2019-10-04 - Sometimes Helping Isn't About Solving The Problem

In the early afternoon hours, Alexander's phone will receive the familiar notification of Isabella's videoconferencing app, and once accepted, his eyes would be able to take in the familiar off-white walls of the Purgatory that is one of Addington Memorial's recovery rooms, though it is faint background at best. Unlike the other times when she's able to use her laptop computer for this, she is presently stuck with her smartphone device. At the very least, however, the telltale winking light of her bluetooth earpiece can be spotted against the tangled waves of her dark hair, keeping their ensuing conversation private.

She still looks pale and wan - he wouldn't be the only one who has lost weight under the throes of their ridiculous malady, but her eyes are bright and alert and by the disgruntled expression on her delicate features, it's apparent that she is already feeling the impatience that normally presses upon her whenever confined in bed rest. She has kept her promise, however - she is being good and staying in the hospital. Her face is close on the phone's viewfinder, cheek pressed into her pillow and lying on her front to prevent her from aggravating the staples that line down her back - that, too, is probably not helping her mood, when she's kept to a bed and in the same position. But whenever his face blips into her screen, there's a ready smile.

"Guess whose fever broke and can read again?" Those pieces of news are, at least, delivered with her familiar good cheer, though her face reflects her perpetual concern almost immediately. "How are you?"

Alexander is not being good. That's pretty clear by his setting; the sound of cars can be heard in the background when he answers the phone, and he's clearly on the Forest side of the town, but just as clearly in the town, having stopped to take a seat on a bench to answer the facetime. His smile is warm and ready, although there's worry and a tinge of strain around the rest of his face. "I'm really hoping the answer to that question is 'Isabella Reede', because if it's not, that's an odd conversational opener." He grins. "I'm fine." It's a bit rueful, and an intentional use of that word he hates to mean 'not fine, but coping'. "How are you feeling? When did the fever break? Any aftereffects from the reading issues?"

"That would be an odd conversation opener, but yes. Me. I mean, I generally prefer phone calls regardless, but you can't imagine the relief when I woke up today and realized that I could actually read the sign outside of my hospital room. No after effects so far, save perhaps the list of the dead burned into the back of my memory. Otherwise, I'm tired, and sore, but give me a couple of days and I'll be out of here, hopefully. It broke sometime during the night, while I was asleep."

She's clearly still recovering, because she doesn't seem to realize that he is out - though it sinks in slowly and she gives the smartphone a squint. "Alexander, are you taking a walk?" Her tone is careful here, Isabella's brows furrowing faintly. "I mean, I'd be the last person to begrudge anyone from alleviating the effects of cabin fever - you look worried."

"I'm delighted to hear it, and I know that you are, too." Alexander does actually look intensely relieved on Isabella's behalf; as much as he might have tried to keep her from dwelling on the idea that it might be forever, he's well aware of how little they know about the Veil, and how important being able to read and understand is for her, both occupationally and emotionally. So his grin is bright and clear of everything but joy for her when she confirms it.

Of course, the grin is also brief, as it always is. And he turns sheepish when she recognizes the change in his location. He clears his throat. "Yeah. I had to go see Easton. He got cut up pretty bad in a dream, and needed some stitching. I'm done, now. I'm heading back to the cabin. Haven't killed anyone yet," he adds, in a tone that could be joking, but really really isn't. "And...I'm a little worried, yeah." A pause. "A lot worried. If I'm honest. I don't know how much more people can stand of feeling like this, before they break in ways that can't just be fixed by removing the homicidal impulses. And I don't know how to help them."

She is also relieved, and the bright expression on his face - indicative, in the end, that he has been worrying - only intensifies the radiance of her own; enough to banish the ravages of their shared illness away, if not just for a few moments. The smile Isabella flashes him through the screen is one that is both palpable in its (terrifying, ferocious) affection and reflective of her own silent fears about her illiteracy's possible permanence. And she must be conscious of it on some level, because her face gradually sinks further into her pillow until only those green-and-gold eyes are visible, peering at him through the camera.

Word about Easton fills those visible irises with concern, however, and when she speaks again, it's with an audible frown, her words halfway muffled by her pillowcase. "Do you want to talk about it?" Her face shifts, gentling considerably as her index and middle fingers lift to absently trace the outline of the left side of his image with them. "How is he now, Easton?"

Alexander just stares at that smile for a moment, as long as she will let him before it sinks into the pillow. It's been a while since he's seen it; not that either of them have had much to smile about of late. When she asks that muffled question, he groans, and rubs at his face. "I don't know? I don't know what to talk about with it. It's outside my field of competence, unless I get to lock people in a room and just rewrite them the way I want them to be. And that's actually pretty illegal. For some reason." This time, he is joking.

Mostly.

"And Easton is...alive. He lost a lot of blood, but doesn't want to go to the hospital for the same reason I don't want to go there. I can't fault him for that. He's gonna stay with friends who aren't homicidal for a bit. And I gave Bennie the key to my place; she said she'd feed the animals, since Isolde's in the hospital with this damned flu. And Itzhak, too, apparently." A shake of his head. "I just feel so..." he makes a sound of frustration, and abruptly stands up, starts walking, although keeping the phone where she can mostly see his face. "I'm trying to concentrate on other things. Things I might be able to actually do something about. A case has turned interesting."

"I know you're joking because you're the first person who's inferred to me that rewriting anyone would be by and large unacceptable," Isabella points, out, as always quick to reference their past conversations. "Or at the very least you." Groggy, recovering from a bad illness and flopped like a limp puppet on a hospital bed with the mess on her back - little more than a pile of stitched up meat, in the end - she manages to provide him with some evidence that her memories aren't just long, but encased in steel. Especially when it has something to do with him; the things he says, the way he says them, whatever insights his equally brilliant and intelligent mind has posited to her before. His long, appreciative stare is one that she rewards with a wink, her old mischief surfacing visibly, before she leans in to press her lips lightly on his face upon her screen.

Word that Isolde and Itzhak are in the hospital has her furrowing her brows. "Do you want me to check in on both of them while I'm here? I should be able to reclaim some mobility soon." There's a glance down, her frown tugging the corners of her pliant mouth downward - albeit she can't actually see her legs in her present position.

Sympathy crawls over her visage at his frustration. "It'll be over soon," she murmurs. "I know everyone's about ready to get back to their lives. August's about to go crazy, I had a conversation with him earlier about a few things." After a heartbeat or two of simply watching him, she speaks up, tentatively, "You're doing your best. I know you care about them, but sometimes helping isn't about solving the problem. I think everyone's cognizant of the fact that you're not having an easy time of this, either, so the fact that you're availing yourself to them in spite of that is probably more of a comfort than anyone knows, or deigns to express. You're doing what you can, my darling...in the end that's all anyone can really ask."

There is a faint nod of approval from her, her hair clouding wildly around her features as she does, though there's a more curious look to her now. "Which case?" she asks, her head shifting to rest on her other cheek.

"Do as I say, my dear, not as I do," Alexander says, a bit dryly. "But...your confidence in my ability to resist the urge is heartening. I'll do my best not to let you down." When she presses her lips against the screen, he's quick to dip his head and do likewise - which no doubt draws odd looks from whatever pedestrians might be sharing the road with him. But Alexander often draws odd looks, so he ignores them.

"Maybe. Isolde, yes. I think she'd be happy to see you." There's a longer pause. "I'm not sure about Itzhak. He was one of the exorcists, so there's no way he's not feeling this, and he has strong emotions anyway. I'll try to reach out to him this evening, see how he's doing." Then a worried frown. "Don't rush your recovery, though, Isabella. Back muscles are a bitch if they heal wrong, and I know your career relies on having a certain degree of mobility." Another deep breath. "How...is August? Handling things? I know it sounds stupid of me to ask that, considering, but I don't really know how to open that conversation with him. I'm already in his house. Because I can't be trusted. It feels wrong to pester him, as well. I've just been trying to help or stay out of the way. But he had a rough Dream last night. Pulled several of us in. Never felt anything quite like that before."

As for the case, he looks...uncertain. His voice drops, to be sure it doesn't carry, and he even raises a hand to block people being able to see his lips move. "Uh. Well. It's a couple of the 13th murders. Looks like it might be more complex than originally thought? I'm meeting with a couple of detectives to go over evidence and theories. Bright side? Might not have anything to do with the people you'd rather I not be on the wrong side of."

The return token has her grinning at him brightly, enough to show him the pearlescent hints of her teeth. "Another thing to hold a grudge on the bastard we're meant to put into the ground, I suppose. We're officially one of those pairs." Amusement dances with the devil in her eyes. "Whatever, though. I'll take something over nothing at all. It feels like an age since I've stood in the same room as you."

Her mind spins images in color of Isolde alone in the waiting limbo of Addington Memorial - vivid enough to return that small frown on her lips as she thinks about it. "Alright. I'll see what I can do to comfort Isolde. If I told her that this doesn't last long, it might make her feel better." Isabella shifts uncomfortably on her bed and slowly turns to her side. There's a quiet groan, her eyes shutting in an effort to smother the traces of pain that play over her features at the mild aggravation inflicted by just those subtle movements; she takes a quiet breath and releases it, lashes lifting once again. Her smile returns, albeit faintly - good things, at least, have come today and she's not about to let the staples on her back ruin her enjoyment and relief of them.

"August is....I reached out to him by text because I didn't want him to talk if he didn't have to." She nibbles on her bottom lip in thought, blood rushing to the surface in the doing and adding some temporary color to her complexion. "So I can't accurately gauge how he's doing, but he's told me that his fever broke today, also, and as soon as he's able, he's going to see Miss Lake to take care of her. Which means he has to leave you for a couple of days, but he has it in mind to call Hyacinth to see if she can stay with you in the interim. Other than that, I think he's dealing. He misses his girlfriend. But we talked about the possible Door in the hospital and the Lover's Jewel. Byron asked me for help retrieving it for Miss Jones and Mister Walters - apparently they're in the Collector's radar in a bad way? There might be a way to do it without risking exposure, but it requires some equipment I've got and...well. Me. I'd ask Easton but considering how rough he's had it and my general reluctance to expose even more people to it..."

There's a pause, and she furrows her brows at Alexander. "He didn't tell me about another Dream he had, though. Are you alright? Which others? What about it was unusual?"

She manages to table any additional questions - she closes her eyes and inhales slowly, and releases her breath deliberately. The look of her is apologetic after. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to run a thousand miles a minute, again. It's...being here is driving me crazy. Tell me about them? Which murders are you referencing, and what makes you think it's separate from Felix Monaghan's outfit? I mean....I am relieved, but so far, this still involves someone willing to kill others to get their way, so it's still dangerous."

Alexander smiles. "Yeah. If the universe is trying to prove the old adage of separation building affection, I really wish it wouldn't. I miss you." Simply that.

And a flicker of relief at the idea that Isabella will reach out to Isolde, which turns into a grimace. "Not Hyacinth Addington. I thought the point was to keep me out of murderous rages," he grumbles. There's a sigh. "I suppose she's mentally strong enough to put me down if it's needed, but being stuck in an unfamiliar environment with an Addington who always looks at me like she wonders if I bathe is not soothing. I'll be fine alone." The rest has a flicker of interest. "Well, it's probably not good to have that thing in the bottom of the pond, so I can't object. Just - and I know you intend to - be careful." Then a longer pause. "Uh. Just. Did you confirm with Miss Jones and Mister Walters that this is actually a thing? I'm not saying Thorne would lie--no, actually. I am saying that Thorne would lie his ass off about it if he somehow caught ring fever again and wanted to get his hands on it. And with this flu and other things, who knows if that might have happened."

"We're fine. It was me, Itzhak, and the Captain. It was...we became healers. For a bit. It was very strange," he says, with a shudder. "Beautiful, in a way, but strange. And don't apologize for that - just do get rest. But I'd rather not discuss details on a public phone call," he adds, with a grimace. "I'll tell you all about it once I know more and we can be in the same room without risk."

There's a look over her shoulder, and he'd see her flash a narrow-eyed look at a nurse who is lingering in the periphery of her bed - and one who quickly shuffles away and out the door once Isabella sees her looking. It's only when she's certain that any rubberneckers have left that she murmurs, and with a tightness to her voice in a determined and marked effort to grind the longing out of it, "I miss you, also." Said softly, and in spite of how she tries to put some steel in those words, his absence is an open wound that isn't so easily soothed.

His groan about Hyacinth Addington has her smiling ruefully. "She's capable, and she's calm. And she's not so bad - did I tell you she sent me some soup once she found out I was sick? When I checked on her a few days ago, and from one of the fancier restaurants in town." Which isn't saying much; tablecloth dining in Gray Harbor is a relatively small scene. Her hand lifts so she could prop her chin on one hand, elbow braced into her cushions, and she finally gives up on holding onto her phone. She braces it against the railing against her bed so she could look at him without having to shift constantly.

"I don't think Ronnie would lie to me about that," she says in the end, regarding the Ring. "He seemed very serious over the phone when he and I talked about it, and he's genuinely worried about Miss Jones. She was another good friend of his back in high school, and she has a small child. But that does remind me to give them a call and see what I can do to schedule this fishing expedition. I'll keep you posted on it. I just..." She scrubs her face with one hand. "Hopefully it works. Theory and practical application are two very different concepts, as you know very well."

She listens attentively, always - concern filters over her expression at his shudder. "You three were turned into healers?" she wonders. "How...wow. What was that even like?" Curiosity mingles with apprehension, however, brows drawn down. "I haven't forgotten what you told me before about the rules changing. You think this might be one of those times? There was something strange about the Dream I had with August, also, though it's...not as overt as what you experienced with him. I don't know what it is, it's just something. You think August might need looking after, at least for a few weeks after this? He's the common denominator in both Dreams."

And that inquisitive look assuredly intensifies at the last. "Alright. But please promise me that you'll be careful, though..." Here, he'd find open and unfettered pride. "I'm glad to hear official detectives are actually consulting with you and that they know to approach you. I just wish they'd actually pay you for the service you provide." The last is a quiet grumble.

"Speaking of official, I meant to tell you, but I met someone a few days before I got sick. Do you know Clarissa Robbins?"

Alexander sighs. "Yes, I'm sure she's very kind to you," he says, with a slight emphasis on the pronoun. "And I imagine she's nice in general. But I don't particularly have any desire to be shut up in a small, unfamiliar space with her."

The exasperation turns to a flicker of real irritation as she goes on about Byron. "You realize that he lied before, when affected by the ring. You can't just--" Then he bites off what he was going to say, and lowers the phone. There's some lovely upside down views of a winding, autumn-bright street somewhere just outside of town for a while as Alexander takes several deep, careful breaths.

When he raises the phone again, his expression is - if not serene - at least not twisted by hate and rage. "Please do keep me posted. I have confidence in you, Isabella." But he moves on from the subject with determination, after that. "Maybe. It's hard to really say. I'm still not accustomed to group Dreams, or wandering into lost spaces that clearly belong to someone else's...trauma and issues. I hesitate to speculate. But Miss Lake has a great deal of information. I'll try to encourage him to talk with her, seriously, about these dreams. See if she can help." He starts walking again.

"Getting paid would be nice," Alexander admits, trying not to think about the five-figure quantity of drugs currently stashed behind August's futon, and how it's more than he typically brings home in a year. "But I'll make do, either way. It's nice of you to worry. And yes, Councilwoman Robbins. She may have murdered her husband." Of course that's what he remembers.

"Well, talk to August about it," Isabella urges delicately, though with no small measure of resignation. "I'd rather you not be alone in a cabin, when you're being pulled into Dreams and your abilities aren't at a hundred percent. I know he intends to check in on you when you return, anyway. Might be a good time to think about contingencies. That isn't to say that I doubt your ability to survive in a well-stocked homestead for a few days, but I'd rather not chance it. Like you said - the point of this entire enterprise is to live on and keep living after this, yes? Make sure that there's a life to return to once William Gohl is in the ground?" Her smile lifts somewhat higher on her lips. "I'm only trying to follow sound advice."

Her expression grows flat when she espies that flash of annoyance on his features, lips parting to say something but is unable to do so when he lowers the phone. There's a glance away, tapping into the seemingly inexhaustible wellsprings of will and mental fortitude within herself, though the urge to defend the rationality of her earlier remark sets her blood on fire. It is nearly impossible to resist, but she manages to hold it at bay - not just out of the fact that she is in a hospital, but also because Alexander is out in public, and on his way back to the cabin. To set him off by being argumentative runs the real risk of it being a disastrous enterprise.

"I don't know much about Miss Lake, other than the fact that the only decent coffeehouse in this town belongs to her. She's a researcher also, or an investigator like you are? August put it like...." She searches her long memories for the encounter. "That she was 'self-employed' in that regard, much like yourself."

She looks up at the screen again. "I heard rumors," she begins slowly. "Clearly unsubstantiated, otherwise she wouldn't be walking free. What do you think?" After a pause, and a quiet, thoughtful sound, she continues, "I met her on the beach, along with Andy Geroux, who I think is currently living with Erin as a member of the PD's protective detail over the Addingtons. The Chairwoman of the Historical Society...I asked for the materials I would need in order to pursue a membership. She mentioned they were always looking for individuals with ties to Gray Harbor's oldest families and..." Her voice turns relatively dry in the next. "I think I qualify, from both paternal and maternal lines. Though I think that would require some sacrifice on my part, rooting through the attic of my father's family's house to see if there are any journals and historical records I could donate. I have to come back there eventually, anyway." Her expression shifts, and she looks away in an attempt to hide it. "I'm not about to leave my father with the responsibility of putting away my mother's things."

"I will, Isabella. And I know you're only concerned, and he's only concerned." Alexander says it a little like a mantra, reminding himself not to feel snappish about it. Something almost like a smile flickers to life, but it's faint and as brief as a heartbeat. "Flatterer," he accuses, gently.

"Miss Lake is a researcher, of sorts. She's more of a generalist in the area of Gray Harbor's various...oddities, than I am. My focus was always rather narrow. Hers, more expansive. She's a good resource, I've found. And pleasant company, besides." He falls silent then, again. Thinking about the final question for a while. "Uncertain. It's a suspicious set of circumstances, but there's some hostility towards her because she's not a townie, and there's no solid evidence she had anything to do with his death. As we both know, in this town, people die for all sorts of reasons. But I wouldn't necessarily feel comfortable ruling it out, either. I did some investigation," read: stalking, "at the time, but was never able to have my questions answered to my satisfaction."

Her attempt to hide the shift in her expression is unsuccessful, even through the small screen. Alexander blinks a couple of times. His voice is soft. "Of course not. Let me know if I can help. We'll make a day or two of it, and sometimes it can help to have someone around, to talk about the memories with."

Flatterer, he names her, and she's decidedly unapologetic about it, judging by the lift of that defiant chin. It's followed by a winsome smile.

His words regarding Eleanor has her smiling faintly, willing to leave the topic about her worries behind. "I really ought to try and get to know her better, she tells him. "She seems shy but otherwise, nice."

Admittedly, she hasn't really looked into Clarissa's background, but ultimately, what the investigator says about her captures her interest; a thoughtful look crosses Isabella's features as she turns over what the man says in her mind. "I wonder how she managed to be elected as a councilwoman if there are hostilities towards her, adding onto the dark pall cast by her husband's murder." Her face grows more thoughtful there - whatever is germinating in the back of her mind is set aside for now, however, focusing her eyes back into his dark ones through the screen.

It must be his tone - a softer lilt to his usually low and rough baritone - or what she finds on his haggard, but handsome face when he says the words. Lashes lower, but her gaze doesn't turn away from his own. "I've had to go back there once already, after thinking about it and speaking to Minerva and Easton, to retrieve a fitting sacrifice. It'll still hurt parting with it, but...it won't be what you fear. I didn't stay long, though. That house is full of..." Her voice trails off, before she sighs. "...if you would like to. After we have that talk? Admittedly this..." And here, she laughs, suddenly and somewhat breathlessly. "...this isn't exactly the sort of circumstance I pictured, bringing a man home for the first time."

"You should," Alexander agrees, easily. "She is nice. Enthusiastic and intelligent, as well. Competent." Which is, as always, one of Alexander's higher compliments.

His laugh is mildly cynical at Clarissa. "I understand she's relatively wealthy, for Gray Harbor," is all he says to that. "...which isn't to say she might not be capable. I haven't heard any major complaints; no more than any other small town politician might receive. And she's shown an interest in supporting the town, which people always like to hear." He runs his free hand through his hair, and offers a smile to her. "I'm glad, Isabella. That you found something else. I know what it means to you. And of course. I wouldn't have offered, otherwise." Although the idea of the upcoming talk, and possibility - in his mind, at least - that there might not be an 'after', casts a long shadow over his features.

He tries to smile, but it's weak. Instead, he says, "So we continue to surprise each other. That's not a bad thing, hmm?" Then takes a breath. "I should let you go. I've got a bit of walking to do, and the battery is a bit low. But it was good to see your face, and I'm happier than I can say about your regaining your reading. Rest, recover, and we'll talk soon."

So we continue to surprise each other.

Searching his face, taking it in - how his near-black eyes look, the concern there, the uncertainty of his smile - she flashes him her own confident one, all of that youthful and occasionally misplaced bravado brought to bear. "We do," Isabella says. "And that's always a good thing, from my perspective. I don't think too many people appreciate the idea that Boredom is just as effective in killing a connection between two people as anything else."

She leans in again, to drop another light kiss on top of his image. "Don't look so worried," she chides, keeping her voice light. "I'm not going anywhere. Be safe, Alexander. And you rest. I'm not the one going around town stitching other people up." That impish look returns. "It's fine, though. You're lucky that you're cute, and I still really like you."

"Well, I think if we can say one true thing about this relationship," Alexander says, with a brighter smile, "it is that it has never been boring. In the slightest." He reaches out with his fingertips to gently touch the screen at her kiss. "I'll do my best. To be cute, at the least." He winks.

"Stay safe, Isabella. I'll talk to you later, okay?" And then he hangs up, checking his phone level before tucking it back into his pocket and starting the hike into the woods.