2019-06-22 - The Devil, Violet And No Violin

It is a quiet evening in Addington Memorial Hospital. Violet's room is a few floors up, technically in the burn unit, although she's in a regular room rather than intensive care. It's a small and thankfully private room, which means there is no annoying roommate. There is a beautiful bouquet of flowers on the end table, and she is propped up on pillows on the hospital bed, flipping through a book. The television is off, so all there is inside the room is the steady beep-beep-beep of the heartrate monitor; there's a bandage on her cheek and wrapped around her head, and there's probably a few other various bandages on her underneath the gown.

It's something of a mystery how Alexander even convinced anyone to let him up here. He must have found someone who didn't know him well enough to say oh hell no, and kick him out until he's accompanied by a responsible adult. But here he is. And he has...flowers? Yes. A collection of small flowers and herbs from his own personal garden, bound with a shoelace, because he didn't have any fucking ribbon, okay? He also has a file folder tucked under his other arm when he appears at the door. "Miss Whitehouse?" He examines the inside of the room suspiciously, looking at her as the last thing to be catalogued. "May I come in?"

There's a sudden shift on the pillows when the door opens, a certain brightening of Violet as she tucks a strand of frizzy blonde hair behind her ear. It's likely that she was expecting someone else entirely; because when it is Alexander that shadows the door, the brightness dims subtly. But at least she has a smile for him, weak and obviously pained. "Alexander," her voice sounds a little raw, dry - the side effect of pain medication, probably. But she beckons him forward. "Of course. Come and sit. Did you bring me flowers?" No, dumbass, he brought them for somebody else. "They are very pretty."

Alexander's shoulders droop a little when the brightness dims, and he sort of wobbles on the threshold, a moment's breath from retreating. But when she beckons him forward, he moves in, carefully, to place the flowers off to the side. No vase, of course. Poor things. "I'm sorry," he says, quietly, even as he sits down, his file on his lap. "If I am disturbing. And you're supposed to bring flowers. Or a teddy bear, apparently, but I wasn't sure if you liked teddy bears. And I had flowers." And that's that. He frowns at her. "Why are you in the hospital, Miss Whitehouse?"

"No, come. Please. I just thought.. maybe they were coming to tell me I could go home," Violet explains. It was an easier explanation than the truth, and it wasn't necessarily a lie. Just an omission of who she was anticipating. His apology makes her brows hike, but she shakes her head. "You aren't. I'm just ready to go home," she shuts her book and sets it aside, before she reaches to take the flowers and caress a few of the petals. "I don't much like teddy bears. But I love flowers, and I love these. Thank you," the smile that she shows him next is an honest one, the brightness genuine, as she leans to take a quick sniff of the flowers. But the question dampens her brightness once more. She flicks a glance to the door, her lips pursing into a line, before she looks back to Alexander. "I fought the Devil," she murmurs somberly, quietly, but with incredible seriousness. "Alex and I, we.. we fought the Devil. And we won. He didn't have to stay the night here though."

Alexander gives Violet a long, flat look. The look of a man who, whatever his other instabilities, solves crimes for a.../occasionally/ for a living, but more often just because it gives him a way to feel like he has some sort of meaning in the world. But when she continues, his eyebrows go up, and he settles back into his seat. "The Devil." It's not skeptical. "Was there a violin involved? Or just Violet?" He doesn't smile. At all. And yet, it's very clear that Alexander Clayton has just tried to make a joke.

He clears his throat in the next moment. "I'm glad to see you survived. What did the Devil want?"

It earns him a laugh. It is an incredibly quiet one, but it bubbles up in spite of his lack of smile, and makes the corners of her lips twitch upward if only for a second. "There was just a Violet," she replies quietly. "And one Alex," and that makes her frown come back. She places the flowers back next to the others, turning them just so, before she reclines back into the pillows. It hurts to move, evident by the grimace that she makes, but move she does. "He wanted me," she replies easily. There was no doubt about that. "Alex wasn't supposed to be there. I.. still don't know how he came," she admits. "I just know that I wanted him to be there. And then he was. And he was real, he was really there, Alexander. Like I ... pulled him from his Dream and into my own. But that is impossible." She doesn't sound so certain of that.

"You were lucky Alejandro was there," Alexander says, as if he can fight against the nickname tide with only stubborn insistence on using proper names. But her laugh provokes the faintest of smiles in return, and it softens his usually blank or twitchy demeanor. "Is it impossible?" His head tilts to the side. "The actors pulled people from one place into a dream. Maybe they had help. Maybe it's just a thing that can be done, although I don't know how. We don't know how the lost places are formed, or how they connect. If they connect. Psychoreactive to some degree, clearly, but..." he shakes his head. "You probably don't care, right now. You needed help. Help came. You had someone to call. Isn't that good?"

"I was," Violet agrees to her luck. But whether or not that was good? Her expression darkens, and she looks down at her hands. "Is it though? He could have died. He could be here instead of me. I.. I put him in harm's way. I made him fight the Devil, Alexander," she blinks a few times, drawing in a breath to keep herself steady, but her eyes are watery when she looks back to him. "And I don't even know how I brought him there. What if I.. what if I wanted him there so badly that I .. I pulled him in? And what if I do it again, and next time he's hurt or worse?" She bites her bottom lip and shakes her head. "I'm sorry. I don't think you came here to hear my .. moral crisis."

"No, I didn't," Alexander agrees, placidly. Because tact and polite social fictions are things that happen to other people. On the other hand, it means he's probably sincere when he adds, "I don't mind listening, though. We're friends?" Always the question, as if the status might be revoked at any moment. "Friends listen, when the other wants to talk. But I believe you are doing Alejandro a disservice. He seems competent. Adult. Capable of making his own decisions. He could have run away. Could have given you to the Devil, if that's what the Devil wanted."

Violet doesn't even blink when he agrees. It was just the truth. But she does lift her brows at him when he puts a question mark on the friends. "We are friends," she says that firmly. It is an absolute. "But you are right. About Alex. He wouldn't have done that, I don't think he would give me away to anybody. But especially not the Devil." And she is sure of that, too. "We were gone a whole day, you know. We missed the worst of the storm. It was.. the sun was shining, when we came back. And.." She swallows. "Someone was in our house. They wrote on the bathroom wall. 'They're still coming. For her.'" There's a croak to those last words, a quiet whimper. "When my sister.. when she tried to kill herself. That's what she wrote on the tiles. 'They're coming'. Alexander.." The tremors in her voice picks up. "The words on my bathroom wall. They're... It was her handwriting. I'd know her handwriting from anywhere. But that's not possible. She's away."

Alexander doesn't protest her firmness. He doesn't agree with it, either. He just watches her with that flat stare, as if the question is still on the table, one way or the other. Or maybe he's just listening. It's really hard to tell, with him. "You should not blame yourself, then, Violet. He probably wouldn't care for it, if he heard you." He settles back as the story continues. "They're still coming for her." He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "The handwriting could be because it hurts you. They want to hurt you, Miss Whitehouse." A longer pause. "It could also be your sister. I assume she contacts you." The slight upcurl of one corner of his mouth makes it clear he doesn't mean by phone. "Maybe it got garbled. In the dream. Psychoreactive." He tilts his head back to study the ceiling. "Maybe we should see about getting her out." It's offhand, thoughtful but casual at the same time. "If something is coming for her."

There is a lot of question, and not a lot of answers. "Maybe it slipped through. The words. They were there in blood, in Alex's Dream. Before he was pulled into the bathtub," she winces. "But maybe they stayed somehow.." And re-wrote themselves in Sharpee. Stranger things have happened. She looks down at her hands again, curling her fingers into her palms. "We do talk. Did talk. Every day, every night. When she wasn't being.. drugged, or .." she shakes her head. "She started talking to me when I was at school. Five years ago? Maybe six. I hadn't heard from her, spoken to her, gotten a single letter. I wanted to forget, I didn't want to ... do what we could do. I was starting to make a life, a life that was mine. And then she reached out and it.. slipped through my fingers," she frowns. "I graduated and I came back here. To the place I never wanted to come back to. I wanted to leave, but I can.. I could hear her better, here. A month ago, she stopped talking. I can.. I know she's alive. But she just doesn't reach back," there's a quiet pause. "But in the tub before my Dream, during the storm. I heard her again. She called out my name, shouted. And then I was pulled under the water." And fought Satan.

"The Devil was in your bathtub." It's said with the same unjudging interest of a detective taking an official statement. Just the facts, ma'am, no matter how freaky-deaky they happen to be. "And your sister has never met Alejandro? So is unlikely to be projecting to him, if so." As she continues, he tenses up, shifts in his seat. "I...understand that, Miss Whitehouse. I felt much the same, when I left Gray Harbor. Much the same coming back, too." A lopsided little smile. "What fools we mortals be?"

And then he's blank and serious again. "Has she contacted you again? Since?" He looks down at the file folder in his lap. "I came to bring you information. About your family. About where the book led me. You may not want it. Now."

"No, not in the bathtub. But I'm fairly certain the drain leads down to Hell," replies Violet placidly, not even a twitch of a smile to accompany the grave words. But she shifts uncomfortably on the bed as the conversation goes on. "She's not met him, no. But I... sent her images," she admits with a wince. "I think she liked him. At least at first. But when I told her I... when I told her how I felt for him, that's when we stopped talking. She told me I can't trust him. That I can't trust anybody, that anyone could be working for Them. That she was the only one I could trust, and I.. That was it," she swallows. "I haven't heard from her again. Not since we came back. But I.. I haven't reached out, either," she admits.

What fools, yes. It brings a fleeting smile, faint, before her brows climb. "You have .. information about the Whitehouses? What.." she shifts again, to better turn towards him; the movement hurts, but turns she does. "No, I want to see."

"Having been down in the sewers recently, Miss Whitehouse, I do not doubt it," Alexander says, blandly. He considers the rest, and nods, slowly. "So, she may be hurt and distrustful and desire to bind you more closely to her." He glances down at the file folder, opens it, pages through. With no discernible emotion, he asks, "Is your sister strong enough to cause harmful illusions? Create some of what you experienced?" Because that's definitely a suggestion Violet is going to want to hear about her twin sister. He pulls out a photocopy of an old, OLD article, and moves on as if the question was just a thought. "In the eighteen hundreds, a preacher with the last name of Baxter burned women from three families alive at the stake. Baxter, Addington, and Whitehouse." He offers over the stained photocopy so that she can read it herself.

There's a sudden look that Violet puts upon Alexander that was not a friendly one. Her gaze hardens, darkens. But hey, she doesn't flip out or scream or shout. She's just very firm. "She wouldn't. She's my sister, Alexander. My twin. She's .. she's the other half of me. She would never hurt me. Or try to.. to deceive me." That was an absolute, too. "She's just.. scared. And alone. And .. she's been in that place for ten years. Ten years, it's inhumane. And I can't visit her, and I can't see her, and they drug her and they do things to her. It's.. She wouldn't." She swallows. "She would never." And that was that. Because the conversation moves on, and with stiff fingers she takes the stained photograph and lowers her attention to it.

There's quiet as she listens, inspects. Her fingers brush over the words, and her brows begin to furrow all over again. There's no real surprise, though her fingers spend an awful lot of time around 'Baxter' and 'Addington'. "I.. there's a lot of history. Of my family being called witches," she gulps. "But the Baxters and Addingtons, too? That seems.. unreal."

Alexander ducks his head, folding in on himself as Violet's expression darkens. "I'm sorry. I didn't..." a pause. His jaw firms a little. "I did mean to suggest it. I study crime, Miss Whitehouse. People are hurt by people who love them all the time. Especially people who are, themselves, hurt and scared and alone. A possibility cannot be discarded until it has been examined." He glances up at her as she lowers her attention. "Baxters have been killed throughout the history of Gray Harbor. Unusually so. Even for here. Maybe this is part of why. This preacher."

He hesitates, then. But reaches back into the file, and pulls out a print out of an old, old photo. "There's something I think you should see. Please don't shout. They'll probably kick me out if you shout." Who knows why he thinks she might shout, but he hands over the photo if she takes it.

"Alice wouldn't hurt me," Violet says again, with some finality. "I know her, Alexander. I know her as well as I know myself. And ten years upstate doesn't change that. Besides.." she swallows hard. "She's there. It's not like.. like she can just walk out. If she could just walk out, she would've done it years ago." And that is that. Because there is a picture to look at! And it comes with a warning! "I won't shout." Those are usually famous last words.

But Violet looks down at the photo, and she does not shout. She does lift her hand to cover her mouth and stifle a gasp. "Oh, oh goodness," she utters, dropping her hand. "Alexander.. you.. you see this, right? The .. the tendrils, the shadows... You see this, right?"

Alexander doesn't argue any more on it. He also doesn't AGREE, but stoic silence is probably the closest he can come to a polite lie about his own trust of the Whitehouse he doesn't know. He settles back in his chair, and waits. "I see it." A glance towards the hospital room door, since he's pretty sure if any nurse comes by, they will NOT see it, and there's probably a penalty for encouraging hallucinations in patients. "I don't know exactly what it means. But I see it. I wish we'd gotten photos of the actors."

Violet keeps her breathing very steady, but she's staring hard at the photograph, which starts to shake just a little in her hand. "This one," she points to one of the women in the frock, bringing it down to the names that are barely legible. "Rose Whitehouse," she reads the name aloud, her brows twitching in thought. "She's.. my great-great-great-great grandmother. There's a .. a book, a family tree. My father was the first male on that side," she hands him back the photograph. "Those were her sisters. I remember the tree. I can't tell you all the branches, but I remember my own. I didn't know.."

Personal space bubble invasion! Alexander leans forward when she points, to narrow his eyes at the woman she points out. Then he leans back, taking the photo when offered. "Your family tends to flower names." He tucks the photo back in its file. "Do you have a copy of the book? I am still not certain of the purpose. Of the burning. Was it just to cause terror? Does it have something to with why Gray Harbor is so very, very fucked up?" He shakes his head. "I don't know. Do Whitehouses die the way Baxters do? I had been prepared to lay much of it at the feet of the Addingtons. It may have been unfair."

Violet doesn't even blink at the personal space bubble invasion. Instead, she just blinks at him. "My father's name is Walter. And my sister's name is Alice. My grandmother named me," she murmurs, shaking her head. "I don't have a copy. It was my father's, he.." she clears her throat. "Wasn't very happy, when he found me going through his things. This was several years ago. We... don't talk," she licks her lips, and her gaze hardens. Her voice turns as stiff as her body does. "But he drinks at the Pourhouse. Every single day. Maybe you could get him to talk." She moves to rather violently fluff her pillow, before she settles back, and quickly diverts to this other discussion point. Whitehouses being murdered! It was a nicer conversation than her stupid fucking father, apparently. "If this Baxter priest was... was working for the Dark Men, then maybe he killed those people for a reason," she swallows. "Maybe that's why the Baxters have been dying. A family curse? A... I don't know," she admits. "But my family has been.. we're the lowest of the low, Alexander. Witches then. Drunks now. Crazies. No one cares for my family. No one cares about my family, especially not enough to start systematically offing them."

Alexander stares at Violet. Watching her reactions as if they were a particularly interesting nature documentary. "I could try," is all he says. The pillow is given a sympathetic look. Poor pillow. You did not deserve that. Alexander is sorry. "I'll let you know how it goes. And...yes, I've wondered that. But I don't know how to define curses. So, at the moment, it is a collection of interesting facts, looking for a framework that will add to a solution, rather than more confusion." He does cluck his tongue, once, sharp, at her last statement. "You listen to other people too much, Miss Whitehouse. I'm certain someone cares enough about your family to kill them." Reassurance: The Alexander Clayton Way.

"Good luck finding him sober enough to have a proper conversation with you," is all Violet will say on his attempt to talk to her father. Obviously she doesn't think it'll go very well. But she finds a smile from somewhere, probably at his reassurance .. because it makes her laugh. Just a little. "I think they enjoy us alive, to be honest. They need someone to gossip about. My family provides a lot of that." She breathes out a sigh, casting an apologetic glance his way. "I'm sorry that I am not.. in the best of moods, Alexander. I'll be better once they let me go home, I don't.. much like hospitals. But you are .. kind of a detective, right? At least, an investigation enthusiast?" She lifts a brow. "Maybe you could help me with something."

"I don't need the conversation to be proper. Just useful." There's a touch of steel in Alexander's normally soft voice; something beyond the usual curt defensiveness. It melts away when she smiles and laughs, though, and he offers a smile back. A real one, if small. "I understand. People like to have someone who they can feel pity and resentment for. It takes their mind off their own troubles." Then there's a shrug. "Hospitals are terrible. Your mood is fine. I don't mind." It sounds entirely sincere. "And...yes. Investigation enthusiast. Amateur detective. Pain in the collective ass of the Gray Harbor PD." He sounds sneakily proud of that one. "How can I help you?"

Violet would comment about how her father isn't very useful, either, but well. She obviously wants to talk about something else. Which is why she seems to latch onto the 'amateur detective' thing, nodding to herself. "I don't know if you can help," she says honestly. "But I.. When our father sent Alice away, he wouldn't tell me where she went. Just.. upstate, that's all he said. I know she was here, first, in the hosptial. And then she wasn't. He never told me, and Alice was too drugged or too scared to figure out where she was. We never got a letter, they wouldn't let me send anything. They never even went to visit, my parents," she scowls. "Alex doesn't know where they send the psych patients that come through the hospital. He said he wants to help, but I don't know how much he'll be able to find. He's a doctor, not a.. a researcher," she frowns. "Do you think you could help him?"

"Probably. If he wants my help," Alexander says. "And maybe even if he doesn't, but that will probably be awkward." Which doesn't mean that he won't do it, clearly; he's just pointing it out for future reference. "Do you think he would be willing to help me in return? Someone wants to see a particular set of birth records - know if there's more information on their own family. I was going to use other means, but if Alejandro can access those records, it would be less distressing for everyone involved, I think."

"I will talk to him," Violet says simply, as though that will somehow make Alex very willing. But she does cant her head curiously at his talk of somebody wanting birth records. "I think he would be willing to help, yes. As long as what he's doing isn't... wrong. Or illegal, you know?" she shrugs her shoulders. "If it is just looking into someone's records, to find information on their own family? That's all I'm asking him to do, for me."

"As far as I know, that's all that it is. And I have no reason to doubt it, at the moment." Alexander considers her, then nods. "I'll do what I can, Miss Whitehouse. Have your doctor contact me, and we'll make a plan. " He rises to his feet, then, when an ungraceful jerk. He doesn't make any commentary whatsoever on the wrongness or illegality of any actions that might be necessary in the course of the investigation. Alas poor HIPAA, we knew you well. "I should let you rest. And hopefully be discharged quickly. If there's anything further I can do for you, please let me know."

"I will talk to him," Violet promises, sitting up as Alexander rises to go. She offers him a light smile, even if it isn't as bright as it would be if she wasn't, you know, stuck in the hospital. "Thank you for visiting me, Alexander. And for the flowers. I.. It was really nice to see you, Alexander."

Alexander stops. He fidgets, looking down at his feet at the thanks, his fingers worrying back and forth over the edges of the file. Social protocol error. Please wait for rebooting. Finally, he settles on, "I'm glad you're not dead, Miss Whitehouse." And then he leaves. Because really, what else is there to say?