2019-09-08 - Alexander Drives the Wraith Again

The summer evening was hot and all remnants of that dark carnival began to fade. Gone was the colored tent with the posters of the show's attraction on full display. The chattering buzz of curious and excited carnival goers quiet as well when the crowd slowly disappears before their very eyes. For a time, Byron continues to listen to the tinny and uneasy melody playing from a scratchy old phonograph. It made his head swim, disorienting him. Then again, that could be the jolt he'd received to his head making him sway and drift as he stands, no longer fueled by adrenaline that kept him going.

That feeling of lightness after they both dragged themselves out of his oppressive darkness of his childhood was still there. Byron had watched the man fall. Mary Thorne running to his father's side to join him.

There were two of them here; survivors of the ordeal.

A few words were exchanged between the two, then Clayton had to go to mention clowns. Thorne took some amusement in that, a smile forming on his lips before his body hunched forward and he begins to lose his lunch. The pain was starting to catch up with him, his head felt like it was on fire the nerves feeling so fried right now.

Alexander remains in a tense almost-crouch as the real world asserts itself. Or so he hopes. It looks real; the Park is quiet and humid, almost abandoned, with the streetlights humming in their usual, off-key song at the very upper range of his hearing. Night insects and frogs make their calls, erasing the last notes of the phonograph from the air. He isn't bleeding, although his shirt is a blackened ruin on the front; it looks like someone splashed some lighter fluid on his chest and set it on fire, more than anything else, but the burns are superficial. They do hurt like hell, though, so as he takes a look around, his hand goes to his shirt and tries to adjust it from rubbing against the edges of the wounds.

Thorne's smile provoked the start of one from Alexander, before the other man hunches over and vomits. Alexander winces and moves closer, reaching out slowly to put one hand on Byron's shoulder, to try and steady him if he's allowed. "We need to get you somewhere you can rest," he mutters, looking around. "You up for walking? There's the hospital, or I could take you home, and see if someone will come by and take a look at your head. Does your place have a first aid kit? Painkillers?" His teeth click on the last question he wanted, by instinct, to ask: it's clear that Byron is not okay.

The head injury itself could have provoked this need to purge, but it's something Thorne had felt the whole time they were inside that tent, ever since he'd heard his father's name uttered from that talker. It's a good thing that Alexander is there to lend a helping back. Once he reaches Byron's crumpling form, he can feel the man's weight relying heavily on the support given him, his legs feeling like rubber though he struggles to keep balance.

He was on his way to the hospital to visit Erin. Hearing the very word hospital, Thorne's chin lifts to stare out at the large structure that makes up Addington Memorial. No, his car was closer. Wiping at lips with the back of sleeve (At least the suit isn't damaged!), he tries foolishly to swallow back anything that he hadn't already rid himself of, but that makes him want vomit more so he ends up spitting the rest of out onto the grass. "Get me to my car. Parking lot." If anyone were watching this scenario, something would tell them that Byron Thorne wasn't in any state to drive. "Med kit in the car." He seems like a man who would always be prepared. Or try to.

"You got solid," Alexander says, with a grunt, as he takes the other man's weight on his arm. But he holds steady until Byron is completely done. Then, stepping carefully around the mess on the ground with more fastidiousness than might be suspected from his usual, ragtag clothing, he slips Byron's arm around his shoulders and starts guiding him towards the parking lot. From the outside, it probably looks a lot like two men making their way home after drinking too much - or, considering the contrast in their outfits, like Alexander is in the process of robbing Byron.

There's an approving nod at the med kit in the car, but Alexander doesn't chatter much when they're walking. Instead, his eyes are scanning the irregularly lit pathways, like he's still worried that the Dream might not be entirely over yet. He doesn't really start to relax even a little until the shape of the Wraith resolves itself in the darkness, and he can change their path to intercept. "Any blurriness in your vision? I think we can safely say 'yes' to nausea. Ringing in your ears?" He's guiding the man towards the passenger side of the car, and adds, "Unlock it. Where's the kit?"

This may not be a dangerous big city where shady and violent things happen every night in parks such as this one, but with the difference in status between the two men due to attire, people really could see this as a crime in progress. The park isn't completely empty with the hospital being across the way, but if there were any observers idly looking this way, it's a wonder what they say during the dream.

All that Byron needed to do was breathe, but even that came with pain. Which is a terrible thing since just last week he had issues with breathing as well. His skin felt tingly and hot, droplets of sweat sliding down the side of his face and brow. It was humid.

With Alexander as his guide, Thorne makes his way along the dark path on wobbly legs. There's are points where he stalls, holding back the group momentarily, but then he's easily led forward again. "My eyes. My entire head hurts." He murmurs, barely making out the large frame of his own car until they get close enough. Shaky hands reach into his pants pocket to try and fish his car keys out. They can be heard jingling within before he nearly drops them a few seconds after they were removed. He fumbles with the buttons but the sound of the alarm being shut is heard. While it's not clear whether the doors themselves had been unlocked or not, it would be a good guess to make that they were. "Glove compartment. It's in the glove compartment."

Not only did his head hurt, but his body felt the jolt as well. It's not strange that the first thing that comes to mind is something that he murmurs quietly now, "Lilith.." But should he really be depending on her for everything? In a quick flash within his mind, he remembers something that he had felt, that he had sensed from her just earlier that day. He then changes this to, "No. Don't call Lilith."

And Alexander reaches out once the doors are theoretically unlocked to try to just slip those keys out of Byron's hand and into his own pocket, at least long enough to let him reach for the door and get it open so that he can guide the man to sit down on the seat. Sometimes, in his mind, it's easier just not to have the argument if you can short-circuit it by taking advantage of someone's splitting headache and possible brain trauma to just liberate their keys right off the bat. "Yeah. Electric shock to the skull'll do that to you," he says, absently. "Tell me your name, your address, and today's date." His voice is clipped and precise, despite the worry that tugs down the edges of his mouth.

Once Byron is seated, he goes for the glove compartment to get the first aid kit. Honestly, there's probably not a whole lot in there for the kind of wound that Byron has, but Alexander still assesses it with the eyes of someone used to patching people (or, most likely, himself) up, even for things that probably should involve a hospital. His eyes flick up to Byron as the expected name is said - then retracted. Eyebrows go up. "Okay," he says, after a moment. "We'll get you home, and you can think about who you wanna call, if anybody." He pulls out an individually wrapped packet of painkillers, tears it open, then reaches for Byron's hand to shake the two pills out into his palm. "Dry swallow these. Don't throw up in your car." He takes another packet for himself, and follows his own advice.

If anything, Byron feels much better sitting in the comfort of his car. It took the need to try and stand upright and walk away giving his body this time to finally relax. His body rests heavily against the luxurious car seat, head leaned back against the cushion behind him. Once the glove compartment is open, Alexander finds typical items inside -- His registration, a map in this world of GPD usage, the first aid kit and a revolver. It could very well be the same weapon that he'd used to shoot Lilith at the stone bridge, IF the GHPD returned it to him.

His mind felt dulled, though the first question that's asked of him is immediately answered, "Byron Thorne." He was reminded of his own name by the figures in his dream. The other answers don't come out as quickly, especially the one asking him about the date. While he stumbles through giving the man the address to the Murder Apartments, it takes him a much longer time trying to determine what day tonight really was. "Sunday." Is all he'll say.

His mind remains glassy and he really feels like he could use the sleep. When things are quiet, he begins to drift off, the image of the carnival returning to his mind. Then he hears the tearing sound of the painkiller packet being opened and it brings him back to the present. The pills in his hands is given a squeeze, his body shifting so that he can get a better look at them. He then pops slips them into his mouth, swallowing deeply. Slowly, his head turns in Alexander's direction, falling back against his seat. "This isn't the first time that I'd encountered him." He says of his father. "Just the other day. In another dream." He murmurs.

There's a moment when Alexander eyes the gun in the glove compartment. His nose wrinkles in distaste, and he cuts a sidelong look back to Byron as he stumbles his way through the answers to his questions. Now is not the time to chide the man about his choice of weapons. He doesn't touch it - he barely knows which end of a gun to hold, to be honest. So it's gingerly pushed to the back of the compartment with the edge of the first aid kit, which is put back into the glove compartment, and the whole thing closed up, followed by the passenger side door. He walks around to the driver's side and gets in.

It's such a nice car. He can't resist giving the steering wheel an absent sort of pat - there's a good girl - before closing the door and buckling Byron in. He eyes the seat belt on his side, thinks about the raw wounds on his chest, and decides to take the chance with driving without it. Byron's soft words draw his attention back, and his face goes drawn, heavy with regret. "That's pretty fucking awful," he says, quietly. "The Shadows know pretty well how to hurt us. Doesn't matter if we never even tell anyone - they still know." A pause. "But you survived that. And this. That's not nothing." He starts up the car, and eases out into the road, driving carefully.

His eyes feeling heavy, Byron allows them to close from time to time, being pulled into broken memories of the most recent dream. This is enough for him to want him to remain awake even if he feels like a zombie sitting in their in the passenger seat of his own car. The car starts up, his gaze directed forward to watch the road when Clayton pulls them out of the parking lot and onto the main street. For all he knows, he was mindlessly rambling, speaking aloud the thoughts in his head, "I used to get them more frequently. Not like this. Well... maybe like this." These dreams used to hurt back then too.

"The shadows. They pull is into dreams..." That sounds like it should be a question the way he says it, "But why us. The both of us." He begins to sound clearer, more lucid. "The other day, was pulled into someone else's dream. That felt random. This.." It's then that he stops with the slow realization that he's dredging up the past, some things that Clayton would've known. He was there. "Just take me home." This is attempt to cut the conversation short.

"Yeah? When you were still a kid, or once you came back? Or both?" Alexander's voice is low, but prodding. He doesn't really want Byron to pass out in the front of the car, after all, so keeping him talking is a good way to keep him awake, even if the subject is rather sensitive. Or maybe because the subject is rather sensitive. "Getting lost has always been terrible," he adds, after a moment.

"I don't know," Alexander starts, thoughtfully. He doesn't look at Byron at first; his eyes are on the dark road, still with standing puddles from the rain earlier in the day. The quiet power of the car is a distraction, but not a huge one at this particular moment in time. "Until the last few months, I never got lost with anyone else -" a pause. "Not true. Once when I was a kid. Once in college, and that wasn't even here in Gray Harbor. But it was very rare." And then Byron tries to cut off the conversation. Alexander's lips thin. His fingers drum out a rhythm - that it's 'Psycho Circus' by KISS will surprise no one - as he thinks his way through his response.

In the end, he just ignores the implied 'stop talking about this', and continues, "I think there can be a couple of different reasons. If you assume the Shadows are pulling us into these Dreams, and I do, then the random things might just be that someone got hungry, and that's who was around. Like an impulse stop at a fast food restaurant. Then, sometimes, maybe if they're targeting someone, someone who also looks tasty gets sucked in just because hey, they're there, so why not? So, like, when you decide to go ahead and have the two-for-one deal or something. But I don't know if that's what happened this time. Do you remember even getting to the Park? I know I was walking for a while, but...it's unusual for me to just lose time. I'd say, for whatever reason, it wanted us both there. Maybe because we have a previous association and the same sort of abilities. Maybe because having someone there would hurt you more, and I had enough context to be hurt by being there, too." He shrugs. "It's hard to say how much they understand us, or whether they just try things until something works."

Sometimes it was really hard to tell a real dream apart from whatever it is that they get sucked into here. There's no response from Byron's side of the car, his head tilted lightly to the side while still resting against the head cushion. He was trying to think and pick apart these various dreams as he idly gazed at his own reflection through the gloss of the window. "Both." He finally responds. He remembers it clearly now, both as a child and then as an adult after he'd returned to Gray Harbor. "The stuff that happened in L.A. those were different." They were just plain nightmares.

"Away from Gray Harbor too?" His head lolls to the other side facing Clayton now. "I felt free away from this place. Free from the oppression of the town." Though not free from the fear and trauma that living in Gray Harbor had caused.

When the tapping starts, Byron takes no notice of it at first, though eventually his gaze is drawn that way. Just like that time back when he was a child, he didn't know the song that That Damn Kid was tapping out either. This may not be the same song, but it's still lost to him and all he sees is the fidgeting of a man. In Alexander Clayton's case, that is not surprising at all.

He'd asked the other to stop, though he'd continue to ponder on it in his mind, but in his own stubbornness or a need to inform or work things out vocally, Alexander continues. "I remembered heading to the Park. I was going to check in on Erin and decided to park further than necessary from Addington Memorial because I needed to clear my head. I don't remember parking per se, but my car was there, so I must've." Those dark eyes flicker in the other man's direction again, "Were you visiting Erin too?" Either heading that way, the way Byron was, or just leaving. He takes another quiet swallow. There's a question at the tip of his tongue, but he knows that answer to it most likely. Did Clayton see and experience everything that Byron did?

"Sometimes one bleeds into the other type, but I can usually tell apart the night terrors from the lost times," Alexander says, brow furrowing. "Not always. But...yeah, I got lost outside of Gray Harbor. Just before I graduated from college. Being out of this town was the best possible thing." He gives the man a crooked smile, and a nod. Free. It was a good word. "But then I and a friend, Isolde, we got sucked into a real fucking nightmare, nearly killed. And right after, she disappeared, and I realized that it wasn't just a Gray Harbor thing. That nowhere was really safe, and it never would be." He turns back to the road with a shrug. "Things got bad after that, for a while. Few years passed, found myself back here. It's worse here, but it's also better. I feel like I can fight back here."

He falls silent for a bit, listening to Byron and watching the road as it takes them out by the coast. Even at night, it is a gorgeous sort of view as the Harbor comes into sight, the lights of the Bayside houses and ships burning steady in the dark. "I had visited Erin," he murmurs. "I remember that. And walking for a while. I think I picked up lunch at some point. Ate it in the Park, then..." he shakes his head. "It's a blur after that, until it was night-time and that fucking circus was playing the music." His foot gets a little heavy on the gas, as if he might punch it and leave the dream behind in the dust, even in his mind. A frown comes to him as he scans down the coast for the apartments, trying to pick out their silhouette in the dark. "Look." It's abrupt. And then he doesn't say anything for a long moment. "Look. B--Thorne, I know I was probably the last person in the world you'd want to have around for something like that - not that you'd want to deal with that with anyone or by yourself or at all, I get that. But--" his hands tighten, "maybe it was better you didn't have to face it by yourself. Even if that's not what the Shadows intended, probably."

At some point, Byron raises a hand to his forehead, letting his eyes rest then.

Now for a man that can crush your skull between his palms The tiny Ringleader had announced. Those words filled him with a quickly rising panic, but right now, he might not mind so much if his skull was crushed if just that pain in his head would go away.

"How?" He asks, half-lidded eyes looking at Clayton when he tilts his head back in the man's direction. "I mean, I don't know anything about this. Gray Harbor, the Veil." He'll use that word. "So maybe others have similar encounters as they do here elsewhere." A pause, "Or maybe just those who light up like a beacon. No matter where you go, you bring in trouble." It's not accusatory, nor is he insulting the man. It's just a point that he decided to make, something that he's been thinking about due to other developments in his life.

Thorne can't enjoy the beauty of the bay this evening, even if he catches glimpses of it beneath the moonlight, yet it was still covered in darkness from where he's sitting. The directness in which Alexander addresses him and the words that now come forth catches him off guard and he's about to ask a question that he knows is entirely possible due to their own powers and his experiences with his father: ''You heard me?'' It could be just the impression that Clayton got, but Byron won't dwell on it for long, resettling back into his seat in full, facing forward once again.

He gives this all much thought and though he was paranoid about just what Clayton was exposed to in his dream, there's one thing he's certain about. "Better you than anyone else." He did his best to hide his past from his friends, even if he began openly speaking on some of that later in life. Hell, he tried to do the same with the Clayton kid back when he was a child even though the urge to tattle on his own father was strong that evening.

"Not the first time I've heard that," Alexander murmurs, regarding bringing trouble, although he doesn't seem insulted. There's even a flicker of amusement there. Although as he turns into the road that goes to the apartment complex, he does try to think about a real answer to the question. "It seems to happen more to those of us who stand out. And there are other places like Gray Harbor - although I don't know if any are quite like here? But I've spoken to people who've noticed places a little like this in Oregon, and overseas. It probably happens more there. I feel like it's easier for them to get us."

A shake of his head at the next question. "No. I've never read you. And you don't leak. You're buttoned down. Very," he sighs, "controlled. But I have eyes and a brain. Your apartment, your wardrobe...everything. It's designed to project a certain image, and not anything past that. You're not a guy who likes to expose himself." An awkward sort of pause. "I don't say that to condemn it. It's just a thing I noticed. Noticing things is sort of what I do. So that had to have been - exceptionally unpleasant on a whole lot of levels beyond the obvious. I'm not going to talk about it with anyone. If you were worried." A startled look at the final thing Byron says, which causes him to almost miss the turn in to the parking lot.

He doesn't say anything until he's found a spot, and the Wraith is safely parked. "If you ever want to talk about anything." He doesn't go so far as to complete the offer, and thus have it rejected. He just lets it hang half-formed, then squares his shoulders, and changes the subject. "Get prepared to tell your security people that I didn't hit you over the head so I could make you let me into your fancy apartment. And do you know who I'm calling to take a look at that skull for you? There's not much I can do for internal damage, but you should get Dr. Glass to do a real examination at the minimum, if she's there, or I should call another doctor. Or a healer, if you know one you want."

The very idea that there were other places like Gray Harbor was mystifying, yet made sense. Except, he doubted that Gray Harbor was on any map for those seeking such places. Byron's mind is just a rambling mess now, this weariness coupled with possible brain damage for all he knows. "No one knows about Gray Harbor. Except that writer. He came here to expose us to the world."

There's this dullness to his gaze when he sets his sights on Alexander again, just staring at the man now, though it's hard to tell if he's actually seeing him.

You're buttoned down. Very controlled. When Alexander first met Byron, he would remember just how little control the child had. His thoughts and emotions were being broadcast everyone, to anyone who could sense it. Even if they didn't know where or who it was coming from. Though it wasn't hard to take a guess... He'd learned from that and closed himself off. "There are reasons for that." He finally speaks up after this long moment of quiet. In fact, there were many reasons for barricading your mind away from everyone. It's not clear whether he's talking about the image he projects or something deeper.

Then he's being given this promise that Clayton won't tell anyone about what they both experienced. A slow nod follows this, his eyes glazed over once more, remembering the laughing and jeering of the familiar faces within the audience in his dream.

Then then pull up to the gate and Thorne's able to pull himself together to lean towards the driver's side of the vehicle so that Frank can get a good look at him. It's his turn to intrude into Alexander's space, he almost leans against the man in the process, "Frank, I had a bit too much to drink." Clayton, "Alexander was kind enough to drive me home." It's odd for him to use Alexander's first name. He's never called him that when mentioning him to security... or anyone, unless he was in a lot of pain or under medication. "Open the gates so I can finally get some sleep." While he's speaking to one of his hired help, he tries not to sound rude even though there's a pained (probably not faked) tone to his voice. Before Frank realizes it, Byron's sitting back against his ow chair, eyes closed.

The gate is opened.

"Vivian.." He murmurs. It's probably a good idea to speak to her, but when this healer is mentioned, his eyes finally open again. "Drive down into there." He directs the way to his personal parking spot in the underground garage. "Turn right. Did he know any doctors personally who made house calls? He had EMTs in the apartments, he knew that much, but the place was in chaos after Erin Addington's attack. Lilith comes to mind again.

"Writer?" Alexander gives Byron a sidelong look, like he's wondering if the check for cranial bleeding should happen sooner than he originally thought. "The horror writer?" There's a thoughtful noise. "Maybe. I don't think he means to, though. I don't think he knows enough to mean to."

Then a shrug as Byron points out there are reasons why. "There always are. Like I said, I don't fault it." His voice lowers, and it's unclear if he even means for the, "I have concerns about it," to be heard, or if it just sort of slips out. When they pull up to the gate, his expression goes oddly blank for a moment, and there's a stirring of power around him. Although Alexander makes no effort to hide his own torn shirt and burned chest, the security guard doesn't seem to see anything untoward about Alexander - aside from the fact that he is, in fact, Alexander. A twitch, a glance towards Byron, at the use of his first name, but he doesn't react other than that, and there's a nervy sort of nod to Frank as the gate opens.

He follows the directions Byron gives. "I think Bennie Oakes lives with Easton. She's good. Cheerful, but good. She probably wouldn't mind coming up and taking a look. I think she's got a partner, too? I don't know her, but I think she's also in the building." A shrug. "Normally, I'd say don't rush to magical healing, but those brain cells have treated you well, and you probably still need them. But, at the very minimum, you need someone to stay with you for the next twenty-four hours or so. You've got some signs of head trauma, and if it gets worse, you'll need the hospital. Particularly motor or cognitive difficulty." He rattles this all off like he's got a textbook stuck in his brain, and pulls into Thorne's personal parking spot.

What could be an affirmative sound comes from Byron's direction when Alexander mentions the horror writer. He also doesn't seem to notice that Alexander had used his powers at all, even if that shift in the air tickles at him, but it's something that he easily misses in his state of mind.

Oakes. Easton. The names come pouring out. It doesn't take him long to fill in the blank. "Sutton." He remembers seeing that name before. "Oh right. Another link to the Addingtons." When Alexander had given him the Thorne family tree, it revealed that the Suttons were linked to the Addington's as well somewhere.

With Alexander still having the keys, Byron will allow him to escort him out, though there's a moment where he's bracing himself against the parking garage wall with an outstretched hand looking as he might just vomit again. At least it's still not in the car! Rather than purging, he starts to cough but recovers. "Can't use your powers when your skull is cracked." He's talking about something else, for while he skull may have taken the brunt of the attack, his mind was fried rather than his skull being cracked. Unless that's an underlying condition that's hard to determine at the moment. "You won't invade my mind again." He's repeating something from somewhere distant even as he moves along towards the elevator.

Alexander hovers. In that awkward way that suggests he's trying really hard to look like he's not hovering, but is failing to be nonchalant about it at all. When Byron doesn't throw up, he steps up closer to offer an arm for support, even if he has to take a few breaths, first. He starts to guide him towards the doors, if he can. There's a searching look given to Byron as he starts to speak. His face goes to that creepy, blank place that he finds when he's thinking about things, putting together facts, and making a few deductions along the way. "Your father?" It's only barely a question.

Byron doesn't notice Alexander looking at him. This time he's not pretending not to notice as he sometimes does. The man's words had started some kind of memory playback in his mind. If Alexander had said Stephen Thorne, it might've jolted Byron out of this trance, but the quiet mention of his father pulls him back in time for the elevator to sound. Stepping inside, he blinks over at the other, a curious look on his features, "What about him?" It doesn't seem that he realized that he had said anything at all, perhaps only thinking it. Or so he thought.

Idly, now that they were in the familiarity of his own building, he wonders if Vivian were home. She should have been by now. But would she really be able to help him now?

There's a moment where Alexander visibly seems to consider something - probably probing more deeply to try and confirm what he'd assumed the memory was referring to. Then he takes a closer look at Byron, sighs, and shakes his head. "Never mind. Wasn't important." He steps into the elevator, makes sure Byron isn't going to fall over, then steps away to give them both some space. There's a shiver from him, and he pulls at his shirt again, trying to find a comfortable way to arrange it over the burns. There isn't one, so it becomes just a constant cycle of fidgeting. His toe taps, watching the floor indicator rise. He gives Byron frequent, sidelong looks, but being in the apartment building seems to have the opposite effect on Alexander than it does for Byron - it's not a place he considers familiar and it's clear he goes on edge a little.

In the light of the elevator, that's when Byron finally notices what shape Alexander is in. The cool air was sobering, despite the pain in his head, but the illumination revealed quite a bit. During that entire dream sequence, certain parts of it were a blur. He remembers when he was first touched with pain at his temple, feeling the sparks there that began to spread through ever vein in his body like wildfire. He didn't even know if he would be able to stand then, the entire world being this haze until he felt that soothing sensation which gave him strength to rise again.

There were only two of them there. He may have offered up his thanks once the nightmare is over, but he probably forgot that he'd done so by now, when all of this is brought to some light, giving him a far better idea of what went on in that chaos, he'll come out and say, his voice dry, "Thanks again." His eyes then staring up at the floor numbers as they pass through, "I don't know what would've happened if I had to face them alone. It probably wouldn't have ended well."

The elevator comes to a stop and the door opens leading straight to his apartment.

Alexander doesn't look at him at that dry thanks. He shrugs. "You're welcome. You'd have come through, one way or another, Byron. I get the idea that you're a survivor." Still, he smiles a little, brief and bright, before the elevator comes to a stop. The smile wipes away, and he offers the man an arm to lean on, only barely remembering that he's the one with the keys until they actually reach the door. He gets it open, calls out, tentatively, as it opens, "Dr. Glass?" A glance towards Byron. "Where do you want to lay down?" Apparently not laying down is not offered as an option. "And who do you want me to call?" Likewise with not calling someone.

Home Sweet Home.

It's automatic really, once you get home, you take off your jacket and undo your tie. That's how it usually worked, so without even thinking about it, Byron goes through the motion of his regular routine. The suit jacket, for now, is draped over the back of the couch- a piece of furniture that looked so inviting right now. Even with Alexander's reassurance that he would have survived this dream, there's a part of Byron that has doubts on this. During the course of the evening, his own terror was mounting and he was ready to flee. There was no fight or flight. Just flight. And the dream refused to release them. He's not going to put up an argument, however, usually a man to hide his own weakness. In this situation, that was becoming a difficult thing to do when it was hard to focus with that buzzing pain.

Taking a seat on the couch, lowering himself into a seated position rather that laying down outright, he looks towards the bedroom wondering if Vivian were home at all. It was quiet. "She could be with a client." At this hour? "She been in high demand as of late. I'm sure that Gohl has everyone spooked." Though to the question of who to call, the same name comes to mind. "Lilith would lose her mind if she had to come here again to tend to me." Not the fact that she had to come, but the fact that he was in this bad a shape again.

"Maybe," Alexander says, neutrally. It isn't as if he knows Vivian's schedule, after all. It doesn't stop him from frowning at the bedroom door. He takes a step or two in that direction before visibly remembering that he has absolutely no permission to sticking his head in someone else's bedroom where a woman may or not be sleeping. Instead, he just stops, arms dangling a bit akimbo, until Byron speaks again, and he turns around to face him. "But she would come." There's no doubt in Alexander's mind or voice about that, although there is a measure of...dry amusement there, for some reason. "I can call her, or you can. Or we can call someone else. Or," and there's a sudden teasing edge to his voice, "I can camp out in your lovely living room. Which I think we can both agree is a less than ideal outcome."

Whether or not Byron should be drifting off to slumber in his state of head trauma, he's not sure about nor it's something that he's going to fight when the urge to do so takes him. Kicking off his shoes, his body twisted to the side, leaning against the back of couch to regard with Alexander with this look as if what he's being asked to do is far too complicated for his mind to sort out right now. "If you don't think that she'll hate me for forcing her to come over here in the middle of the night, that it won't tax her to use her powers again," A thoughtful pause, he's trying to conjure up Lilith's image in his mind, "Then call her." His body leans even more heavily against the couch, head resting comfortably to the side, mussing up his hair some, "Or you could play babysitter for the rest of the night and no one needs to know about this at all." That is if he recovers during the course of the night. Otherwise, things may get worse.

"I don't see why you're having me make this decision. It's your brain," Alexander says, but it's under his breath, and he rubs his hand through his hair, grimacing. "I don't think there's much that could induce Miss Winslow to hate you, Byron." Another flash of that dry amusement. To the idea of taxing her powers, he offers a shrug. "She may not need to do anything but check and make sure nothing got fried that you're going to need in the future. Your ability to calculate market value, or smile charmingly at people you don't like. That sort of thing." He pulls out his phone and starts texting her. "I'll tell her she's not supposed to get worried." Because that'll fix everything.

Thorne's already dozing off a little, leaning against the couch, finding it difficult to keep his eyes opens. When they do open, it starts with a slow squint, before they shut again. This leaves Alexander in that odd situation of what to do with himself in this fabulous penthouse. Byron's phone never ceases to stop vibrating. His tenants demanded answers and here he was, his body racked with pain, especially his head and unable to have handled any of those calls or messages throughout the entirety of the night. The sensation of his phone trembling was strangely comforting than annoying.

Once his eyes opens again after a long moment of silence, gaze focused on Alexander, he wonders if he called anyone at all. "Help yourself." He means to a drink or maybe food, but he should've extended that invitation once they got inside.

Left at odds in the penthouse with a dozy, probably brain-fried Byron, Alexander does what Alexanders do best. He prowls restlessly around the room, and snoops. He's not too obvious about the snooping - he's not going through cabinets or anything. He's just staring at things, trying to catalog more of whoever Thorne has become since he was six years old. Not that Alexander really knew him well then. At the words, he jumps a little. "Uh. Thanks. You want anything? Coffee?" He can probably work the espresso machine. Probably. "She's on her way. I told her not to worry."

The entire apartment is as put together as Thorne is. It's impressive, every piece chosen to convey a similar image to match his sense of style and dress. It's modern mixed with traditional with some classic touches. There are no family photos or anything that would have been brought over from the time he'd lived on Oak Avenue. None in his possession anyway. "No." He'll refuse the offer of drink, but he does draw himself up to a proper seated position in the hopes that it will bring back his focus and keep his mind active. A mentalist who is unable to focus was at an incredible disadvantage. His hair is partially mussed due to his sleeping zoning out position, but even then, it's not all that out of place.

"This is the third one," He brings this up again, "The third dream in within a week's time." Or was it slightly over a week? He's not sure. "I wonder if there will be more."

"The third?" Alexander frowns. "Jesus. That's a bit much. Have you been using your abilities a lot? If so, stop. For the love of God, before you don't come back from one of them." There's a moment where Alexander's hands curl into fists, before he shakes his hands out to relax them. He gives the impeccable decoration an exasperated look. His prowling spirals around, in towards where Byron is sitting, and when he reaches the area, he finds a place to sit that's just out of the way of the other man, and stares at him. "But you've probably been upset. Lately. With Gohl and all. And the ring before that. They like pain, negative emotions. Maybe you've just been feeling too many of late."

While driving over to the apartments across town center, Lilith doesn't lose her shit the way she initially feels she wants to. She just locks up, already dressed for doing nightly inventory in the black laced capri and white v-neck shirt combo she was in for the day, flip flops an addition for hasty shoe choice. She gets in that pretty pearl white Acura RDX her and Byron picked together and she breathes and wonders how much she can do this without slipping when it matters. Fear. Anxiety. Stop. Stop.

No. This is Byron, there's exactly one way for him to be put together. There's nothing to be afraid of at all.

Then she's sheer will and it's shifted the air around her somehow, though not on any seen level. It follows her up after she checks in with security once she's parked and when she gets to the door, she opens it if it's unlocked, pops it and opens it if it's not. And eventually, that puts her inside to look between the pair with wide eyes and an utterly dire, determined expression on her features, "I'm here."

"The other dreams weren't mine." He doesn't think. No, Byron knows that they weren't. "I was just pulled into them. Unless, I'm the one actually being targeted," He uses that word again, just like when talking about how he chest was caved him. "And the others were unfortunate enough to be with me. Their own worst nightmares come to life." It's starting to make sense in a bit, but he's probably rambling a little still. "Have the shadows been known to outright attack anyone in our world?" There's this glassy look in his eyes but they soon focus, looking to Alexander.

At that same time, Lilith makes her ways to his apartment. Most likely Alexander would spoken to the security types, awkwardly, to let them know to let Lilith in. And into the elevator to the penthouse floor. That probably happened in the most strangest of ways. Alexander Clayton had so much authority in this building now! An apologetic smile on his lips, he murmurs, "Lily." Outwardly, Thorne looks fine. His suit isn't even damaged, though he'd already removed the jacket and his tie is now undone. Every so often he'll drift off, a dazed or confused look in his eyes. It's as if he can hear that old phonograph playing off in the distance.

There was probably an argument between a nervous and surly Alexander and a skeptical security personnel, but yes, eventually Lilith gets her permission, and he's able to turn his attention to Byron's question. "No. I mean." He thinks about it. "A lot of what I thought I knew has had exceptions of late. But I don't think I've ever heard of anyone being outright attacked by the Shadows. Or even seeing them. They're always," he frowns, "present, if at all, in an indirect sort of way? The closest I've ever come to what I'd call contact with any of them is with the actors. Remember that feeling? How much it liked seeing us hurt each other?" He grimaces. "That was the closest I've even got to confirmation that they exist, and it's not just voices in my head."

He stands to let Lilith in, sort of hiding behind the door as he opens it. "Miss Winslow. You look worried. I told you not to worry." A frown at her as he closes the door behind her. "He took an electric shock to the head. I'm concerned about internal damage, especially since it can take a few days to manifest. I was hoping you might look. If it can heal on its own, it should. If not..." well, that's why she's been called. He prowls back to where Byron is.

Lilith hears the murmur and turns that way immediately toward the source of the voice, hand knocking back through her hair as she stares Byron down, first physically, then less so as her eyes haze and the way she sees him changes. She'd explained to August, once, about the way things color code sometimes and his head inside and on the skull has so much pressure and wrong about it, it's changed every color, like everything got mixed up to just make pain with scramble. Her teeth set on edge and she makes her way over immediately to kneel next to where the man is laid out, looking over her shoulder toward Alexander.

There's a tiny hiss noise when Alexander explains the damage, "I... thank you for letting me know. It's like a thousand knives to see him like this, and when I'm able to undo it and make it right again... it heals me too." Then she draws in a breath and gingerly thoughs her fingers in grazing arrange of Byron's hair while looking down into his eyes... and she seems to be seeing into all the muddle and pain on some particular level where the bits and pieces that make the body and brain are moving in strange patterns.

There'll be no testing to see if anything heals on its own. They can't afford that, there's things to do, things to... feel about the very principle of him toughing it out, lost in damage and murk inside. But all she seems to be doing is arranging his hair while leveled with lean to stare into his eyes. Both hands play into it, fingers tending, stroking, and carding through with graze to the scalp and feather light fixes.

"It was a dream, Lilith. Mine this time." Byron relays that bit of information to her. She knows a little about the other two, one of which was hers. "It feels like this is a constant ongoing thing. Now it makes me question my sanity and whether I was really attacked at all. Or was that a dream too?" He's pretty sure it was real. He was never taken out of his apartment, there was no one else there and nothing was amiss. But that's confusion talking; confusion from his head trauma, but more than likely, having little understanding about the Veil or these dreams. Part of this response is in regards to what Alexander had said.

Despite the emotional and physical distress that he finds himself in, this soothing sensation that comes over him when Lilith reaches out to treat him with what feels like skillful, tender hands is almost addicting. When her fingers run through his hair and across his scalp, she can sense the location where the initial blow hit, sending a jolt of electricity through his body. He lets his eyes clothes, being drawn into this calm now. He shouldn't be asking her to do this, but there's no one who he trusts more.

Alexander stares at Lilith for a long moment, before his lips twitch upwards and he gives a little shake of his head. He considers the two of them, with a sigh, and stands up. "It was real, Byron. You'll feel better soon, I suspect." A glance at Lilith - he doesn't feel what she's doing, but he can see Byron's reaction to her touch, and he clears his throat. "I suspect I am superfluous to requirements," he says, reaching out to adjust the shirt over his own burns. "I should head home. You'll be fine, Byron. Miss Winslow...do be careful. A headache won't kill him." He turns and starts making his way to the door.

If only it were a headache. He's going to still have a headache, alas, because it's part of feeling alive again, the echoes that remain as the body catches up to being accelerated and pinpointed and directed to knit and mend and bustle to recover at hyperactive speed. But it won't be a semblance of the splitting pain and confusion and pressure that was there before, no. After wetting her lips and finally looking at Byron as if she's actually seeing him, instead of seeing into him, her hand stills in his hair to hold in place, the other slipping away to hold herself at the edge of the sofa while she screws around on her knees with turn to watch Alexander leaving.

"Alexander. Thank you. He wears a suit, but he's like an alley cat, tough and full of lives. But there's only so many even alley cats get." Lilith tells Alexander on his way out, breathing out and going a little soft with the end part of what she says, sending a meaningful look down at Byron with her hand resuming motion, "No one really knows the count, though, do we? " She pauses, wondering, "Do you see me clearly? What's my full name, first middle last? Include two nicknames if you want to be fancy."

If referring to him by his real name was a slip on Alexander's part or if it was intentional due to what they've been through, both this evening and another evening so many years ago, when he'd addressed the boy as Byron as well, Thorne doesn't notice. He's too busy relaxing and letting Lilith work on him in the way she does best. His eyes don't open immediately to be drawn out by any of the conversation, but they do now, a dull gaze looking Alexander's way. He'd already thanked the man a couple of times this evening, even if he might not remember it all.

The full intensity of being electrocuted, the prickly hot discomfort that goes with it is mostly diminished, there's remnants of something, of course. It never fades completely. Not until a day or so, sometimes more. "I have a feeling you're both talking about me like I"m not even in this room." He can sound surly about it, but there's a hint of humor in his tone. He's feeling better. Slowly but surely.

Eye trailing behind Alexander now, he stops a moment to think on what to say. What finally does come out could be considered rather amusing, "Don't Die." That means good-bye in Clayton's language, obviously.

It's Lilith who tries to regain his full attention and it becomes clear that he's doing much better, "Lilith Rose Winslow. Lily Rose if you want to be fancy." A pause, "You don't want me giving out the other nickname," It's a bit of teasing, almost as if he's taunting her with Alexander's presence at the moment until he leaves the suite.

"There was never an alley cat dressed like that," Alexander says, with a flicker of amusement. "But he's sharp enough to survive." The amusement brightens further, turns into a real smile and even halts him in his track as Byron throws his own parting words back to him. He doesn't turn around to look at the two of them, but he does say, "That goes for the both of you. Don't die. And try not to get fucking lost. You're over quota." Then he's gone, getting out of the apartment complex as quickly as his feet will take him.

"Okay. Good. We don't need to get into those little hussies in fifth grade calling me Scarecrow because I was getting all legs and looked like a skinny hobo head of hair and eyes." Lilith tells Byron, trying to sound vaguely disapproving as she recalls, trying to put on the act of being still salty for general humor purposes. But it's a little bit empty because behind the act in quiet, she's distracted, looking right at his eyes with her own somewhat still dire. Then abruptly, she closes them and brings her hand away from his hair to pat against his chest, "You'll be alright." The words seem as much for herself as they are for him.

Then she starts to draw out of the hover over him with eyes at cut away as she sinks back to sit against her heels in kneeling position, hand left resting at one side of his chest. After looking at her lap for a lingering moment, she finally looks back at him, quiet and steady now, like closing her eyes and taking that beat gave her a reset of sorts, "Do you want to tell me what happened? Or do you want to just sleep?"

<FS3> Byron rolls Remember Those Hussies-2: Failure (4 1)

Byron can sort of remember some of their faces, those girls who loved to tease Lilith, but their names don't come up. It may be due to head injury, most likely, because while he tried not to pay them any mind, he had a long memory for people he didn't like. This continues to frustrate him to no end. His mind still felt cloudy, dazed and his desire to focus was strong. "And look at how you turned out now. If I didn't know better, Miss Winslow, I would've thought you were a model or an actress." He'll still try to make her feel better, the way he used to back in the day.

If anything, he really was exhausted. Tugging at her white top, he shifts to finally lay all the way back rather than force himself to be seated to rest his head on one of those large cushions.

"It was a dream. Second one in a row." Eyes staring up at the ceiling, he can still envision what the whole thing looked like, the smell of popcorn in the air and cotton, all so sickeningly sweet. "It happened at Addington Park. I was going to walk the long way to reach the hospital, but we were confronted by a circus that suddenly was set up in the middle of town."

"A circus? Ugh." Lilith murmurs to Byron, sitting in kneel there for a moment, though the tug on her top has her gradually shifting off of sit on her heels with some delay, like he's pulled a long puppet string. She leans in to nuzzle over his chest as he lies back, hair at tickling stroke, then she crawls onto the edge of the couch because this time it's only his head, not his ribs. Settling on side and hip, she lays a leg partially bent in drape over him, as well as the curl of an arm, the other used with upstretch reach to start playing through his hair while he explains.

There's a protective, nurturing nature about it, almost possessive, and almost sensual in that moment of comfort because time has made sure their bodies are very much woman and man. But once she's made to latch, she listens cheek at one side of his chest at rest to hear the low throb of his voice, "Alexander was in it or he just found you after?" She pauses, voice a little dropped, "It was yours. Was it bad?"

It hurts a little, but that 'ugh' that Lilith makes has Byron laughing, "What's wrong with the circus? Don't tell me you never enjoyed it when they came to town." Breathing in through his nostrils, he says, "They stopped showing after a while. People protesting about animal rights. But I remember I found it all interesting. The rides, the animals." The freak shows. Boys loved a good freak show. Whenever they were this close, it felt like high school all over again. Usually they were laying on the grass under a tree somewhere in town. A hand drapes across her back, fingers toying with her hair.

"Alexander was there." Maybe he still has brain damage, he's still calling him Alexander rather than Clayton. He licks idly at his lips, "I wasn't sure if we were both chosen for a reason or.. if it was luck that he was visiting Erin around the time that I was, but we were both enticed into the circus tent and were taken on this freakshow journey. It was pretty messed up."

"I just... liked the food, mostly. And the flyers in the air. And the elephant. That's about it. But everyone wanted to go so bad so I went and had a good time anyway because everyone else was. I owe you so many ride tickets and snacks. Forget Felix, you're the one carrying all kinds of my debts." Lilith murmurs to Byron with admitting. The fingers of the arm draped over him tuck with curl along his side in tight nestling with curve and soft press of body molded around his lean and solid frame.

In a sense, it's almost like she's trying to make a bodily barrier or buffer between him and anything else that can drop on him while he's just lying here. Then she pulls in a breath of air, and then wonders, "... you weren't scared of anything at the circus, though. What else happened?" Lilith might have an idea where dreams are based from a large piece of the time, it's how we know when they're 'ours' or 'theirs' or 'no one particular' even-- they so largely prey on damages and fears and intimate things to make it so much worse.

"You don't owe me anything. For some of that, that wasn't even my money I was using." There was a time where Byron didnt' make his own money! He did have to ask his parents politely for it, of course. No begging. "I always wondered if you were going to be sick after eating all that circus food. Not that we all didn't compete to see who could shove the most of anything in our mouths." His lips quirk a bit, his hands never cases their stroking along her back and hair. He tilts his head forward to try and get a glimpse of her with her head against his chest, but all he can see is the top of her hair. It didn't matter too much. He then laid back feeling his head throbbing again after such a foolish

"My dad used to take me the circus. More often when I was younger." He decides to share, though she probably knows this as much as he probably took them all out to the circus for at least a few weekends throughout their lives. "So the whole circus thing felt very familiar. It was um.. a freakshow tent that we were lured into. So you know how what kind of sights we both saw." With her head so close to his chest, she can feel his heart beginning to beat quicker now, a spike in his anxiety. "My parents were there. Mostly my dad, but... then we had to fight them. And that's how I ended up like this." There's more to it, a lot more, but some of that is incredibly sensitive and twisted even for him to dare talk about. "I was left incapacitated after I was hit by..." He wasn't even paying attention to the ringleader when it happened, "We almost lost that one."

Lilith lays and listens to Byron, blinking a few times fast with her eyes automatically misting when he mentions gradually the very personal turn it took and how... it almost killed him. She's real quiet while wondering, morbidly, would it have spit him out dead or would it have kept him to lie and turn into bones right there in the dream for her to look for and probably never find. And she doesn't have to guess so hard at who incapacitated him, not at all.

She always kind of knew, but like she used to cover things for Hank to avoid DHS and every other thing, Byron used to cover too for his own reasons. And he'd confessed it aloud, finally, that time at the bar when she handed over the shame of her own past in silk cord form for him to take home. When they were still new all over again to each other, months ago. Lilith wonders how he burned the cord, what he saw, reminded of that night, but it's fleeting and she turns her head to bury face in Byron's shirt when his heartbeat accelerates, hand slipping in curl up his side over his ribcage.

Finally, she tips her face upward to look at him with a sober pair of large, misty wet blue eyes shining with unshed tears. After swallowing down thickly, she nods fractionally with understanding, then she wonders quietly, "Did you put him down yourself?"

"If not for Alexander," Yet again... it seems like they owe Mister Clayton a lot. "I was pretty much useless after I'd gotten hit. I could barely think, nevermind try to move. My entire body was still reeling from the shock. I think.. he helped pick me up and got me back on my feet." Byron says in this recount of the story, but in his own need to panic and run away, there's a lot that he wasn't aware of. See, Byron never wanted his friends to know how afraid he was of his father. It's something that he just feels like he can't bring up even now. Maybe one day, he'll be willing to tell that tale, but that day is not today.

"I did." Byron did put take his father down. "It was a warped monstrous version of him, with a too-wide grin and malleable faces. When he saw that I was fighting back, he actually began to laugh." The smile that he wears is very faint, but it's there. This was his brave face right now. "I knocked him through the kitchen table and then it was over." There really were a few details he'd left out, especially as he'd seen his friends in that particular dream. Warped versions of themselves. No, he'll lie about that, "You were there, Lily." There's another craning of his neck so that he can see her, "Cheering me on." That's how he would always play it out in his mind anyway, ever since he was young. She was always in his corner.

"Stop pulling your head up, you wanna look at me?" Lilith quietly makes admonishing after listening to all that and watching Byron's expressions, gauging the tone of his voice, measuring the weight in his eyes, her own distress mostly muted, but still there on his behalf. Because she was always cheering him on and when he hurts, she so very often hurts too. After grazing her hand up and down his ribcage in fanning, she shifts more to crawl herself in a draped lay over him, partially supported in prop with a hand on the cushion and a bent forearm at gentle pressure of rest against his chest.

It puts Lilith right in view so he can rest with his head back, not quite hover entirely, but close to in an uneven sense with her own face tipped up some to make up the small space of distance. Then she's quiet after that shift and just looking at him, the pull of his lips, her legs lacing in loop and twine around and through his while she's limp restive body atop him in lay.

After a time, she nods a little bit with her brows marginally drawn before they clear of visible concern, going for acceptance instead of worry, "Does... it help any little bit inside, knowing you did that?" She seems gently and genuinely curious, she knows holding things in makes deep down aggression, among other issues, so if it felt a little bit like jumping a hurdle to be forced to face it... she wants to know.

Byron gives her this'You caught me' look when she asks him if he wants to look at her. He'll settle back more comfortably with his head resting against the cushion proper again, watching as she shifts atop of him, her face now hovering so close to his. He'll help keep her in position if she's in need of the support by reaching both hands behind her to settle in at the curve of her rear. "Much better." He freely says, feeling the gentle weight of her figure pressing down against him.

His eyes seek hers out. They were always so vibrant and bright. As a teenager, he could sometimes be awkward being this close to her, even if over time it seems he grew used to it. Before she went away. As an adult, it seems as if he's grown into himself, brimming with confidence in that well-manufactured. He was comfortable with her now wasn't he? That smile may say so. When he's forced to think back on that moment when he killed the monstrous copy of his father, the smile is drawn back slightly, yet he doesn't frown. "It's like I told Alexander, I felt free once it was over. But that's how I felt when..." He licks at his lips here, which are feeling dry, "When my real father died. I think it helped. It should be therapeutic, it was just a really twisted version of my childhood. Clayton said that it's what they do in the shadows. Try to push us to the breaking point. Hit us where it hurts."

"Which is why, I wonder about your dream, Lil. What did it all mean? I remember those things happening, more or less. Some more than others." The last part where they were already teenagers.

"It... is common for me to have dreams like that, but they usually don't hurt me physically. They break me down and I don't ever complete them and huddle down until I can will myself awake. It's... taking good things from me and twisting them, sometimes. Sometimes it takes the bad things and embellishes them into something believable that sticks with me after I wake. Sometimes I spend those dreams hiding or screaming or... watching myself do terrible things. Sometimes I try to fight. And I think it shows up parallel to real memories because..." Lilith explains to Byron with a soft sigh of reply, though when he says it did give him some measure of accomplish to kill the dream version of his father, her hand on the couch shifts up to his face at one side with cupping hold at the jaw, palm in glide of slow stroke, the gesture somewhat proud.

Lilith thinks how to explain the next part. She's been having dreams a long, long while, it's what tore them apart to begin with, what drove her to do as she did, along with a fear and misunderstanding involved with becoming too powerful, too fast, too soon. There's consequences to shining so very bright. She knows if her dreams start manifesting vividly with the strength to snare others now, she's... very apt to die in one some day, struck down by shadows and her very own fears.

But after a long look into Byron's dark eyes, she murmurs, "I don't like mirrors, really. They twist things for me. I see what's actual and sometimes I see... shadows like halos or a thickness that wraps around everything. It's inverted, it's never how others actually see us, it feels fake to me, I can't... it's hard to explain. But I think that's part of why it twists and uses what is rooted in me, making it worse and too personal while twisted up." She pauses, "I thought I saw the glass in the hospital windows acting strange with my reflection from the corners of my eyes and... it's why I asked you to stay. I didn't realize it'd put you behind the glass too."

Then she pauses, voice quiet, "I think it's happening with the mirror again. But... I'm stressed and I'm... feeling other upsets inside, and it likes to feed on those and try to twist them into more, no dreaming required. So maybe that's all it is. I've spent... my whole life getting lashback, more or less because of the way I am."

He'll listen to Lilith speak and now with her face so near, Byron can observe her expression as well. Some of what she actually surprises him, something which he'll bring up, "I don't remember how some of my dreams ended. The ones where I was alone. I had a few as a child. I'd like to think that I could tell if they were a real dream or the types of dreams we get that's associated with this town, but I don't think that I could. What I've been told recently but two people in fact, Clayton," He's started calling Alexander by his last name again, "And Easton Marshall," That in order to get out of a dream, you need to see it through. It's why Marshall and I ran through that warzone to the endpoint. And... Clayton and I didn't have much of a choice but to continue on with the freak show viewing. I was told that we needed to get it over with," He swallows quietly here, adding on, "Which is why I went through with what they'd said. But have you succeeded escaping the dreams by hiding? Not that I'd find that to be the most optimal of options, as I'd rather just opt out of it all. But it's something to consider."

The gentle touch at his jaw elicits an automatic smile from him, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He might not fully understand her reasons, but he'll bask in that warmth that she exudes, especially when she's pleased by something. Byron really did enjoy seeing Lilith happy, that brilliant smile on her face.

With this talk of mirrors, Byron's interest is truly piqued. Maybe he'd heard her say something about it before. Maybe not. Still, whether he realizes it or not, and there's a sense that he does, he was always image conscious, even when he was a scruffy haired kid in plaid shirts over long sleeved tees. So mirrors, to him, was something akin to a much needed reassurance that all was right in the world and he had the face to prove it. It was all about the look, how he carried himself about. His very image. So hearing the frightening side of mirrors, what you'd expect from a horror movie, is something that he'd never experienced himself, but mirrors in dreams-- or anything in dreams, can be horrifying.

"What can we do about the mirrors? Cover them?" Smash them? But that's messy and potentially dangerous with the shards.

"When I try to hide, it's worse. I have to endure... hearing and seeing a lot while rooted into place. Eventually it gets so bad, I start to self-harm and I wake up, but those ones... hurt me more during the waking hours because of..." Lilith breathes out a soft sigh and hitches her shoulders up some at Byron's supposing, voice quiet, "I used to call them ghostcatchers, remember? The mirrors, when I was little. I don't remember why. I don't think there's anything to be done about mirrors and me, though. I still use them as needed, but... sometimes they're... consuming and make me see and think dangerous things. But reflections... are everywhere. It can happen in a water surface. And the dreams get worse when I start seeing too deeply in, I guess."

Lilith works her bottom lip between her teeth and turns up a small, shit-happens kind of smile at Byron to brush it off, concluding, "I just live that way. I have for a long time. Nothing can be done about... being the light that shadow moths are drawn to. So I pay the prices instead." The woman drops her lashes and goes pretty still and quiet before she drags her hand down with the other to move down his sides, fingers fanning out over the ribs to feel them solid. Then she leans her nose against his bearded chin, letting it rest.

"Doesn't matter. You're whole. I'll pay whatever horrible tolls I need to pay if I can keep you that way. I'm already set and due, might as well make something beautiful in the meantime."

It's difficult hearing her talk about self-harm and the ways in which her experiences have driven her to the extremes sometimes. This just continues to remind Byron how his experience with the darkness, his own abilities and these dreams differ from hers. Despite the dreams, though he's sure most of them were just your normal nightmares, all of his darkness had to do with his father. Or sometimes his own childhood insecurities. But he was strong enough to pull through. That's the face he had shown the world, this bright confidence. And yet, he was just as broken and fractured as everyone else inside. Something that he's been hiding for so long.

As she continues to talk, he traces a gentle hand along her spine, stopping at her lower back before starting over again from the top. "I wish I knew how to help you Lilith." In this day and age, he knows that there's medication to help calm nerves, but he's never been one to take any of that himself- despite dating a psychiatrist. "Back then when you were hurting." There's this serious look within his eyes, "You knew during that dance? The one in the alleyway." She was just as good as hiding it as he was, but she couldn't keep it up for as long. His gaze lowering, he lets out a heavy breath through his nostrils, "There's noting that we can do to fix our pasts, but I'm hoping that there's still something that can be done right now. We're all learning more about ourselves. Our abilities. Hell, about the Veil and possibly what Gray Harbor was and still is." Those dark eyes lift to stare into hers. "So don't say that. There's always something that we can do. We just need to know what it is."

There's this almost sorrowful smile at what she says last, his head leaning forward to press his forehead against hers, it's a gesture that she knows so well now, "Right now, we're all paying a toll for something."

"I didn't know much, except... that shadows were getting strange and I felt angry and wanted to hurt so much more. And the dreams were scary but not yet... you. When I was around you, it all... abated. It made you more precious than you already were, which... I guess with hormones and affection and..." They were so close there at the end, before Lilith and Byron weren't the pair they always were anymore, just a couple months after that dance and hands and kissing in the alley way. And if he can really remember that moment, he might remember the desperation she was grabbing onto him with, the daring instead of softness. Hormones or trying to bury the creeping fears in him, even then?

Then she clarifies with a soft kiss at the tip of his nose, "I didn't plan to leave you. I panicked when the dream hit me three nights in a row. Then things broke and plants died and it was so real every time my eyes closed, sometimes even while not sleeping, I..." Lilith sighs softly and gives up explaining shifting her back with flex of spine under the soothing stroke of his hand. And as her forehead presses against his, she murmurs to his words, "Yes. We are. But this time... we have each other again while things are bad and out of our control. That's the biggest piece of reality in a place like this. It's how we got through before. We do it that way now. Now shhh."

Lilith's legs shift and for a moment she seems... tempted with that motion and them breathing in such close space to do something more, to somehow bind them together even more closely than they already physically are, laid body on top of body, breath for breath. But... she just shushes him there. Her arms wrap around his torso with holding while her weight is atop him and her cheek and head nestles into the side of his neck and shoulder. And she bids his exhaustion to take over with the cuddled stillness and hold. Eventually, her own catches up, all tinged with mild relief of feeling him okay and solid beneath her.

But for how much longer? There's always something, it seems. She holds on tighter.