Of course.
Formerly informal, Hercules ached for a time when Pentecost implored that Hercules call him Stacker, that Sir, or Officer Pentecost sounded too formal for their friendship. It takes every ounce of strength for the elder man not to bite his lip in response to that gaze. So subtle, so cool. He knows Pentecost better than he knows his own goddamned brother, than he knew his own son. And that was where it had all started, wasn’t it?
The death of his wife. The death of his son.
Ten years of working together so closely and Pentecost couldn’t figure out his motive. Well, there was something to be said for that. Hercules was as much a red blooded male as an Australian, sticking out like a sore red thumb in the humble American trenches, as it were. But there was a darkness in him too. A need, a quiet, well kept secret. It had spawned with the death of his first brother in arm, a young kid about his age, no older than twenty-three, elbow deep in trenches after their plane had been shot down. He was riddled with bullets and Hercules’ medical knowledge couldn’t help him with their limited supplies. So, with a pleading request, he’d set the boy out of his misery with one precise stroke and cried about in in the shadow of his downed bird for a good while.
And the kids he and Scott had run into after his little brother had enlisted. They bet senseless on the Australian duo in the fist-to-fist blood matches after they’d been caught and forced to fight or die.
Then there was Angela. His angel. Taken by a handful of gangsters and left to die in their home after they’d robbed the place dry and fucked her senseless. She hadn’t even known who Hercules was when he lifted her fragile body against his, cradled her dying form to his chest.
Chuck? Who could forget the rebellious, angry little boy that had grown up spiting his father for not saving his mother, for not protecting her when he should have. And now he was gone. Beheaded by the brother of the guy that had targeted Hercules’ wife, sent home in a few shoe boxes.
Ten years.
Hercules sat back as much as the chair and those cuffs cutting into his wrists would permit him to, pallid eyes remaining wholly fixed upon Stacker with something less-than-human creeping into the dilated pupils.
“My apologies, Officer Petecost.” And he went silent again, expression remaining cold.
"You know--"
Idly he flips through the pages, going over details all but memorized. There is no use using typical tactics with Hercules. They know each other far too well.
"--- I'm tempted to let you rot for this."
Apparently he didn't know his partner well enough. He didn't read the signs. Didn't want to see what monster was there.
Or perhaps it was blind faith that Hansen was a decent human being. They'd served together. He'd gone to Angela's funeral. Been there to take care of Chuck. Buried his partner's boy too when the time came. Sure he'd wanted revenge. Stacker wanted to rip apart the man responsible for taking everything from Hercules, from snuffing out the boy he'd started to think of as a son.
He'd dried his daughter's tears. Called his sister. And came down from his rage.
"Seventeen total, eleven men, four boys, and two girls."
He glances up from the paperwork in the file beneath Gonzalez's and raises a brow. "What," Stacker says icily, "You get tired of maiming men eh? Sanchez I understand but the others---" A snarl twitches at his upper lip and he calms it with practiced skill, smoothing his hands across the papers to flatten down their curled edges.
"Victims were tied," he reads off calmly, "Gagged, and then each were disfigured in subtle variations from the prior. They were unable to bleed out due to an IV drip and plasma transfusion. Some were kept alive for days as they were taken apart and subsequently all had their throats slashed clean to the bone. The eleven male victims showed evidence of sexual assault, tearing of the anal lining, and bruising of the larynx and thigh areas."
Papers shift as he closes the file.
Stacker runs a hand along his jaw and meets those eyes evenly. Countless questions arise; why? how long?
"So you fancied a quick fuck out of them? Couldn't go down and find a john at a bar? Or was it just practice? Nah, that wouldn't be you at all." He leans back in his chair and cants his head, gaze gone sharp and words turned apathetic.
"You needed them to suffer."
