2019-06-02 - Drug Withdrawal and Pool Noodles

It's 11 am at the small town's public library. Not a high traffic time of day. Harper has none of her assistant-librarians working right now. She is located in the stacks, re-shelving books that have been returned, but in such a place that she can see the comings and goings of potential arrivals. This town's library is a strange juxtaposition of out-of-date (old technology, old furniture and furnishings, that damp, faint scent of mildew) and inviting (bright and cheerful, welcoming even). The latter is due mostly to Harper's style running the place, which has been her job for the last six years. Currently posted by the entrance is one of many flyers announcing a Read-In for ages 10 through 18. It boasts snacks, door prizes, games, book shares, and even a pillow fight. In a cross against all things holy in public libraries, she has very quiet classical music playing. Mostly Mozart and Bach. She hums softly, slightly off key along with a piece that's currently playing.

The front door of the library opens, and Alexander slouches in. He's wearing a truly unfortunate sweat suit in faded, mottled purple. At least it's clean; his clothing is always clean, just worn to the point of falling apart. He looks around, relaxing a bit as he sees how empty the library is. His gaze is caught by the flyers by the entrance, and he pauses to read those with narrowed eyes. Then he checks the desk - not finding Harper there, he starts searching through the stacks, his fingers trailing along the spines of the books as he walks. He rounds a shelf, and stops as he sees her. "A pillow fight in a library?" he says, abruptly.

Harper's sparkling brown eyes lift from the book in her hand to Alexander as his frame moves to occupy the end of the current corridor she's reshelving in. "My hero! Gumshoe. Man-of-mystery-and-many-talents. Alexander, what a pleasant surprise." She's authentically warm and cheerful, which is the usual for the librarian. She pauses as he questions the library-ness of a pillow fight. "It's more a battle of the books, with winners of trivia getting to wrangle it out with pool noodles," she concedes. Then she pauses. "Do you think the kids won't like the sound of it?" She shelves the book and leaves the cart of books still remaining to be reshelved and approaches Alexander with a swipe of her gaze to the truly extraordinary ensemble he's sporting without any pause or perplexity. Maybe faded purple is in. And fleece? Well, everyone knows about fleece. "What can I help you with on this oddly sunshiny day?" She reaches out to rap her knuckles on a bookshelf to keep her words from jinxing the weather.

At this point, Alexander has become accustomed to Harper's bright shine, metaphorical and otherwise, and so he doesn't frown suspiciously at her enthusiastic greeting the way he did for the first...several months of their acquaintance. Instead, he offers a brief smile in return. "Hello, Harper." He moves closer, but remains just out of arm's reach, and leans forward a little to see what she's shelving. "It involves striking each other with the tacit encouragement of adults. I think the kids will enjoy the hell out of it," he says, tonelessly. He straightens up. "Two things. Early, pre-incorporation Harbor history. And drug withdrawal."

Harper leans a shoulder lightly against a bookshelf, allowing him to see the fantasy novel she was reshelving: Senlin Ascends', written by Josiah Bancroft. When he elaborates on the pool-noodle-fights she has planned in correlation with kids' book-smarts her easy smile widens to a beam and she steps forward to push a fist against one Al's shoulders if he doesn't sidestep the touch. "Flatterer. You know what they say about flattery." She steps back and wrinkles her brow thoughtfully. "Newspaper archives for the first, or maybe some of the books in 'Local'." Yes, she has a (small) section just for local history, both town and region, as well as writings by local authors, of which there are fewer. "Drug withdrawal," she muses, then names off a particular number range in the Dewey Decimal system that would have such books. "You feeling okay, Alexander?" Her shoulder tips back against the shelf again as she crosses one ankle in front of the other, her arms folding loosely across her chest. "It makes me so happy that you use books for some of your research. So many people think of Google as dictation from god himself and never think to vet their sources."

Alexander DOES sidestep the touch, but it doesn't feel violent or fearful - almost routine, avoiding physical contact while not fleeing from conversational distance. He even offers Harper a brief smile as he does it. "Flattery gets me nowhere," he finishes the saying, obediently. "But you're still being helpful. Perhaps untrue?" A tilt of the head that might be playful if it were anyone but Alexander. He nods, slowly. "The internet is useful, but not as much for local history. People don't really care about Gray Harbor." Her question makes him think. His eyebrows pull in as his brow furrows. "Evil actors wanted to torture me to death, and I got set on fire. There's a junkie I knew in college sleeping on my couch. It's been a busy week, Harper."

Harper doesn't look the faintest bit defeated by her lost opportunity at contact or camaraderie, not to mention the snub some might take from such a movement. She's just Harper, glancing downward toward her right shoulder, she says softly. "I know. I will." Being helpful is what she's all about, and it /seems/ as though Alexander may be one of her favorite people to help, at least in this environment. "I always mix my sayings and sound silly. You change them and they become even more enervating." She nods slowly in agreement to his statement about local history and the internet, then listens to the abstract of his trials and tribulations. "Fire seems to be a theme this week," she shows a just healing and still pink palm as if in proof. "Did you happen to get shot by an arrow, too?" Junkies on couches sound much more unfeasible to Harper. "Sounds like." She pushes away from the shelf and turns to lead Al toward the local section, pointing in the direction of that spot in the numerical section of non fiction for his other request. "Anything in particular you want help looking for, or is this a Don Quixote moment?"

Alexander frowns at her hand. "What happened? And no. Others did. A woman hit me with a boulder, but then I--" he stops, then continues as if he never started that previous sentence, "I'm sorry you were hurt." He follows her through the stacks, stopping on occasion to peer at one book or another. The question makes him frown. "Just books on withdrawal. Research never hurts," he says, perhaps a little defensively.

"A fire-not fire." is what happened. Harper answers this casually to match Al's demeanor. "Roasted alive. The usual." Oh, Al is the perfect foil for Harper. Or is it the other way around? "And I, you," she replies. "But it happens, doesn't it." More statement than question. She reaches 'Local' and turns to meet Al's eyes once more. "I'm glad you're alive." As if just for her social enjoyment, and not the gritty horror that grips the town. If Al gets defensive, Harper doesn't show any signs of picking up on it. "Research is the balm for tortured souls. At least mine," she adds. He doesn't need anything else. "If you do want another set of eyes or help choosing between authors, I'm your Gal Friday. Just put your lips together ... and quack." She takes a breath, looks like she is going to walk away, then smiles again, that warm, curving expression that sparkles in her eyes. /Then/ she steps to the side to let Al do what he came to do.

"Being roasted alive sounds deeply unpleasant," Alexander says. "I'm glad it didn't stick." A glance to her palm. "Mostly." Yep, he's totally on board with the idea of a fire not-fire that burns you alive but leaves you alive. He steps forward to start looking at some of the local books. "Do you know anything about the Baxters, Harper? Early Harbor history, or present day descendants in the area?" Ha, did she think she was going to get away THAT lightly? Not likely. "And disasters." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a battered notebook, shoves it at her. There's a list of mass deaths in Gray Harbor - some murder, some accidents, some just...strange. The handwriting is neat and easily readable. "Anything on these?"

Harper pivots ninety degrees and crosses one arm over her middle, resting the other elbow atop her hand, her knuckles grazing lightly under her chin. "Baxters 'n disasters. Hmmm. Not off the top of my head. But I love a challenge." She beams at Al as if he intentionally came to ask that question as a /gift/ to her. "Give me a day or two and I'll search the micro-fiche and give some of those books a closer read and we can meet back up over coffee or lemonade. Or here." Either way, she's on cloud nine with the job at hand.

Alexander pivots only as much as is needed to follow her expression with his eyes, and keep her and the shelves in sight at the same time. "It is an interesting mystery," he allows, and some actual warmth comes to his face at her appreciation of it. He doesn't beam, but his smile is wide enough to look normal. "I'm glad. You like a challenge, Harper. I'll be happy to meet you somewhere." He turns back to the books, rubbing at his head. "If you find any particularly interesting texts or articles, I would very much like copies. I will compensate you, of course."

Harper soaks in the warmth coming off of Al as if it were actual Vitamin-D-from-the-sun and she were a plant in dire need of sunlight. "Always." To liking challenges. She nods, still half distracted by the lines the reseach will take her through, then says. "Research results definitely require a beverage of some sort." Then at his last, she waves that hand that was resting beneath her chin in a commonly accepted don't-be-silly gesture. "It's my job. I'm already getting paid. You just gave me a reason to spend more time doing my favorite part of it while I delegate the check-ins and -outs to one of the assistants. If anything," she confides, tipping her head forward, "I should pay /you/."

"I could always use the money," Alexander says, very dryly. He does, at least, seem to be joking. Or maybe she'll receive an itemized bill, later. He studies her for a long time, before saying, "You never told me about your not-fire, Harper. What happened, exactly? Did you get lost?"

The dry teasing earns Al a roll of laughter in Harper's throat. But then she grows solemn as he asks the latter bit. Slowly she scans the library, though no one has come in since Al, so who she m ight be checking for is debatable. "It's hard to explain. If I said the world tipped sideways for a little while, would that resonate with you at all?" She sounds dubious, as if her own words aren't sufficient. "Two petite women showed up. Lights and electricity went out. Afterward lightning struck outside. They were ... taunting. They wanted something. Then they set the place up to burn in less than a heartbeat - everything burning at full bore. And then --" Harper pauses, her voice still hushed. "It all went away. We tipped back to regular. And nobody but my friend and I had seen it, were burned." She deliberates with herself for a moment. "... yes I can. Stoppit." Her gaze flickers back to Al. "If it'd just been me, I would have believed it was just one of those things that happens to me, you know?"

"Yes. It resonates," Alexander says, quietly. "It hasn't happened to you before, like that?" He frowns more as she goes on, eyes narrowing at the mention of two petite women. "I know them." Then he smiles at her. It's mean to be reassuring. "They're dead now. Probably. They won't bother you again, Harper." His head cocks slightly to one side as part of the conversation takes place where he can't hear it, but he doesn't seem bothered by it. Instead, he says, "It wasn't just you, then." A pause. "They were harassing a lot of people. Me, too. I'm sorry."

Harper rolls her shoulders in something like a shrug but /far/ less apathetic. "Not those two." Before, that is. "But /things/." Her brows lift when he speaks of knowing the women. "How can you tell that they're dead? How do you /kill/ them?" Her quiet tone is almost plaintive now. "But you're better now?" she asks again, coming full circle in the conversation. "Is there anything I can do?"

"They're dead." Alexander's expression shuts down, his shoulders hunching a bit. There's no doubt in his voice, but also no suggestion that he's going to elaborate beyond that. He turns away from her and reaches for a random book, opening it and pretending to read about early logging practices in Gray Harbor. "I'm fine, Harper. And no." The curt dismissal is softened, a moment later, with a quiet, "You've been very helpful. It is always a pleasure to speak with you."

If this were a theater there would be a crestfallen sigh of disappointment from the audicnce. Harper is caught there for the time being, hopeful. Then the dismissal via body language followed by words. "Of course, Alexander. Any time. If you want me to get ahold of you if I find anything out sooner than I see you next, come write a phone number down at the circulation desk." She slowly, reluctantly, turns and heads back to where she was shelving books before, now and then glancing over to where Al is perusing.