2019-09-25 - Armchair Therapists

Alexander has alternated bouts of sleeping (too exhausted to even have nightmares, at least so far), with trying to make himself useful. Not even illness can entirely still the man's nervous energy, and if there are things to clean, they get cleaned. Things to be fetched, they get fetched. And organized. Anything he uses gets put back precisely where it was taken from, and usually cleaned a little in the bargain. Other than this, though, he seems to be trying to stay out of August's way, skulking around the edges of wherever the man happens to be just long enough to see if there's anything he can do to help, then retreating - often out into the yards, where the autumn has started to turn chill, and the breeze provides some relief from his rising, miserable fever.

Right now, he's sitting cross-legged outside the goat pen, watching the animals with a look of fixed, glassy-eyed fascination. He's not even touching them with his mind, or trying to interact with them more than offering a few strands of grass from outside the pen. He just seems to enjoy staring at them. He's visited most of the animals - although the geese and he did NOT get on, and he retreated with speed from them to quiet the racket that made his headache even worse. The goats are better.

August hasn't gotten worse, which isn't saying much, but at least he's not running a fever. Yet. He's kept himself indoors most of the day, sticking to prepping easy-to-finish food for the foreseeable future, drinking tea and broth, and buttoning up the last draft of his book for the agent to send off to the publisher. Then will come the edits, then the approval of the edits, then the copy-editing. And so on.

He joins Alexander out at the pen with a fresh mug of tea, smiles to see him watching the goats. One calls to him in a greeting, and he smiles and brings her a clump of grass. "Heard the geese bitching you out earlier. Sorry about them, if the Chinese ones weren't such good egg layers I'd consider trading them out for something calmer." His voice is still rough and gravely, his skin still too pale. But he's mobile, thanks to time spent indoors where it's dry and warm.

Alexander tenses when August approaches, although only as long as it takes him to look around and confirm the man's identity. Then he smiles. "How you feeling?" His voice has gone raspy from the deep cough that's set in, but at least he still has it. A shake of his head. "They were just protecting their territory. Normally I wouldn't mind at all, but my head hurts." He manages not to whine that, but it's a near thing. "We just agreed to a ceasefire involving me not going anywhere around them." A glance back at the pen. "The goats are more friendly company, anyway. They're delightful. I think the ducks think I'm going to eat them."

August eyes Alexander, squinting. "Did you want anything for it? Your head? Or do you think its..." He doesn't bother specifying, since they discussed the 'infection' angle of Gohl last night. "I've got aspirin, tylenol, ibuprofen." He pauses, adds, "And Xanax, if that's at all helpful."

He turns his attention back tot he goats, smiles down at the one standing next to him and scritches her ears. "Yeah, some folks told me they'd be tough to handle, but honestly, it hasn't been that bad. I guess it helps, though, that I can," he taps a temple, "if they really get upset or wound up. Usually it's just the ladies, though." The geese, he means. "The ducks are shy. Took me a couple days to get them to not panic any time I came to feed them." A wry smile, then, "Don't take it personal. They'll warm up to you, I bet."

He leans a hip against the goat pen, mindful of his sweatpants coming under attack, sips from his tea. "Thanks for all the cleaning in there, by the way."

"Aspirin would be like the very nectar of the heavens, August," Alexander admits. He shakes his head a little at what August doesn't say. "I don't think so. That's..." he takes a breath, lets it out, "getting angry doesn't make me feel bad. When it happens. Feels pretty good. Like things make sense, for once." His smile is crooked and he doesn't look at August. "This is just the fever, I think. Everything hurts."

He nods, slowly. "Yeah. That does help a lot. Even if you don't command them, just being able to understand what's bothering them...you can forge a connection, right? Luigi and I took a while to get there, but being able to figure out what was scaring him so much helped." He watches August and the goats, a bit wistfully. He's kept his hands mostly clear of the animals.

At the thanks, he rolls his shoulders. "Don't mention it. I mean. Thank you for agreeing to house someone you barely know, particularly with my particular concerns, and not just locking me in a basement for the duration. Especially when you look like it hasn't been a fun few days for you, either." He peers blearily up at August. "Surprised you caught whatever this is so fast. I mean. I know you work in the city, but...you'd think you'd avoid a few vectors."

"Aspirin it is." August nods at the cabin, directing Alexander back in for the blessed healing pills. He gives the goat another rub of the head, pushes off the fence to amble back inside. "Yeah, I can't command them or anything--not sure I'd want to, though. That feels..." He pauses, makes a face. "I don't know, it's bad enough when I try to influence how a person feels. Telling someone, even an animal, what to do, I don't think I'd want to do that. Anyways," he half-shrugs, "like you say, just knowing what has them upset goes a long way to smoothing things out. And once you're there, you're there."

He sighs, huffs a soft laugh as he heads up the stairs to the door. "You're welcome, but, it's not like I hardly know you." He gives Alexander a sidelong look. "Maybe it's the whole military thing, though. You get thrown together with random people you've got no choice but to learn to rely on, it gets easier to do long term."

A grunt at his current state of health. "Well, I've not caught anything for months now. Guess my number was up. Someone sneezes on you when you don't realize it, and you're stuck in your house for three weeks."

Alexander clambers to his feet, and sways there for a second. No, no, inner ear does not like the sudden change in personal altitude, no it does not. It passes, after a moment, and he rubs tiredly at his face...then sidles over to attempt to sneak in the slightest of goat pets before following August inside. And washing his hands at the sink, first thing. "It doesn't hurt them," he says, quietly. "Not usually. And it can be useful. Animals aren't really like people, in their minds - they don't really question what they feel. Like," he pauses, trying to explain it, "if you push a person, unless you get the emotional mix just right, when it wears off, they know something's off. They question and worry at it, and it can cause them some significant distress if they weren't expecting it. Animals don't. They just kinda roll with it. Not a lot of deep self-reflection." He flashes a quick smile.

Once they're inside, and his hands have been scrubbed, Alexander sort of prowls around the area, not quite following August around, but not settling either. A lot like a cat who's gotten used to a new place enough to stop hiding under furniture, but not comfortable enough to feel at home. "We're not strangers, but...I mean. I probably wouldn't have guessed that we'd be good enough friends that you'd hear 'hey, he's trying to kill people, can he stay with you' and think 'yeah, sure, that sounds like a good time'." A shrug. "But I wasn't trying to say we weren't friends. Just. It's kind of an odd thing to agree to. I was just going to have Isolde lock me in my research room."

At the last, he does make a whining noise. "I'm hardly ever sick. Three weeks would kill me. No house is that interesting. Even this one."

The goat allows the petting, tries to sneak in a nip of Alexander's fingers fails. Intentionally or because it's not fast enough? Who can say.

August shuts the two doors behind them, closing off the encroaching Autumn chill. He scrubs his hands in the bathroom, gets down the aspirin bottle and offers it over, then goes into the kitchen to fetch Alexander a glass of water. His movements are stiff and hesitant. "Mmm, hadn't thought of it like that. I guess that does make it...less of a big deal." His tone gives the distinct impression he's still not going to ever try to do it.

Pulling down a glass and filling it from the pitcher in the fridge, he says, "Nothing about this place is normal. Plus..." He pushes the glass across the counter, takes up his tea and has a sip. He looks thoughtful for a time. "Maybe it's that I've been through the kinds of things that make that not seem like a dealbreaker. You know?" He's thinking of Lilith, and Itzhak, and before them everyone he knew in VA therapy, and before that, Bosnia.

Then he smirks. "You've really never had the flu? Christ I wish I'd been that lucky. Was on my ass for almost a month back in...I guess that was 2014. Thirty-nine years old and I wanted to die."

Alexander takes the aspirin like August is offering him a bottle-sized diamond. "Thank you, god. And August, of course." He's about to just dry-swallow four of the things before he notices August pushing that glass across the counter. He blinks at it. "...and thank you again." The pills are taken with water, and he drinks the rest of it in short order, before shaking the bottle gently in August's direction. "You look like your joints hurt. You should take some. Or, is there something I can do? I'm not the healer you or Miss Winslow are, but I can sometimes deaden pain, or reduce swelling."

He leans a bit on the counter, watching August. "I don't really know a lot about your past," he points out. "The broad strokes, and I can...fill in a few details with educated conjecture. But." A shrug. "And not since I was a kid. I dunno why. Just one of those lucky people, I guess. I can eat damned near anything, walk through all kinds of crap, get burned and cut and broken, but as long as I keep everything clean, I mostly come out of it okay."

"Please tell me you don't dry swallow your pills, that'll murder your esophagus and stomach." Spoken like a try long-term survivor of the medical system. August doesn't sound annoyed, though, as Itzhak would, just flabberghasted. Maybe amazed, even.

He shakes his head. "Already took some Aleve," he says, and sips from his tea. "I tried healing someone else, didn't budge. Which," his expression tightens, "make me wonder how...normal, this is. I've never tried pushing off an illness completely? But I can usually, like you say," he nods at Alexander, "reduce the symptoms." He shakes his head. "Not this time. So whatever it is, I can't use the Gift."

He snorts, shakes his head. "Damn, that sounds nice," he says, and grins. "Not so much with me. Of course, I've takena little more abuse than a lot people, maybe."

He studies Alexander a time when he says that, takes to staring at his countertop. It's a custom piece, concrete with a river of blue sea glass, little copper fish and plants here and there. "It's not a thing I talk about a lot because it's ugly," he finally admits. "When you go through really horrible shit, turns out a lot of people don't want to know about it as much as they think they do." He arches an eyebrow. "You know?"

Alexander's smile flickers into life. "I don't usually think about it that much. Although my mother makes that exact same face. How do you do that?" It's gently teasing, before he groans, softly, and puts his head into his hands, staring down at the counter. "That aspirin can start working any time, though." Like that's even a possibility.

"I didn't think about that. You've tried to get rid of it and it won't go? Not good." He gives a rusty little laugh that turns into a fit of coughing, hastily directed into his hands. When it's done, his face is an unpleasant shade as he lifts it up, then goes after disinfectant and something to wipe down the counter with. And wash his hands. "I guess...if people can bring things back from over there, now, I guess there could be the equivalent of a disease that could be brought back. I hope we didn't just break the fucking world, August."

He starts wiping down the countertop, smiling briefly at the design. "Do you make all this stuff yourself?" A glance up at the last. He nods, slowly. "I know. You can see their faces change. Like 'oh, this is more than I signed up for'." His voice is dry.

"It takes years of practice," August reveals, tone dry. He looks down at the counter, shakes his head. "No, there's a guy up the road here, retired contractor. His son runs the business now; I traded them clearing the area around his cabin, helping them sort the property for this." He runs a hand over it. "I figured, just because I'm out in the woods, doesn't mean I can't have a nice kitchen."

He frowns at the idea of bringing back not just things, but...things. "Oh, shit, I hadn't thought of that." He groans. "I doubt we've destroyed the world, but we definitely have to think of some kind of," he waves a hand, "decontamination procedure. Wonder if the City Hall folks have something for that."

He scratches at his beard. "Yeah, when it turns out your life is a little too real, well, they want to go back to when they just thought you'd had a bad fall or, got a DUI, something like that." He shrugs. "Think that's why I get on with most of you, though. We can sense each other, you know? People who've...been through shit. We know." He sips his tea, watching Alexander over the rim of the mug.

"Ah. The ancient and hallowed tradition of bartering. Yeah, I've done that a time or two. Although," his fingertips caress the countertop, "not for anything as lovely as this, I admit. This place is amazing."

A brief nod. "But it makes sense. Based on what you've said. If it's not responding to our abilities, then it's probably not...um," he grimaces, "I don't know if 'natural' is the precise word I'm looking for, since it couldn't be called artificial. And unnatural seems like a value judgement--" he breaks off into more harsh coughing, turning away until it's done. "Ugh. Digression. Not important. But. The theory holds. If big things can come back, why not small ones?"

He turns back to August, clearing his throat. "Maybe. I think...maybe it's more than that. I just," he turns his head towards the town, staring at it, "I think a whole lot of people have been through shit. But most of them, their method of dealing is to pretend it didn't happen, or that it's no big deal. And then some people get completely lost in it, and it consumes them, either from fighting against it, or just giving themselves over to it. Some people try to strike, I guess, a balance. Dealing with it, but not letting it be their whole damned life." He turns back, and shrugs. "And sometimes you go from one state to the other."

"Thank you," August says, holding up his mug in a toast and finishing it off. "Being in a similar kind of work puts me into contact with people. That's pretty much the heart and soul of all bartering: knowing a guy who knows a guy who can do something. When people don't have money to get something done they need, they'll trade their own work. Long as the trade's fair by them, no reason not to."

He makes a low, annoyed sound--not at the notion of 'unnatural' but that diseases which don't obey the laws of their world coming back to menace it, and them. The other topic, though, is what holds his attention. (He's resigned himself to suffering.)

"There's all of that too," he agrees. "Especially, I think, the pretending. And the going back and forth, well," he lifts a shoulder, turns to get the tea kettle going on the stove, "that's just life. You always have a scar, right? And some of those ache, or itch, or twinge. Just how it is. It's not something that goes away. You're always living with it." He settles against the counter while the water heats. "Like anything else in life."

Alexander nods, a bit wry. "I usually trade information or documents, rather than more physical things, but same principle holds. Little favors make the world go round, especially for those of us who don't always have a lot of liquid assets." He smiles at the annoyed sound, slumped against the counter in a way that's almost boneless. Like at any moment, he just might ooze into a feverish puddle on the floor.

"Yeah. Isabella once asked me if, um, I would want to give up any of my memories, or forget some of the things in my life. I said no. I," his expression flickers, "hate some of the things I remember. Quite a lot. In ways that get all the nightmares going. You know." It's not really a question. "But I don't know who, or what, I'd be without those things. Maybe someone better." A twist of his lips. "Almost certainly someone better. But the essential me would be gone. That's terrifying."

August runs a hand over his face, nods. "Yeah, Byron brought that up, when we were talking after the exorcism." A wry smile from him now. "Lilith wasn't a fan." He bobs his eyebrows. Then he nods, confirming that yes, he knows. Oh yes. "I don't know that it would necessarily make you a better person. Just another person. The betterness or not comes down to what that other person would do, now that that memory's no longer there." He studies the floor tiles under his feet. "Maybe the bad shit didn't make us better or worse. But it did make us us." He regards Alexander again, nods. "Ellie and I talked about it, once. If a powerful enough person could take away my scars, would I want them to?" He shakes his head. "I can't say I'd agree to that. I think the same principle applies, more so, to a memory. Even a bad one."

Alexander grimaces. "I adore Isabella, but that was not one of her better ideas," he admits, with a sigh. "I hope Thorne doesn't try to find someone willing to do it. Able to do it. And not just because Miss Winslow will have issues with it." His calf gives a twinge, thinking about how those issues might manifest. He adds, with a mutter, "Particularly not in our current circumstances, if what you suspect about," he reaches up to tap his temple, "is true. Isabella's been having anger issues too, though, and with random people. So there probably is something going on." And he's not going to even add his relief about that, because it feels odd to be relieved that other people are feeling murderous too, but it's written all across his face.

"That, I guess," he agrees, quietly, with the last. "And also - some things you don't deserve to forget. Other people have to live with them, and that's on you, so you should definitely have to carry them with you." He reaches up to rub at the side of his throat, where there's no scar at all. "I hear you, regarding the scars, though. We earned them. Memories and scars both. We should keep them." A pause. "Not that I wouldn't wish I could give people back things they'd lost, things they still want and need, if I could. If they really wanted them. It's not like I'd criticize Easton for taking his leg back if someone could give him that."

August mmmms, low and thoughtful, in sympathy. "She's probably just thinking of not being in pain. Which, you know, I won't give anyone flak for, I've been in my fair share. And...same. I wouldn't judge anyone wanting a limb back, or Ignacio wanting his leg fixed. It's a person's choice to make. I know mine, but that's just for me." He's quiet a bit, thinking about the other side of it--carrying the burden of mistakes. "That's fair too," he agrees. "Using something like that to get out of the pain of atonement means you're not really atoning."

The kettle whistles, and August pulls it off the burner, fetches some tea sachets from a glass canning jar. "Did you want any?" he asks, holding one up. "Chamomile. For the...everything."

"Yeah. It's the only thing I worry about, a little. With the healers." Alexander grimaces. "That's a lie. It's not the only thing. But it's the only well-intentioned thing I worry about with them. It feels good to fix things. To put people back on the path. To correct them." Something flickers behind his eyes, that dark and shadowed thing just briefly rising before he dispels it with a breath. "But sometimes that's it's own temptation. To decide you know what needs to be fixed, and do it without consulting with the target, or over their wishes. People think it's not a violation because it's just physical wounds but...it can be." He shrugs. "And sometimes you only learn that when you break someone in the course of trying to fix them. I would spare people that, if I could."

He jumps at the whistle of the kettle, going defensive by instinct. And instead of relaxing, he groans and puts the heel of his palm against his temple. "Although, not gonna lie, if someone wanted to just fix me right here and now, I'd say yes. Being sick sucks." But the offer is refused with a shake of his head, and a quiet, "I hate chamomile. Nothing against it, just the taste. Never liked it. Sorry."

August watches Alexander for a second at the jump, waiting--not tense, but certainly on the alert. Nothing happens, though, except for his dismissal of chamomile. August laughs. "I've got others. Some black spice chai, some cinnamon orange, peppermint..."

Those offerings made, he drops the sachet into his empty mug, pours the water over it. After a moment of thought, moves the mug so the smell won't reach Alexander. "That's just consent, really," he says. "And honestly, our lives would be easier if everyone understood that. From healing to hurting and anything in between, you should always ask. There's no reason not to." He thinks of the other day, in the Asylum Over There. "Except if they're just bleeding to death in your arms, I guess that's an exception. About the only one, though." He eyes Alexander, struggling with his headache, adds, "Well, and maybe this," he adds.

"Bleeding to death in your arms, and the flu are always exceptions. I think we should make that official," Alexander says, his voice rough but playful. "But, yes. That's my preference, anyway." We watches August move the mug out of his smelling range, and smiles a bit. "Sometimes I don't think you're real," he confesses. But then adds, "Cinnamon orange would be nice. If it's not a burden."

"I can't stand a lot of smells anymore," August confides. Like antiseptic. Rubbing alcohold. Concrete. "So. I know how that is, especially when you're already not feeling good." He gets down a second mug (a UW branded piece in purple and gold), drops in a sharp-smelling sachet and pours water over it. The cinnamon and organge smells pour off it almost immediately. August fetches the milk and honey, sets them on the counter.

"Exceptions, definitely." He's thinking of what happened to Ruiz. And where. (He shouldn't think about where.) "You heard from Ruiz? Since last night? He said he went to go find Erin, never heard if he succeeded."

"I appreciate it," Alexander says, "and the tea." He takes the mug when it's offered, letting it steep while he just breathes in the scented steam. "Even if I suspect it's maybe just because you don't want me throwing up in your kitchen." Despite the teasing tone, he's watching August with thoughtful curiosity.

Before he can think of how, or whether, to pursue whatever he's thinking about, though, August mentions Ruiz, and his hands tighten, the grip on the mug's handle going white. "No," he says, heavily. "I tried to reach him, this morning. With my mind. I couldn't. I asked Isabella to keep an eye on him, but she's as sick as I am. I'd leave and go find him...but I think it'd just make things worse. Even if I wasn't," he makes a sharp gesture towards himself, "fucked up, I think I'd just make him feel defensive and like he has to be strong and stoic and in control."

"Fringe benefit of being an acceptable host," August says with mock defensiveness and a sincere smile. He doctors his tea, takes a sip.

"Yeah, Ruiz's got that whole 'if I lose control of myself the world ends' thing going on, doesn't he." He says this like it's something he's familiar with on numerous levels, rubs at his eyes. "I thought about reaching out to him just to make sure he's, you know, out there, but I expect he'd ignore me anyways." He gets a thoughtful look. "I could ask Itzhak to go look for him, though." Eleanor was also an option except Ruiz was sick and Ellie might not, and August would prefer it stay that way.\

"Uh." Worry flickers to life on Alexander's flushed features. "I like Itzhak. I like Javier. But if I had to think of two people who might be having homicidal flashes that I wouldn't necessarily want to put in a high stress situation together, it'd be hard to find ones that would fit that bill better. Besides..." he takes a slow breath, lets it out. "If he's not," a long pause, "if he's killed himself, it'll be messy, and I'd rather Itzhak not find it. I'll keep trying to make contact. It's hard to tell if he's just...refusing it, or unconscious, or dead."

August frowns at Alexander, the consternated look of a man who has not, in fact, thought something all the way through and is only now realizing it as it's explained to him in careful detail. "Okay," he says, with a nod, and drinks some tea. "You're right...that won't work." But the comment about Ruiz killing himself makes August choke on that same drink. He sputters. "What?" he asks, looking alarmed. "Ki--do I need to call someone? Easton?" Easton would be safe, right?

Alexander blinks, slowly, at August. "I told you. Last night. When I...got angry. He had a gun. I only know of one way to reliably deal with a gun as an empath, and that's to make the person turn it on themselves. It's one of the reasons I wish fewer people had the damned things." He rubs tiredly at his eyes. "So, that's what I was going to do. Except I didn't have to touch his mind. I just had to verbally suggest it, and he did it. It's why I was hoping he'd connect with us in the link. I needed to see how likely he was to repeat it, and if I needed to ask for your help to shut him down - but I needed you to see it, too, or you'd just think," he snorts, "not without cause, that I was trying to be sneaky." He heaves a sigh. "So. I'm worried. But if I'm wrong about his risk, it'll probably break our friendship. Especially if I send someone to try and bust down his door. Wherever the fuck he's living now."

August gets a paper towel, wipes off his chin. "I just thought you meant that, you know," he gestures, "like you said, suggested him. Not that..." Not that Ruiz, given half a reason to do it, had just started doing it.

August sighs heavily, sags against the counter. "Ah, okay. Right. Christ. No, you're right, best to get an outside opinion. But, so, you do think it was the...infection, from Gohl? Or Ruiz being sick? Not that he's an actual suicide risk." He asks this very carefully, as to him, the distinction is highly important. "Because if he is, Alexander, we need to talk him into talking to someone."

"I probably don't need to quote the statistics on cops and suicide at you, August." Alexander's voice is soft. "I think the illness and whatever we might have from Gohl are contributing factors - it just depends on whether we hate ourselves more than we hate everybody else which way that aggression is directed, I suspect - but...damn it, August. Even without anything I'd rather not share without his permission, think about what his fucking life has been since he showed up in this town. It's only been a few months, and he's been shot to pieces, dragged into other worlds, overworked, forced to cover for things that shouldn't even exist and to take the heat from people desperate for an answer to the murders, not to mention trying to protect every one of our dramatic, overpowered asses when we get ourselves in trouble. Which," he breathes out sharply, a hint of self-loathing coming to the surface, "I certainly have been more than a bit of a thorn in that wound. If he's not on the edge of some sort of breakdown, then he's got enough zen calm to make you look like," a pause, then a bitter grin, "me." A pause. "And Javier is many excellent things, but not a man of zen."

"No, it's," August holds up a hand, "I'm not asking you to tell me anything that'd be confidential between you two. That's not necessary." Another heavy sigh. He's looking more and more exhausted by the second. "Right. Okay. I didn't know, so..." He gives Alexander a sidelong look, then takes up his tea and has a drink, clears his throat. "I've got some experience, with being in a place like that." He makes a face. "Might be half of why he refused. It's easy, when you're feeling like he is, to not want anyone to help. For a lot of reasons." He coughs an equally bitter laugh. "No, a man of zen he is not. He was aghast at the idea of relaxing in a tub. Christ, he could use a lesson or two in being nice to himself once in a while."

He stares into his tea. "So. Then. What do we do? Aside from try not to die from...whatever the fuck this is."

"Sorry," Alexander says, picking up on that exhaustion. "I don't mean to worry you. Sometimes I just think about things, and then they fall out of my mouth if someone shows any interest in them or not," he admits. He doesn't seem particularly surprised to hear August has seen that psychological coastline before. He inclines his head. "Sometimes the pain feels...not good, never that. But deserved or inevitable on some level." But the last question makes him turn bleak, and his voice changes, a stark contrast from how calmly he's been discussing this so far. "How the fuck do I know, August?" It's heavy with frustration. "My psychological knowledge mostly comes from having people's feelings shoved in my faces and figuring out which ones are most likely to lead to violent crimes. My psychological intervention skills come from cults, and while if you give me a locked room and some time, I could probably have him believing he had a mission from God, I don't think it would fix the problem. I don't know what to do as a friend. I haven't had many. I just keep trying to remind him that if he wants to talk, I'm here - but then I just went and tried to get him to kill himself, so I don't expect that's going to happen anytime soon!" When Alexander gets agitated, his voice doesn't rise in volume; it quickens, each word hurled out into the world like bullets, like they can't get out of his brain fast enough for him.

August weathers Alexander's outpouring with placid equanimity. He's clearly trying not to exude a frustrating lack of concern, a sign he knows that's a thing that he can do. But he's also careful not to let any of it trigger an obvious reaction beyond patient sympathy and empathy in equal parts. "I get it, if you haven't had a lot of friends, and especially not ones going through...all of this. It's okay, if you don't know what to do. That's a valid answer. And it's not one I have a problem with. But you know him better than I do, so my only thought it so tell him to think about calling a suicide hotline. Which, given our lives," he lifts a shoulder, suggesting Alexander just feel free to imagine it, for a minute: Ruiz, calling a suicide hotline to talk about the Ghost of Sheriff Addington filling him full of bullets.

Still calm, he continues, "It might not. But I think, once we've got this sorted, he might surprise you. Because there's no way he's not doing some stupid shit of his own, right now."

Alexander stares at August. Just...for a long moment. "You realize you sound like a therapist." Luckily, perhaps, he sounds more amused than angry; apparently the right amount of empathy was projected. "I can't even imagine that, though. I feel like if I wanted to feel what it was like to have a phone number shoved down my throat, that'd be a good way to experience that." He groans, and then stands up. His tea is pretty much untouched, and cooling, but he goes and pours it out in the sink, then washes the cup and the glass of water from earlier.

There's a snort from him at the thought of what Ruiz is up to. "I'm trying not to worry too much. I am. And," as he puts the glasses to dry, "I think I'm going to go to sleep, now, because it's the only way I know to stop." Well, that and because the glassiness in Alexander's eyes is reaching critical mass - as the aspirin kicks in, it's clear that the headache and muscle aches were probably all that were keeping him upright. "Thanks, August. Again. I owe you big." Then he staggers off futonwards.

"Well, you try spending five years in therapy without coming out of it sounding like one." August can't help but laugh a little, though, at that, because Ruiz would in fact not care to be given a suicide hotline number. No he would not. Is August getting feverish? Ugh, he better not be.

"We both could use some," he says, nodding. "Gonna get myself some broth first. I'll leave it in the fridge if you get peckish later." And then he sets to making this meager dinner of broth and rice, because he's been down the flu road before.