2019-09-24 - No Great Options

Isolde was anxious. Alexander coming in covered in soot and water was one thing - but him making her lock her in the murder room was what got her anxiety rising! She didn't want to just 'call the cops' because if any cop saw the hobby room they totally wouldn't understand. And she didn't feel comfortable just asking a civilian with a weapon to come over when she had no idea what was going on. So - this was the result. Her getting Captain de la Vega's number from Alexander through the door so she could have him come over.

There had been a bit of grimacing when the Captain said he remembered her. Yeah, she remembered him too and really had been hoping just never to have to cross paths with him again! But, such was life. She made sure that Blue Bell was back in Alexander's room and that Luigi was settled near his cage as she waited for the Captain.

When he would arrive, she would usher him in quickly. "Thank you for coming." A far cry from the strung out, wild-eyed woman he'd met all those months ago. She looked mostly normal! Aside from the worrying.

The murder room is silent. Alexander is in there, definitely, but he hasn't really said anything. Paced, then sat down in a corner and stared at things for a while. He's in workout clothes, but soaked in water with streaks of soot on his clothes and hands.

His car pulls up outside, about half an hour after she'd contacted him. It probably feels like an eternity, with things being what they are at the moment. But given that it's his cruiser he climbs out of, and the fact that he's still dressed in half a suit (shirt, pants, tie), it's probable that the man either needed to cut short a duty shift, or is taking an unsanctioned break. He checks his watch as he rolls up to the door, and meets Isolde's eyes briefly when she lets him in. He barely recognises her, that pause suggests.

Then, "De nada. Are you all right?" His dark eyes swoop over the redhead slowly, as if trying to assess her for obvious injuries. A quick scan of the living room is next, and his radio chirps before being silenced, and unhooked from his ear. This is definitely something he wants to keep off the airwaves.

Ruiz, on the other hands, looks exactly the same to Isolde! She glances towards Luigi briefly when the radio goes off as she closed the door and then focuses back on to the Captain. "I am okay." She assured him, walking towards the hobby room and pulling the key from her pocket. "He won't tell me anything. Hopefully he will tell you things." She sighed. Then her voice raised a hair, to speak to Alexander. "Alexander, the Captain is here. I am going to open the door now, okay?" As she started to insert the key.

"That's fine," Alexander says from inside the room. He stands up, slowly, and presses his back into the corner. The murder room is...still the murder room, really. It's got a few more marks - a more complete Baxter family tree on one wall, notes about the recent murders on another, Alexander's own link to Gohl in particularly dark ink. His blankets and pillows are put into a corner, and his hands are raised and empty, palms showing to Ruiz when the door opens. He looks...sick, honestly. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are a little glassy. On top of everything else.

It's only after he's satisfied that Isolde is unhurt, and there are no immediate dangers evident in either the living room or adjacent hallway or kitchen, that Ruiz reaches for his firearm and approaches the door to the office. It's unholstered in a smooth, practiced motion; click of the safety coming off, left hand bracing the right. It's hoisted up, roughly level with Alexander's nose as he comes face to face with the other man.

"Hands on your head." Like that's going to help him, if the guy decides to bust out the electricity. Ruiz's eyes scan the room briefly, noting the new marks on the wall, the pile of blankets and pillows. Then rest finally on the younger man's face with its flushed, glassy-eyed look. Assuming Alexander complies, he moves in to frisk him for a weapon, not particularly expecting to find one. This, of course, means touching. Poor Alexander. At least he's not being gratuitous about it.

Isolde moves to give Ruiz room, nervously fidgeting with her frog charm bracelet when he brought out the gun. She turns her gaze towards Alexander. Worry still there. "What happened Alexander?" Staying right where she was in the doorway, at least knowing better than to try and potentially get in the way of anything.

Alexander cringes as the gun is pointed towards him. There's no anger in him, not at the moment. Just shame and fear. He puts his hands slowly on his head, moving like someone who has, indeed, been under this kind of scrutiny before, and is not eager to be shot. His body is radiating a bit of heat; the fever is there, although not too bad, yet. Must be whatever bug is going around. He does not have a weapon of any kind, unless you count his cell phone. His eyes flick to Isolde. "I tried to kill someone, Isolde." It's blunt. "You...need to stay away from me. Right now. It'll be okay."

The moment he's satisfied there's no weapon on the other man, Ruiz shoves his gun back into his rig, and scrapes his fingers through his hair with an agitated sound. His own eyes are looking a little red-rimmed, and he seems a touch more lethargic than usual. "All right. You." He shoots Isolde a hard, direct look to accompany his whipcrack of a growl. "Out." Back to Alexander. "And you. What the fuck is going on?"

Isolde's brow furrowed. "But you-" She started and then stopped. She knew Alexander wouldn't try to kill someone just because. There had to be more! And she was really really tired of being kept in the dark. There's a mild flash in her eyes when Ruiz tells her to get out. Like she doesn't give a damn how scary he's trying to be, Alexander is HER friend and she has every right to know what's going on! Instead, she emits a barely audible noise and scowls at the both of them. She has half a mind to lock them both in the room! Except, if Alexander really is being influenced by something or has decided to become murderous - she does not want to be responsible for either of them dying. "Don't die. Don't kill each other." She finally says before turning on her heels and walking into the living room. The hobby room door stays open. If they want to close it - that's their choice.

"I don't know," Alexander tells Ruiz, his eyes wide and haunted. "I...I lost control. I get. I get angry, sometimes..." which Ruiz already knows. "I went to work out. At Kelly's Gym. And he starts barking at me about getting the cops on his ass, when I didn't, because I don't have to, and then..." his expression goes blank. "I just thought that the world would be a better place without him in it. And that I could do that. I could make it look like an electrical short. I could make him feel, feel what other people felt. And I couldn't...I couldn't think of a reason why I shouldn't kill him. So I tried." A pause. "And set his gym on fire. But that part was an accident." He slumps back against the wall, hands still locked behind his head. "I've finally lost my fucking mind, completely, Javier. It took thirty years, I guess, but it finally happened." He looks past Ruiz to watch Isolde go.

Ruiz's hackles come down, slightly, once Isolde's out of the room. Not because he's actually angry at her, but because the anger - as it often does with the man - covers up for something else. In this case, worry. He was concerned for her, but a little of it edges away once she backs off. His hands push into his pants pockets, the muscle through his forearms and biceps and shoulders tense. What he'll do if Alexander tries to attack him, begins playing out in his mind while the other man is talking.

"All right." It's ragged sounding. This is definitely not all right. He watches the other man and seems to consider something for a long moment, in silence. Then, "You've got a couple of options, Clayton. Do you want to hear them?" A beat. "You can drop your hands."

"Yes. Although I think I already know what they are." Alexander's hands drop, slowly, to dangle useless at his sides. He looks resigned. And tired. Like on some level, he'd been expecting to end up in this situation for a very long time. "I have to...be alive, for the funeral. To help make sure it works. But after that?" A shrug. "It's not required. Or I guess there's the Asylum, if we can figure out how to send me over there. It's the only place I'm reasonably sure can hold me, long term. I can talk to Dr. Stevenson. She used to work there. If anyone knows how to commit me there, it would be her." A pause. "I can ask Dr. Glass to dispense enough sedatives to keep me insensible until the funeral. I'd prefer if someone like you administered them, though. I don't...I can't guarantee I won't try to protect myself." His eyes go to the open door. "I don't know if Isolde can handle the rent alone. I'll ask her. I've got some cash savings I can give her, and I think she'd be willing to make sure the animals get a good home." Someone's already been thinking of ways to wrap his life up with a tidy bow, stick 'do not open' on it, and put it away in a crazyhouse.

The cop doesn't interrupt as Alexander does his little brain dump. It's clear he's thought this through pretty thoroughly, and has probably been planning some of this stuff for a little while now. Something about it all, perhaps his mention of the Asylum. Or perhaps the suggestion, an unspoken undercurrent to the entire diatribe, that they'd all just be better off without him.. "You don't think much of your friends, do you, Alexander." His tone, for once, isn't agitated. It's a little sad.

"I was going to say that you can voluntarily commit yourself under a psychiatric hold. You could turn yourself in to me here and now, and I bring you in to the precinct for questioning. You probably won't be charged, but you'd be safe until the funeral." When he says he'd be safe, he really probably means everyone else. "You could do nothing. I walk away, and I watch you like a hawk. And if you blink wrong, I will have you in custody whether you like it or not." He drifts another step closer, maintaining eye contact if Alexander allows it.

"I...what?" Alexander blinks at Ruiz. "I'm not. Saying anything about my friends. I can't...I don't want to hurt any of them. Fuck, I don't even want to," he stops, grimaces. "No, I do want to hurt Kelly. I do. But not kill him. At least, I thought I didn't. It wasn't just him, though. The firemen were late. Because it's Elm Street, and most of the city doesn't give a damn about Elm Street. And I just, I thought with perfect clarity that I could just wait until they arrive and then fry them until their eyes popped like overfilled balloons." His expression goes odd and dreamy for a moment, before he shudders and rubs at his face with both hands. "I don't want to do that. I don't."

He grimaces. "I thought about...checking myself in at the hospital. But it's not a good idea. I get anxious. Angry. At the hospital. And there's all the electronics keeping people alive. Too easy to shut them off." He stares at Javier bleakly. "Can you imagine what I could do with people trapped in cells? I can."

This is probably not the time to admit that Alexander's not been the only one with sadistic flashes of insight. This is definitely not the time, and maybe Alexander can pick up on something not being quite right, or maybe he can't. But the fact that there's no so much as a flinch in the cop's expression, when he talks about popping eyes like overfilled balloons? Not right.

"The other option." The one he left until last; until after Alexander basically admits he's a mass murderer waiting to happen. "Is to have someone who can help you keep your.." What the fuck to call it. "Abilities under control. Stay here with you." He means a babysitter. Or house arrest, depending on which way you want to look at it. "And no, I obviously can't in good faith put you in a situation where you'll be able to hurt more people."

Alexander stares at Ruiz. He sighs, a little, and his shoulders drop. Most people might be alarmed by their friend being apparently totally okay with talking like that; but Alexander just seems relieved. He even offers a little smile about the last option. "I don't know who. And I don't want to bother anyone." He takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out slowly, his eyes going to his many, many obsessive markings on their papers on the walls. Oh hey, someone gave him crime scene photos of the hotel murders, and focuses on that. "I'm supposed to talk to Elise Krueger tomorrow. Maybe if I can work. Keep my mind off...things." He means killing people. "Maybe that'll help?"

A grimace, then. "I'm sorry. About all of this. I don't even know how I'm going to apologize to Kelly, either, although I'm pretty sure he's just going to break various parts of my body. Which I'll deserve." He shies away from thinking about it, though, and gives the man a look. "I heard you got injured. When Gohl was being...uh, boxed up in Itzhak's violin case?"

Ruiz stares back, a flicker of something in his eyes that's difficult to discern, and then his gaze is relinquished with a sharp sniff, and the sleeve of his shirt rubbed against his nose. He digs his phone out of his pants pocket, checks the time on his watch, and brings up his contacts list. "Roen's number. What is it?" He seems to have reached the abrasively worded demands stage of the evening. God knows what else he's had to deal with today, but this seems to be coming precariously close to being the last straw.

"I don't want you talking to my witnesses in your current state. I've got detectives on the case; let them do their jobs." He lifts his eyes at the question, watches the younger man in silence for a few seconds, then shakes his head. "I'm fine." It'd help if he actually looked fine. "His number."

A flash of guilt when Ruiz mentions the detectives assigned to the motel murders; Alexander looks down and to one side. It's either fatigue or guilt that means he gives August's number without argument, although his jaw works with a hint of stubbornness at the idea of not talking to his witnesses. It's amazing how even in his current state, Alexander clearly wants to protest that whole idea and declare that he's perfectly able to talk to the witnesses. The whole argument can be seen in his expression, his mouth opening to start it.

And then he just sort of slumps against the corner, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine never means fine," he contents himself with muttering, rebelliously. "It's a deliberately deceptive word."

The guilt, the fatigue, the irritation, or whatever the hell it is that's written across Alexander's face is thoroughly missed by the cop. He clears his nose with another sharp sniff, and enters the number that's given into his contacts list before firing off a text message. "Fine means I don't fucking want to talk about it because I have too many problems and not enough-" What. Not enough what? Not enough of himself to go around? He hisses his agitation and stalks for the door. "I'm going to grab a glass of water. You want anything? Oh, and don't bother trying anything. I might not be as powerful as you, but I think you'll find I'll hold my own against you just fucking fine." His dark eyes lock onto Alexander's, practically daring him to do the very opposite of what he's just asked.

Alexander opens his mouth. Then closes it again. He studies Ruiz very solemnly for a long moment, then shakes his head. "I'm not going to try anything, Javier. It was my idea to lock myself in here, yeah? I don't want to hurt anyone." He licks his lips. "A glass of water would be nice. Thank you. And some of the cold medication from the bathroom, if you don't mind. Please reassure Isolde for me."

With that, he sinks down the wall, tearing off a couple of sticky notes and reports along the way, to sit on the carpet, arms looped over his knees and his chin resting on top of his arms. "Can I help? With any of the problems?" he asks, quietly. "Or do I just need to try not to be another one?" A self-mocking, sad little half-smile at that.

"Se que tu no," murmurs the cop as he reaches the door. His shoulders sag a little, and with a heavy sigh, he makes his way out and toward the kitchen. Two glasses of water, the bathroom rifled about in for said cold medication; he pops one for himself as well and returns a couple of minutes later. Held out to Alexander, one of the glasses and a pill trapped between two inked fingers. "And yes. You're needed for the funeral, and the eulogy." He doesn't seem to have the energy to offer much more than that. His phone buzzes again, though he'll wait for Alexander to grab his drink before checking it.

While Ruiz is gone, Alexander's own phone makes a merry ringing noise, and Alexander answers it, low and hesitant. "Isabella?" Despite everything, his lips curl up in a smile as she speaks on the other side. "You sound sick. I'm coming down with it, too." He breaks off when Ruiz returns with the water and the pill, taking the pill first and popping it in his mouth, then the water. To Ruiz, he says, "Why don't you sit down for a moment, Javier? You look tired."

To Isabella, he says, "Sorry. I've been a little--" he sighs, frowns at the phone like he's trying to think of how to complete that sentence. "Under the weather. Are you okay?"

Could be anything, really, that pill. If Javier were a certain sort of person, he could have brought back a sedative rather than the cold medication that was asked for.

Spoiler alert: he's totally that sort of person. But it really is just cold medication.

"Drink up," he interjects into the middle of Alexander's conversation with his girlfriend. "We're heading to Roen's place." The suggestion that he sit down is thoroughly ignored; he shoves his phone into his pocket, downs the water as he walks, and sets the empty glass on the coffee table before heading for the door.

Alexander's expression shutters at the curt order. "I don't even know where August lives. I've never been there. This is my home." He does drink up, though, draining the water in a few gulps and rising to his feet. He turns the glass over once it's empty, and says into the phone with a dreamy sort of voice, "Holding their heads underwater and drowning them? That sounds like fun. I don't think it'll work here, though. I'd have to fill the bathtub. I'll just have to make do. I'll call you back when I'm finished." Which, really, probably is a bit of a giveaway as he hangs up the phone and starts stalking after Ruiz, his expression blank and movements predatory, the glass held as an improvised blunt weapon.

The cop doesn't really seem to register the conversation taking place, until Alexander gets to the part about I'd have to fill the tub. Something about that turn of phrase.. he mentally backtracks, and a prickle chases along his spine. Hackles up, claws out, like he's caught the scent of a rival. Not prey, but a thing every inch as vicious as himself. He turns slowly, a flicker of menace in his dark eyes as they latch on to Alexander's. He hasn't tugged the door open yet; he reaches for his gun and his heart thunders in his ears as he disengages the safety with a dull click.

Alexander stops dead when Ruiz does. He smiles, just a little, but it's not his usual sort of smile, bright and tentative. Instead, it's as thin and sharp as a knife blade. "Don't, Javier," he says, gently, as Ruiz starts to reach for his gun. "If you pull that, something unfortunate is going to happen. I mean, all that grief you carry. How much more would it take, I wonder. How much more until you realize who really needs that bullet. To make the pain stop." His smile widens, just a fraction. "Shall we find out? It could be an experiment. Like with the plums--"

His eyes flick sideways towards the couch as if reminded of the night of drinking, where poor Isolde probably still is. And his expression shifts. Color and guilt instantly floods back into his face, the shadows departing. He sways in place. "My god." He drops the glass and puts his hands up, immediately. "Captain, I'm sorry!"

Alexander is very, very lucky that Ruiz is not some trigger happy yeehaw itching to put a bullet in the first guy to look at him funny. His gaze jerks from the other man's face, to the weapon in his hand, and back again. Bleary-eyed and exhausted looking, he has to rub at his nose with the sleeve of his shirt even as he's got his gun up and trained on Alexander - for the second time this evening. A step back, to put him out of striking range, though he knows full well the man has plenty more at his disposal than a glass bottle.

Make the pain stop. His hand shifts, a sudden movement that inexplicably has him turning it on himself. Just for one horrifying moment, breath a ragged pant, and the thud of his heart that seems to drown out everything else. So tired. So, so tired.

And then the glass hits the floor, and that shout goes up from Alexander, and like waking from a trance, he pulls his gun away and thumbs the safety back on. His eyes are glassy and glazed-over when they find the younger man's next, and it seems to take him a minute to regain his bearings. He glances at Isolde huddled on the couch, and Alexander standing there with that look on his face, and then the door. And he swallows thickly, and tugs it open. "You can come with me willingly. Or I'll get you there by other means. But you're going."

Alexander keeps his hands up, for all the good it does him or anyone else. But perhaps the intention matters; that and the stricken expression. The one thing that doesn't seem to change whether he's murder-happy or not? Alexander Clayton is a lousy actor. "I'll go," he says, quietly, then coughs harshly a few times. "God, please. I'll go anywhere if it'll put me somewhere I can't...I won't..." he doesn't finish the sentence, just shakes his head and quietly tells Isolde where they're going, and asks her to look after the animals for a while until, well, until they figure out how to fix him. Then he slinks towards Ruiz, slowly, carefully, but stays out of reach to follow him out to the car. Or proceed him, if Ruiz prefers; whatever spark of stubborn rebellion he had, it's been neatly snuffed out by the horror of what he was about to do.

The door's tugged open, and Alexander gestured on ahead. The cop puts his earpiece back in for long enough to update the station on the fact that he's detaining a hostile and then signing off for the night. He'll even fetch the back door for the man, which puts him (for the second time) behind that lovely bulletproof cage he's so fond of.

The interior of the car is all utilitarian pieces of equipment bolted on to what's ostensibly a muscle car made for street racing; sensors and cameras and a switchboard of different siren frequencies. A laptop attached to the dashboard on a swivel, and a set of lights keeping a low profile just under the dash, portable in cases where he needs the car to be more visible.

Once Alexander's buckled in, off they go.

Alexander doesn't complain about the backseat, this time. Just slides into the back and buckles up with the air of someone who thinks there should probably be heavier restraints on him. He slides to one side, his eyes glazing over as he stares blankly at the back of Ruiz's head. He doesn't try to make small talk, for sure; he's silent, but for the occasional harsh coughs.