to her in twenty years just because she's living with and /loves/ someone that you don't like.  That's /really/ bloody /brilliant/, /sir/."  Alexander, unbothered by the cane-shaking and the half-yelling, leans forward to peer at Reinhold, his feet drumming up and down off the floor while his toes stay anchored down against it.  "I /suppose/, then, that you'd be thrilled to know that she's being supported by a career criminal.  If only you knew under what romantic circumstances your daughter and I /met/."

Reinhold /stares/.  And stares.  And stares a little more.  His stick and sandwich are essentially forgotten in his hands, and the wheels in his head are spinning at unprecedented speeds in attempt to /fully/ process everything Alexander just said.  It takes him less than twenty seconds, though, to draw his expression back into a scowl of /fury/.  "I ruddy /knew/ you were no good," he snarls, sitting up straight once more.  "/Career/ /criminal/?  You've turned my daughter's /morals/ in addition to her head, have you?  I raise her right and you come along and muck that up?  You - you get the /hell/ out of my house!"  By now, Reinhold's face is red and blotchy with anger, and this time, his demand is /roared/.

The answer to the yelling is a simple "No."  Alexander taps his fingers at the back of the chair and just smiles.  "For the record, your daughter's morals are just as pure and saintly as ever - and how did you /think/ I kept getting in here without a key?  /Genius/."  Nope, Alexander doesn't seem to be going anywhere.  he's quite comfortable on his chair, and watching Reinhold's face change colors is endlessly entertaining.  "...I must say, though, you're right about me.  I /am/ quite a head-turner.  Good thing your daughter caught me first, eh?  I could've married someone else entirely."

"And that would have been a blessing on my daughter, myself, and my /house/!" Reinhold roars, slamming the end of his stick against the floor.  "You /intolerable/ little /bastard/."  The man's other hand moves over to slap his half-eaten sandwich down on the plate resting on the little table, and he leans forward in his seat as well as he can without moving his leg.  "I don't ruddy /care/ how you keep getting in.  Right now, I want you to get /out/."

"I think I've said 'no' to that particular request at /least/ three times since I walked into this room.  I suppose you're just going deaf.  So, again: no."  Oh, yeah.  It's official.  Alexander is grinning like a maniac.  Reinhold is just plain /funny/.  "I'm not leaving until you agree to stop being a prick and talk to your daughter.  You obviously can't /make/ me leave, what with your little walking problem."  In fact, Alex is mildly tempted to help himself to any heirlooms that catch his fancy.

Reinhold's face just turns redder, and for a moment, he looks as though he might just /pop/.  After a beat or two, however, he lets out a long, slow breath through his nostrils, closes his eyes, and sits back up straight.  Breathe.  Calm.  Breathe.  After three slow breaths, he opens his eyes, settling a cold look on his daughter's husband.  "You know, boy, you do have half a point."  The stick still in Reinhold's hand tips slightly, supporting the elder man as he turns and opens the drawer in the table to the left of his chair.  His right hand begins rifling through it, and the sound of shifting paper can be heard.  "You're lucky I can't walk."

Alexander watches Reinhold curiously.  It's not exactly normal to start rummaging for papers during a conversation.  In fact, it's kind of rude.  However - "/While/ we're on the subject, /sir/, perhaps you could start calling me by /name/ rather than by whatever degrading label happens to pop into your head.  It also isn't really an issue of luck."  Right.  Hahah.  "It's an issue of how badly I smashed you up for being disrespectful to me."  You'd think that Holdie would /learn/ from his mistakes.

"By definition, young man, in order to disrespect someone, that person first needs to be deserving of respect."  Hmph.  Reinhold just shakes his head a bit -- and then stops his rifling, as his hand closes on what he's been looking for.  "And regardless, you /are/ lucky."  Then Reinhold turns back, raising his eyes to Alex and pulling his hand from the drawer.  That hand now has a large, heavy revolver in it, and Reinhold levels it at Alex as smoothly as blinking.  "Because it means I can't go to the next room for the shotgun."

The metamorph suddenly finds himself going very pale.  It's not the first time that he's found himself facing a gun; it's a risk that he takes by being in the line of work that he's chosen.  Somehow, however, he doubts that he could really talk Reinhold out of shooting him if that's what the older man intends to do.  Very slowly he straightens his spine and lets his elbows rest on the back of the chair he's sitting on, his eyes never leaving Reinhold and the gun.  "Right.  So.  You're going to shoot me, and that'll make Amelia happy?"

"Doubtful.  But it will make /me/ happy.  And will perhaps prevent you from returning to my home again."  Reinhold's thumb shifts, and a heavy, loud click echoes the still room as the German cocks the hammer on the old gun.  "This is your last chance to get the bloody /fuck/ out of my house, and not come back.  If my daughter wishes to see me, that is her choice, and I do not deny her the right to make it.  /You/, however, I never want to see again.  /Out/."

"...Tell you what.  I'll /let/ you shoot me if it means you'll talk to Amelia and get the stick out of your bum.  Non-fatally."  It's the least Alex can do for a deranged old guy, right?  Amelia has those crazy plant things.  No scarring can be /that/ bad.  Right?  Right?  Even then, there are Touched healers.  In other words: Alexander doesn't budge from his chair.  This is partly due to the fact that he's very afraid of guns when they're pointed in his direction.

Another pause.  Again, Reinhold just stares at Alex, though this time, it's not a stare of disbelief.  Rather, it is one of consideration and scrutiny.  Several moments pass -- and then Reinhold smiles.  "My daughter is always welcome to come and chat with me.  She should know this by now.  If she doesn't, you're welcome to inform her."  Then the angle of the gun shifts, changing targets from Alexander's heart to his foot.  And the old handgun goes off with a sound like a cannon.

Then Alexander finds himself - somehow - on the floor, his chair having clattered off to the side thanks to the sudden flailing and impact of the gun.  "Fu - /bloody/ - /FUCK/!"  The thief rolls on the floor, clutching his foot and alternating his grip from tight to loose, a pool of blood steadily starting to expand across his hands and shoe to stain the carpet.  "/Shit/shitshitshit/shit/-"  Nope, Alexander's never been shot before.  He can safely say that he doesn't like it.

"Stop your whining, you little pansy," Reinhold snaps, waving the gun a little to air the smoke from its barrel.  "I gave you an ultimatum, and you refused to take me seriously.  I don't /make/ empty threats."  Calmly, as though the two men are still sitting and having a civilized chat, Reinhold reaches over, sets the heavy gun atop the table, and picks up his sandwich.  He takes a bite, chews, and swallows before continuing, "You can show yourself out, I'm sure.  I didn't catch your heel or ankle, so you should be able to walk."

Walk?  No.  Alexander knows better than to walk on a wound, and he's definitely not going to make it farther than the nearest phone without having some serious pain issues.  He writhes his way onto his back again and then props up his working leg, using it to propel himself backwards.  He's kinda like a bleedy caterpillar.  Surprisingly, this method of movement proves to be largely ineffective - and so he ends up just dragging himself and moving along on the knee of his uninjured leg.  Phone.  He knows he saw one.  Bloody fingers are soon latched around the receiver of the rotary device, and the necessary number is dialed.  Here, Reinhold.  Have some /blood/ on your /phone/.  "...Amelia?  It's me."  Wheeze, wheeze.  "Can you come by and get me?  Your father just shot me."  Clink.  Slump.  Not giving Amelia time for argument is the best method of getting things done, and Alexander will be quite comfortable to just lie on the floor in the hallway on his back, bleeding some more.

"You're lucky," Reinhold calls out to the other man, having another bite of his sandwich.  "We were going to replace the carpet this week anyway.  Otherwise, I would be bothering you for payment."  Munch.  Mister Kross is completely unbothered by the current situation.  In fact, he's rather satisfied -- and possibly smirking inside.  Just a little.  "I look forward to hearing Amelia tell you firsthand that you're an idiot.  Assuming things haven't changed much since you worked in the shop."  Munch munch.  Idle conversation to pass the time, Alex?

At that, Alexander starts to boil.  Probably not a good thing, considering the fact that blood loss is now a problem and having a higher blood pressure will just make him bleed /more/ and /faster/.  He wraps his hands tightly around the hole that's been shot through his foot, gingerly testing the wound - which seems to have gone all the way through, since there's a matching hole in the sole of his shoe.  If Reinhold is listening hard enough, he might even hear Alexander whimpering.  Curse the laws of nature that say pressure must be applied to injuries.  "/Fuck you/, you senile old /bastard/.  Things /haven't/ changed, since we still love each other and /you can't do anything about it/.  By the way, when we met?  I was about to /rob you/."

"I'm not surprised."  Reinhold merely shrugs, continuing to munch at his sandwich.  "You were no-good from the start, then?  And I suppose my daughter knew it?"  A snort.  "No wonder.  Amelia always did have a heart too big for her own good."  Another mouthful, another few seconds taken to chew and swallow.  "I suppose you fed her your little sob-story about your sister to keep her from turning you in?"  It sounds like all of this is only confirming suspicions the German's been holding to for years.

"/Don't you /dare/ talk about my sister!/"  Despite the pain and the effort involved in rolling far enough to the side to be able to glare at Reinhold, Alexander does it.  And he looks furious.  "She's a better person than you could ever /hope/ to be, you shriveled fuck!  You pampered aristocratic morons don't know what it's like to do /real/ work, and to live day-to-day on - /augh/!"  Alex rolls back to the side, squeezing his foot tighter.  Distract yourself, Alex.  /Distract yourself/, and don't give the old jerk ammunition.

"No, I don't, and I'm thankful for it."  Reinhold leans forward in his seat, enough to peer entirely around the wing of his chair to scowl down at Alexander.  "And my daughter should never have had to, either.  The idea that /you/ are the one providing for /her/ is enough to turn my stomach.  She could be living /here/, but instead she's stuck in whatever run-down piece of garbage /you/ managed to--"  But then Reinhold is interrupted, as the front door bangs open, and Amelia rushes down the hallway, medical bag in hand and Eric in tow.  "Oh my god, /Alex/."  She's at his side in an instant.

"/Fuck you/, you bloody cock-/sucking/-" Reinhold is /also/ being interrupted by Alexander, but he too quiets down once he turns his head enough to catch sight of Amelia.  It's a good thing she showed up, too, because if the topic had stayed on Chloe for too long Alex probably would've ended up crying.  He's a little extreme about his sister, it's true.  Instead, he has the far more pleasant option of looking up at the face of his wife.  After a short smile the metamorph lies down on the floor again with a thud.  "I love you, Amelia."

"I love you too, baby," Amelia replies immediately, managing a short encouraging smile of her own.  Next moment, though, her attention has moved to Alex's wound, and she wastes no time in cutting the shoe from his foot with a pair of shears seized from her bag.  The sock is also snipped at the cuff and ripped in a quick split to remove it, quickly but carefully.  Eric, by virtue of having the roll of bandages shoved into his hand, is tasked with quickly wrapping the foot, while Amelia digs a green branch from her bag and quickly begins to force her power into it.  One end curls a single half-loop, wide enough to hook beneath Alexander's knee, while the other splits into two ends that loop the other way.  Those will be hooked over the necks of Alex and whomever winds up on that side of him.  It should be an effective sling, and do well enough to get the metamorph back home.  Through it all, Amelia never once so much as glances at Reinhold.  The man notices, and frowns deeply, but says nothing.  Stubbornness runs deep in the Kross lines.

No, wait, not the - goddammit, Alexander /likes/ his shoes, and now the pair has been /completely/ ruined.  He gives Amelia a somewhat sulky look before letting out a deep breath and trying to force himself to relax.  His head drops back onto the floor near the trail of blood that has marked his progress, and after a moment he just starts grinning up at Reinhold.  Ha-hah, Amelia /loves him/ and /not you/.  Sucker.  He even sticks his tongue out at the older man, though only for a moment before being distracted by the tightening of the bandages around his foot.  Owwwwwwww.

Reinhold /glowers/ at Alex for that one, but continues to hold his tongue.  Amelia, though, gives Alex a light -- very light -- bap to his shoulder, along with a whispered, "Behave."  It's fairly obvious that his /not/ behaving was the reason for this entire mess in the first place.  Eric mutters an apology to Alex for hurting him with the bandages, but... well, they're kind of important.  It doesn't take long to wrap enough of them to hopefully staunch the bleeding, at least as far as the shop, and the boy nods to Amelia once they're tied.  Amelia nods in return, settling the endshape into the branch and reaching for her husband's arm.  "Help me get him up, Eric."  The sooner they get out of here, the sooner Amelia can give her husband /serious/ medical attention.

Alexander twitches a little when Amelia hits him, though it's more a matter of reflex than anything.  "Anything you say, Amelia."  But - well.  Maybe not just yet.  Alex reaches up to wrap a hand around the back of Amelia's neck, pulling her in for a kiss.  Mmhm.  He fully intends to make out with Reinhold's daughter in front of him while bleeding on the carpet, both to piss off the older man and to convey his affection to his wife.  He's not going to be getting up just yet.

Alex's sudden snatch catches Amelia by surprise, and she's drawn right into the kiss before she can put up any resistance.  Splutte-- but.  As long as she's there.  Amelia presses a kiss right back, taking a light grip on the front of her husband's shirt.  A pale flush rises into her cheeks, but -- let Reinhold see.  She /loves/ her husband, and this kiss is both result and proof of that.  Amelia, however, is not going to go as far as /making out/, and pulls back before Alexander can try.  "Come on, love," she whispers, taking hold of the hand at the back of her neck in order to draw that arm over her shoulders.  She wants to get /out/ of here.

Reinhold, in response to all of this, just snorts softly to himself, averting his eyes from the kiss.  The expression on his face is, if possible, more surly than before, and he doesn't glance back until he hears Amelia's voice.  This is somewhat less than the reaction he expected, and he's not happy about that.

Despite the slight degree of disappointment due to the fact that it appears there will /not/ be any making out, there's a smile on Alexander's face when Amelia moves away and pulls his arm into place.  "Love you," he repeats, getting his good leg under himself to aid in the whole issue of 'getting up'.  It takes a bit of effort, but eventually success is had - and Alex is standing upright, suspended partly on Amelia's shoulder and partly on one foot, the other drawn safely upwards.  Hahahah.  Holdie can't deal with kissing.

No.  No, Holdie cannot.  He continues to glower as Amelia pulls Alex up, Eric quickly packing the supplies back into the bag and seizing the newly-made branch-sling.  Between him and Amelia, the thing is slid beneath the man's knee and hooked over the backs of the couple's necks, and Eric snatches up the medical satchel before reaching for Alex's other arm.  If Alex will let him help, anyway; Eric's hesitation in that venue is clear.  He'd rather not be snarked at and/or smacked upside the head for trying to help.

Alexander lets his free arm snap out to give Eric what is a surprisingly gentle smack.  In fact, it's barely much of anything, and Alex /will/ accept his help... but only after more important business is first taken care of.  He brings his hand around again and lets his fingers run down the far side of Amelia's face, eventually taking hold with his thumb on her chin to turn it towards himself for another kiss.  This one's far more tender.  HEY HOLDIE, LOOK.  MORE KISSING.

Eric flinches automatically at the smack, but blinks in surprise when the back of his head is /not/ left stinging.  Uh.  Amelia, on the other hand, tilts her head very slightly toward Alex's hand as he touches her face, a little smile touching her lips.  This kiss may not take her by surprise, but there's no more resistance this time than there was to the last one, and when it breaks, she'll whisper, "Love you back."  This tender moment does not make Reinhold turn away as the last kiss did; rather, he simply frowns, though a lot of the scowl is gone from his expression.  ...Bah.

"...don't forget my shoe.  I want to /repair/ that shoe."  Alex also kind of wants to leave another trail of blood through Reinhold's hallways, but, well.  His foot is already bandaged.  The metamorph reaches out again, this time to let his free arm hook over Eric's shoulders.  "Shall we head home, then?"

Eric, being the only one not completely stuck, obediently snatches up the bloody shoe, putting it and the bloody sock into a sealed medical pouch and packing that into the satchel.  He automatically eyes the spots of blood left trailed all over the floor, and his gaze goes to Reinhold, but before the boy can say anything, Amelia snaps, "Leave it and let's go, Eric."  More dumbfounded by the woman's tone than anything, he obeys, lifting his free hand to hold onto Alexander's arm as the trio begins to move.  Reinhold's frown deepens, but not with anger.  Definitely not the result he expected this to have.