2019-08-31 - Permanent Measures

It's quiet right now in the hospital. It's before dinner, between the hourly checks the nurses make, and not a popular hour for visitations, so the entire floor has a hushed, almost sleepy air to it. Many of the patients are, in fact, sleeping - but not Alexander. He's sitting up in bed, hooked to an IV to give him drugs and blood, and looking - pale but actually okay, if you ignore one side of his neck being bandaged to a faretheewell. No wonder there's some impressive nastiness beneath those snowy white bandages, but right now he's alert and on his phone, frowning down at it. He's in a double occupancy room, but his roommate has been taken away for various tests, so that side of the room is empty. He's had visitors, clearly - there are some bright flowers on one side of the table, and a stuffed monster which is sitting with him in bed. One chair has been pulled especially close to the bed, and seems to have signs of recent occupancy. It's empty right now, though; Isabella has gone to Byron's birthday party.

The captain's no friend of Thorne's, and thus hasn't been invited to the celebration of the anniversary of his arrival on Earth. He seems all right with this fact. He also shows up bearing gifts: a box of donuts that looks like the brand the precinct buys. Excellent quality, if you like donuts. The man is dressed in his usual dark tee shirt and dark BDU-style cargo pants, halfheartedly shoved into combat boots. No baseball cap today, so he looks a little less like a criminal in all those tattoos. "Alexander." Just that, as he steps inside. And takes stock of the other man with a sweep of his eyes. He's been in and out of his room since he was admitted, but generally while he's been asleep. Keeping tabs on him while at the hospital on other business, generally.

"Javier," Alexander says in return, his expression lighting up with pleasure, although it comes out as a growled, croaked sort of thing, only barely recognizable as a name. The pleasure turns to exasperation, and he waggles his phone at the man, before turning his attention to it. So it shouldn't be any surprise when after some quick typing, Ruiz's phone goes off with whatever his 'you've got a text' tone is. Surprising no one, Alexander has been in and out of sleep a lot - sadly, it's probably only the morphine and the forcible confinement in bed that allows him to get anything like a normal supply of sleep, and push back on his constant state of exhaustion. Consequentially, aside from the muzziness caused by the drugs, he looks more alert now than he usually does.

It's good to see you. Are you well? Are those donuts for me? A hopeful look at the box - hospital food is not exactly loaded with sugar and goodies.

This fact hasn't escaped the other man, and he has the grace to look vaguely amused by it. The state of Alexander's voice, though, weakens the edges of his smile, and he pushes into the room with that taut prowl of his. The chair that was clearly Isabella's is claimed, box of donuts set on the bedside table, and he settles in with a creak of protest. The chair, that is, protesting; its previous occupant was a lot smaller. He studies the occupant of the bed for a few moments after his phone's gone off, then reaches into his pants pocket for it, and scrolls to Alexander's message. Dark eyes tick back up again. "I'm well enough. No, they're for your friend across the room." A beat. "Of course they're for you. Fuck's sake. How's your throat?"

Amusement ticks over Alexander's features as Ruiz settles into the seat and the chair squeaks. His smile widens to a playful sort of grin as he looks meaningfully from the donut box, to the chair, and raises an eyebrow to tease him. He reaches for the box; hospital food sucks, and even the treats Isabella has been kind enough to bring can't quite kill the craving for some good, completely unhealthy food. The box is opened, a donut is taken, the open box then turned to Ruiz for sharing. He sets the donut on the little plastic tray over his bed, and tears off a tiny piece with his fingers. That's savored carefully for a moment - opening his mouth too wide is also one of those things he shouldn't be doing - before he wipes his fingertips off to pick up the phone and answer.

Thank you, Javier. They're delicious. Throat is okay. He sends that text, then holds up a hasty hand. Adds, Could have been worse. Dr. Kosimar's protections worked. It's very exciting.

The amusement is met with de la Vega's calm stare. One eyebrow slowly raises, as if in challenge: do you have something to say? Yes, he probably eats too many donuts, and his six pack has gone the way of his 30s. What of it. He settles in with a shift of his shoulders, and watches Alexander nibble on a donut all delicate-like. Though he is, in truth, more interested in the extent and state of his injuries than in his birdlike consumption of pastry.

His gaze switches back to his phone with the next message that comes through. Then back to the younger man nearby. He seems to weigh something for a moment or two, then sets his phone aside, nudges his chair closer to the bed, and reaches for Alexander's hand. Not to shake it, but to grasp the inside of his wrist with a slow curl of rough fingers. He waits to see if the other man will reciprocate. See? He's trying. To ask, in his way, rather than tell.

Aside from whatever's under the bandages, Alexander doesn't appear to have any other injuries - there's suggestion that bruising is creeping slowly out from under those bandages, and he'll probably be a beautiful rainbow of blues and purples at some point before it all gets better, but the wound itself was neat, almost surgical, if not for the depth and brutal power of it. Alexander doesn't quite squirm under the stare - morphine quiets a lot of his perpetual anxiety, too - but he does let out something that's probably meant to be a chuckle at the challenge. It sounds more like coughing up a hairball.

Even that stops when Ruiz scoots closer and puts his hand out. Alexander stares at him. At the hand. His expression is wary, uncertain. This didn't go spectacularly well last time, by Alexander's reckoning. Still, after a moment, he turns his hand to grasp the inside of Ruiz's wrist in turn, and opens up that mental connection between the two of them. It's more careful this time, keeping back everything that isn't his voice from his mental touch. The voice is strong, of course, although fuzzed around the edges from the medication, like hearing it a little through cloth. <<Hello. This is more comfortable. Thank you. My fingers cramp.>>

The connection, from Ruiz's end, is less of a shock to the system this time around. Rather than a head-on collision at 60 mph, it's more like the sensation of some recently-awakened beast prowling about the edges of it's downed prey. Uncertainty, a note of reservation, though there's a readiness to commit to violence at the drop of a hat still.

<<I'm not going to go poking around. Don't worry.>> He watches Alexander's eyes steadily; he's much less adept at this, and it shows in the tenuousness of the connection. It flares and settles, flares and settles, like a candle someone's trying to snuff out. <<I want to know what you saw, when you tried to link with his mind. Thorne told me about what happened.>>

<<I'm not worried about you hurting me, Javier. Not here, not like this.>> One corner of Alexander's mouth curls up, not able to resist a touch of his own arrogance. He sort of reaches with his mind, gently, and if Ruiz accepts the guidance, tries to help him build a stronger, less erratic connection, like hands gently adjusting the grip on a gun. Or a golf club. Doesn't always have to be a weapon. The request is not surprising to the investigator, clearly, and he meets Ruiz's gaze steadily. <<It's not really seeing,>> he says, after a moment. <<It's feeling. I felt that Gohl hates to be caged, imprisoned. He was freed from his pine box, and then Thomas caught him again, 'ruined' his freedom. Thomas' mind is his prison - and it's fraying. Growing brittle.>> A thoughtful pause. <<I don't know how much Gohl is an actual occultist. He knows the 'box' was constructed for him, but the last thing he said before I blacked out suggested that he considered Dr. Kosimar's protections to be a 'box', too. So, I feel that he feels he was imprisoned by the pine box he was buried in, and now by Thomas' mind. But they're both boxes to him. If that makes sense? He didn't fear us, any of us, because we weren't the right ones to make another box. It's probably not an actual box, but might be the only way to keep him enclosed. We can't count on someone's mind. Eventually, that will weaken.>>

The words come out rapidly - he's not limited here by needing to breathe, and it shows. But each concept is also crisp and clear; like having someone feed you a string of diamonds that somehow don't cut or choke you.

The arrogance gains a soft snort from the man seated at Alexander's bedside. An actual sound, sharp and derisive. <<You're very sure of yourself. That's dangerous, too.>> The guidance, at first, is resisted. Mentally shaken off. I can figure this out on my own. Though after a couple more fits and starts, he grudgingly seems to accept the help. The connection flares once more and then steadies with a hum of latent power channeled through both men's minds.

His eyes drift nearly shut as he 'listens' to what's said. Feels it, tastes the words as much as hears them, in truth. It's the ultimate in not leaving a paper trail behind them, because who's going to find any record of this? <<That's all well and good, but where the hell are we going to find this box? Or the people to make it? How long will it hold him for, until someone breaks it open again? I am worried you've gone off down a rabbit hole, Alexander. And this isn't the time for fantastical plans.>>

Alexander sighs, a soft exhalation through his nose, and offers a shrug. <<There are two things in my life I know that I am good at. This, and solving crimes. Doesn't mean I can't be defeated. But everyone has to have pride in something, or it's more than dangerous.>> A faint smile offered. <<If it makes you feel better, there's no other area where I am sure I could kick your ass, if it came down to it, and several where I know I'd be beaten before we even properly began.>> It's playful, affectionate, with no resentment in the admission. Also no apology for having clearly sized up the odds in several different categories.

The resistance provokes a withdrawal of the power, although not of the offer. And when he accepts, it's provided delicately, then withdraws again without a word. <<It's the ghost of a serial killer, Javier. 'Fantastical' may be the only sort of plan that has a hope in hell of working.>> There's a watchful stillness, not just in the way his expression goes blank in the real world, but also a sense of still concentration in the mental link. A sensation unsettlingly like being stared at by dozens of unseen eyes, weighing, not yet having made a final judgment. <<You have an alternate proposal?>>

Alexander's right, of course. Javier has raw ability, but his power is fragmented and weakened, and nowhere near the younger man's bright, fierce burn. He looks briefly amused at the assessment that's made, but doesn't comment on it further.

<<If you can pull it off in the next few days, then by all means.>> The edges of his mind can be felt at the periphery of the link. A caged animal waiting with teeth and claws and a hunger to be set free. Bloodthirsty and savage, though it pulls back at the stillness. Retreats into shadow until it's only a glitter of bright eyes. <<I don't. But I have a directive. I don't want to lose anyone else to Gohl. Everything else is only a means to an end.>>

Alexander turns in his bed; turning his head actually hurts quite a lot, so to look at the man straight on, the less painful alternative involves shifting his whole body. Even that sends spike-ripples of pain through the link, although he ignores them with the sense of a man who has a lot of practice ignoring pain when it gets in the way. His dark eyes narrow slightly. <<Or what, Javier? You can't pressure the Addingtons. What parts of the police force that Felix Monaghan doesn't own, the Addingtons do. You have no evidence of any wrongdoing on Thomas' part, no one who can identify him - and Erin, Thorne, and Isabella aren't stupid enough to be willing to make a signed deposition that Thomas confessed to them that a ghost in his head made him murder people with magic. The Addingtons are very good at ruining people's lives; I'd rather not see you end up as debris in their path.>>

The pain is a known quantity. It's a familiar thing, and Ruiz also has plenty of experience with it. Knowing when to listen to it, and knowing when to push through it. Alexander's pain is like hawthorne abraded all along his synapses, and his teeth grind together briefly before he re-settles; his grip on the other man's hand shifts, but does not release. <<It was not meant as an ultimatum, Alexander. Merely as a statement of intent. I want this situation resolved before anyone else dies. You don't have to agree with me. You don't have to condone my methods. But I will not stand around and wait and plan while innocent people are slaughtered.>>

<<So you're not talking about legal pressure here.>> Alexander's pulse of surprise - not as much surprise as he might feel with another member of law enforcement, because he's seen the quality of Ruiz's mind, and clearly knows that laws don't always restrain him, but surprise nonetheless - turns into something more complicated and spiky. There is, too, a momentary shiver of apology down the link, an attempt to mute the pain and lock it away from reaching the other man as he considers. <<There's nothing wrong with having a good plan, you know. The world isn't a series of walls that just need to battered through. And I'm not sure - Thomas Addington is Gohl's prison, not his host. He captured Gohl when Gohl was freed. Anything you do to hasten the decline of his strength of will risks setting Gohl free. He wants, very badly, to be free. And if he gets free - I don't know that we have anything that can even slow him down. Maybe another prison, but I didn't get a lot of my sort of strength from Thomas. Whatever he's doing, I don't think it's something I can replicate. Maybe another healer could, but...well. You tell me. Who do you want to assign a lifetime service as Gohl's warden?>>

<<Do you think legal pressure would do shit all to resolve this?>> is returned with a measure of amusement that blooms warm over the mental link, before withering away again like a rose past its prime. <<Stop it,>> is almost felt more than intentionally communicated between them. And, <<I can handle it>>. His brows knit slightly, dark eyes all slanted up as he squints at something that was said, then tries to settle again. As much as the man ever truly relaxes, despite his lazy manner. <<I'm not suggesting we go in without a plan. Don't be so obtuse. I'm also not necessarily suggesting imprisonment. It seems a temporary measure, at best. I want Gohl gone. Permanently.>> Nope, no beating around the bush.

Alexander snorts, then coughs, then kinda jerks in place as he tries to cut THAT bullshit off before it hurts anymore than it already does. It's a good thing Ruiz made that curt assertion, because more pain cascades down the link whether he wants it to or not. It's accompanied by anger - at his treacherous body, at Gohl, at the whole of Gray Harbor and its twisted weirdnesses - before that is tamped down, put out of the link. When he 'speaks' again, there's a weary humor to it. <<I'm not really used to police officers not wanting to go the legal route, Javier. You're an interesting person.>> He sits back, closing his own eyes to better concentrate on the link, his hand shifting slightly in Ruiz's grip, almost like he's trying to read the man's pulse for additional data as he considers the words in his mind. <<We don't know how to make Gohl permanently gone.>> He points it out, gently. <<We might be able to hurt him. Maybe. He felt that Dr. Kosimar and I might be 'problems' when he decided to try and kill us, but that might have simply meant he thought we could drive him off. Nothing I felt in him fears being destroyed. Only imprisoned. What do you want to try, to end it permanently? Got the Vatican on call?>> It's a genuine question, not sarcastic; there's the feeling that Alexander would be open to exorcism, if he knew how to do one, or thought it would work.

With the link in place, it's considerably easier for Ruiz's mind to reach through it, and slide over and around that pain, and try to smooth it away. Like surgically applied sandpaper, softening the rough edges, even if it doesn't mend what actually ails him. He's no healer, but his mind can be used to distract and trick. <<I wasn't always a police officer>> is pointed out with more amusement, though only a flicker of it. His pulse is steady and strong, his hand callused, skin tan from the long and hot summer they've had. Dusted with dark hair along his forearm, which makes the ink look hazier.

<<I will speak with Dr. Kosimar, then. Her mind is like ours, yes? You can keep working on a box, in the meantime. But the first, and most pressing thing I'd like for us to do is put some pressure on the Addingtons, to have Thomas committed. I spoke to him recently, alone. I think he wants this to end as much as we do.>> It's mentioned oh so casually. I spoke to him.

Surprise, bright and sharp, pleased but bigger now, at Ruiz's kindness in the illusion of less pain than it was at the idea that Ruiz might jump off the reservation to resolve the case. <<Thank you.>> Alexander's voice is quick to warm and show affection through the link, even as he smiles with his actual face. And, of course, the curiosity flickers to life again, at the mention of Ruiz's life. Tentatively, he puts it out there, curling around like tiny vines. <<I'd like to know. One day. If you want to share.>> His eyes open and he looks down at Ruiz's tattoos in their un-cop-like profusion.

Then, agreement. <<Yes. She's strong. And how did you manage - wait, no.>> Humor and worry in eager measures. <<I probably don't want to know how you got him alone. But yes. I'd agree. He hates being a part of this. He's a drunken asshole, but I admire that he's put himself through this hell to try and keep Gohl caged. He'll go.>> Alexander's own feeling about that is far more complex and complicated, with dark eddies and unvoiced worries and anger.

He can, occasionally, not be an ass. He is capable of tenderness on occasion. There are people who can attest to this. <<You're welcome>>. Unhesitating, where he'd likely have shoved that under some sort of grunting diffidence, were this interaction to be carried out with words. Those tiny, curling little vines that touch the edges of his mind so tentatively are recoiled from with an involuntary snarl. His fingers tighten around Alexander's forearm, blanching the skin white for a moment until he relaxes his grip once again.

<<Maybe.>> The possibility is like a seed planted in his mind. It may take root, or it may go fallow. He doesn't linger on it. <<I'm not sure admiration is the proper word. But I respect him. Margaret, perhaps, is the bigger concern in a way. What do you know about her?>>

Alexander's curiosity recoils as if Ruiz wielded fire on those tender shoots, retreating all the way to his own side of the link. Alexander winces as the other man's grip tightens, but he doesn't protest, or even seem to get upset. And the curiosity isn't gone. Probably the only thing that will kill it is killing Alexander himself. But he accepts the barrier put up for now, and the possibility offered causes a brilliant smile, like the snarl hadn't existed.

The smile doesn't last the invocation of Margaret Addington's name. <<The Old Lady.>> He says that like it should be all that has to be said. And maybe it is, if you're a townie. But after a moment, he elaborates. <<As far as I can tell, she's made of steel, timber money, and maybe a bit of spite in the mix. It terrifies me that she knows my name. She's fiercely protective of the family legacy, I think. But I also think she's dangerous, ruthless, and competent. The Addingtons ruin lives when people stand in their way, and she's the matriarch. I...believe she might have had a woman committed, a long time ago, to cover up something she did, and the woman was involuntarily lobotomized. But I can't prove that. I can't even elaborate on it. It was a long, long time ago. But that's the kind of person I think she is.>>

That seems to fit with Ruiz's impression of the woman, if the flash of sardonic amusement that's briefly felt through the link is any indication. <<Maybe it can be used against her. Her pride. Her ruthlessness.>> His mind quiets for a moment, like a predator lying low in tall grass. Thinking, calculating, conserving energy. <<I've got to get going. I'll be by to see you again soon. Please think about what I have said.>> At least he said please. That's an improvement. Right?

The link is severed with a brush of fingers to Alexander's forearm, to his palm, then the utter absence of the shape and taste of his mind from the younger man's. There, and gone.

Alexander gives Ruiz a startled, even shocked sort of look. <<You want to take down Margaret Addington? Jesus, Javier. You don't think small.>> There's a grudging admiration there, and also the flicker of something that suggests that Alexander is considering the possibilities of kidnapping Ruiz and putting him somewhere his ambitions don't get him killed. But he allows, <<I'll think on it. I don't think I'll be here for long.>> Correction: He does not intend to be here for long, especially now he knows that his friends are plotting dangerous things.

And then the link is gone, and Alexander breathes out, soft and sad at the loss of it. It's momentary, just a brief sorrow, before he smiles at Ruiz, and makes a shooing motion at him. Go. Do cop things. Or insanely dangerous poking at local authority things. As he wishes.

He said nothing of the sort, of course. To wit: he's said nothing at all. It's all in Alexander's mind. Isn't it?

"Don't die," murmurs the captain, voice a low, sandpapery rumble. The box of donuts is nudged closer to Alexander as he pushes to his feet. And then with one final sweep of his gaze over his friend, he turns and prowls for the door, every inch the hunter gone to ground. If he noticed that little flicker of consideration for sequestering him away somewhere safe, he gives absolutely no indication.