2019-10-20 - At Last

13 Bayside Road has seemed abandoned all day. No lights nor movement visible through the wide bay windows that sit at the end of a meandering path up to the property, with the curtains of the two story craftsman only having twitched the once since the sun rose. Things change as the sun starts to set, though. Lights flick on in the ground floor, visible through the windows despite the drawn curtains, and the soft sound of music drifts down the meandering stone path that joins the property to the road. Violins, perhaps?

Oh, no. String quartet.

Alexander does not get the bonus points. He approaches via the road, and a very sedate sort of walk. His shoulders are hunched, his head down, looking furtively from side to side - the attitude coupled with the shabby sweater and worn jeans makes it clear that he's not the Bayside 'type', and the next patrolcar to drive by will almost certainly stop to remind him of that, assuming one of the nervous rich folk don't call the cops on him specifically. Which they might, because he stops outside 13, and just stares at it for a while, like he's casing the joint.

But, eventually, he starts walking to the door, lifting a hand to knock. Three short, sharp taps, a pause, and three more.

The instant the second batch of taps are completed, the door swings open to reveal Alistair Carver, one hand on the door, dressed in his most casual of lounging-around-the-house outfits. That is to say he's in slacks, shoes polished to a high sheen, and an almost pitch-black waistcoat that sits taut around a crisp white shirt. For a given level of 'crisp', anyway. Most of the clothing items are slightly ruffled, his hair looks like someone ruffled it on the way out and he never bothered to fix it, and his free arm has a slightly wriggling, bright green eyed cat tucked beneath it, the fur matching the color of his waistcoat almost perfectly. He's wearing his most serious face, eyebrows down, slight furrow lines across his forehead, and he has to draw his hand away from the door to run his palm along the cat's forehead to stop it from trying to eat his shirt cuff.

"I've been expecting you."

His most serious face lasts about three seconds, the man stepping away from the door to let Alexander in without question as his face break into a wide smile. "I've said that to four people this week. The pizza guy was seriously fucking confused. Come on in, mate."

Alexander's wary expression deepens as Carver opens the door. He sort of hunches in on himself as he takes in the other man's outfit with a long, sweeping gaze from top to bottom. There's a blink at the 'been expecting you' line, and instant suspicion at the wide smile. "Alistair Carver?" A pause. "I'm Alexander Clayton. What letter does your middle name start with?" Because that's relevant. Then, after a moment, "Should the pizza guy be confused at being expected? Did you order pizza?"

The invitation is hesitated over, and he peers at the cat, and then beyond the man into the house, before starting to sidle in. Like someone might try to jump him. "Have you sent someone to watch me?"

"Don't have one." Carver's reply comes quick on the heels of Alexander's first question, his fingers finding a spot behind the feline's ear that has those green eyes shuttering closed. If he's giving as good as he's getting on the appraisal of outfits, it really doens't show. Carver, tonight, seems a man of casual nature and action, with no real response to either the gaze of the instant suspicion. "Well-" His head tilts aside, casting a glance up to the ceiling as his shoulders heave up in an exceedingly overdone shrug as he drags out that single word. "I did, but it was my dad's name. Fuck 'im. Pleased to meet you, Alexander Clayton." He'd offer to shake, but... cat.

Once the man has sidled his way in, the door is knocked closed with a shoulder. Carver then makes his way across that hardwood floor towards the kitchen without a second's hesitation or afterthought at someone showing up at his home, asking to make sure he's got the right person, and eyeing both he and the house like there's an ambush in wait at any moment. Like it's all just another day. The cat is carefully placed down on a dining chair as he passes it, where from there it slinks down to the floor and behind a potted plant, curling around the orange clay and watching the two of them in a lazy fashion. In that kitchen, on the counter? There is absolutely a pizza box, with what looks like a half-eaten conglomeration of meats placed atop dough. It's less a pizza, more the end result of a butcher trying to branch out. Given that answers Alexander's second question, Carver goes for the third as he pulls open the refrigerator. "Not you in particular. Just anyone looking out for me." His hand comes out with a bottle, and he turns his head to the man. "Root beer? Soda? Leftover Pizza?"

"People should have at least three names. At least," Alexander murmurs, mostly under his breath. He trails Carver through the house, staring at the surroundings with the same fixed attention that he'd given the man's outfit. The cat, at least, gets a brief smile as it moves away, and he pulls his hand out of his pocket to wiggle his fingers at it before moving on. He starts to shake his head at the offers, but then says, "Water. Would be fine. If you don't mind." A pause before he asks, "How did you get something to watch for someone looking out for you? What is it?"

This is probably not why he's here, but now he's curious.

A bottle of water is pulled from the fridge. Cap still sealed and everything. Bayside Road might be the 'rich' part of town, but the tap water this close to the bay can be hit or miss on some days. "Oh, I've plenty of names. It can be..." His fingers snap though the air as he searches for the word, placing the bottle down on the breakfast island and taking up a comfortable lean against the now-closed refrigerator door to open his bottle of root beer. "Convenient."

And only then does he appraise his guest. The outfit. The attitude. The Attention paid. It's a slow sip he takes from the neck of his bottle.

"Interesting choice of word, Mister Clayton. Something. Have little birdies been whispering in your ear?"

Alexander takes the bottle offered, looking it over carefully before unsealing it. "Thank you." A pause as he takes a drink - the walk from Elm to Bayside isn't exactly short, so his sigh is genuinely pleased as he takes some of the cool water. But his lips curl downward. "Aliases," he guesses bluntly. "Those aren't real names. They--" he stops, mouth closing with the click of teeth. "Sorry. Not relevant. Not why I'm here."

"It had to be a thing," he says, with a shrug. "I couldn't find it. If a person was watching me, I would have found them." He studies Carver. "You didn't answer my questions."

"Aliases are easier when each one has a whisper of truth to them." Carver wipes his mouth with the edge of his cuff, pointing the neck of the bottle in Alexander's direction for a moment, flashing another easy smile. "More true for some than others, mind. Friend of mine always likes going with rabb-"

He shrugs. "Not why you're here. Right." Flicking the neck of his bottle at Alexander's reasoning, the man can't help but shrug for the third time in what is probably as many minutes, letting out a soft little "Really?" before throwing across a look of something that could well be considered sympathy, if you were looking for it. "Mate. I asked. Politely."

Alexander shifts from one foot to the other, jaw set stubbornly for a moment as he struggles against the urge to start an argument over something which is irrelevant and quite frankly irrational. There's a quick breath or two before he deliberately relaxes, letting it go. He stares at the water bottle instead, sipping from it as he listens. "You asked. Something from over there?" A flicker of frustration. "I don't understand how that works." A pause. "I'm sorry. It's just...interesting." Which may be why he looks back up at Carver like he's considering whether turning the man upside down and shaking him vigorously will make facts fall out.

He clears his throat. "I'm not actually here to harass you. Or on my own behalf. A client hired me to find you, because she'd like to talk to you. I gave her your number and address, but wanted to make sure you weren't actively dangerous. Intentionally dangerous. And that you were willing to meet with her. If not, I'll tell her so."

"Yeah. I asked." Carver shifts his own weight, a slight mirroring of the other man's posture as he looks a touch incredulous at the frustration and response that flash forward from him. "Works the same way as over here, pal. You run in to right proper arseholes all the time, you're going to assume everyone's a prick. Fact of it is, there's plenty of folks just trying to get by." The next sip from his bottle is slow. It's hard to say if it's because he's thinking about what to say next, or just to draw out whatever he's already got planned. Either way, once he's taken a gulp that comes with altogether too much satisfaction, he continues. "But with how folks in this town throw their weight around, can you really be all that surprised when something comes out of the woodwork to prove it's the biggest, baddest bastard in the prison yard?"

His next sip comes after the reason Alexander's here, watching with a certain level of impassiveness that suggests he's more appreciating that taste of the drink than actually caring why Alexander decided to knock on his door. Which, if you knew the guy? Actually the truth. Alistair Carver, a Midlands Lad through and through, would mourn the loss of the bloody colonials because damned if they don't do good root beer. "Neat." He clips a little hard. "Was she at the funeral too? Was she possessed?" Oh. Oh that last word. That last word is laced with suggestion. Not frustrating at all, right?

"I rarely go over there unless something forces me to. Where it usually tries to torture, murder, or torment me." Alexander's voice is toneless. "From my perspective, it's pretty much assholes all the way down, and the only people I know who've had a relationship with anything from Over There have been feeding people's pain and suffering to Them." A pause. "So. If you've got friends there, that's fine. I accept that such things can exist. But I don't apologize for being cautious."

He frowns at the 'neat'. Takes a sip of his own water. "Yes, she was. At the funeral. And influenced." A pause. "I don't think it was possession. Or even haunting, in a conventional sense. But I don't have a lot of experiences with ghosts." A pause. "Why?"

"Holy shit, we've got a smart one."

That gets Carver to put down the bottle. Luckily for both their sake, it's not so he can clap sarcastically. "'Influenced.'" He nods, approvingly, mulling the word around his mouth like it's a somewhat gristly piece of bacon. "Good word. You're right. Not possession. Best I can tell, though? Was a haunting. Just that most folks around here seem to have met your average lackadaisical 'Oh woe is me I'm going to hang around and bother the absolute fuck out of you' type. Not the vicious bastards."

"What's her name? Why?"

Alexander tenses, visibly, like he's waiting for the sarcastic clapping, or laughter. He does mutter, "Sarcasm," at the 'smart one' remark, and his eyes narrow slightly. His fingers beat out a nervous rhythm on the water bottle as he watches and listens. "I've never seen a ghost, until this. I'm content with not seeing more. I don't know how to kill them, when they're...vicious bastards. That's a problem."

He tilts his head to one side at the questions. "Dr. Vivian Glass. And I believe she wants to talk to you about...all of this. She's from L.A. and she stands out, but not," a long pause, "she hasn't had much experience with the weird shit, and Gray Harbor is a lot to deal with. She's coping. But wants more information. There's only so much I know; the rest is speculation, and my data is limited. You seem to know more."

Carver looks positively affronted at the muttering, going so far as to hold up his hands, palms out. "Not a jot of it. Swear on m'mother. Although-" The palms go down. "Were you part of that little pulling away from wassisname you folks tried?" And here? Right here? This is where Carver's paying attention. The guy, obviously, is pretty good at noticing things. Casual. Easy as can be. When his full focus is on you, though? Oh, that's a whole different story. His posture shifts, still up against the refridgerator but definitely canting himself forward to truly appraise Alexander's posture and actions. There's tension there. Just for a moment.

And then it breaks. "'Cause holy fuck that should have gone so much worse." He doesn't know specifics, but that could feel a little like a 'So you got slashed in the throat, you lucky sod.' right there.

"Why me? How me? There are folks in this town who have been here for years and years."

"Pulling away from wassisname?" Alexander's expression is easy to read: utterly baffled. He thinks about it. "You mean the seance? Yes. It wasn't an attempt to pull him away from Addington, though. Just to talk. We talked. It could have gone worse," he agrees, blandly. After all, he's still standing here, and he's not dead. What's a little throat-cutting between ancestor and descendant, anyway?

The next questions and answered primarily with a shrug. "Mr. Carver, those aren't my questions to answer. If I had to guess, it's because an out-of-towner might feel more comfortable talking to someone from out of town as well, and your name comes up a lot in the gossip." A pause, and the ghost of a smile flickers to life. "Mostly as a shady sort. But one who knows interesting things."

"Whew."

Carver looks a little relieved, casting a quick glance over the top of the breakfast island to peer at the small void with green eyes that lingers behind a potted plant. All talk of the seance seems forgotten as immediately as it had come up. "Here I was worried that my shtick wouldn't work so well on folks as used to it as they are around here. Glad-" Bottle. Hand. The two meet once more and he almost toasts his house guest. The easy smile is as easy as ever. "- it still conjures gossip. Indulge me, Clayton. What exactly are folks saying?"

"Whatever else it is, Gray Harbor is still a small town," Alexander points out. "The newspaper man missing a house on the daily rounds conjures gossip." He does lift his bottle a little when Carver does, and he seems to relax bit by bit, although he continues to stare rather rudely at the man. He takes a drink. "It's about that. Really. Shady fellow, not from around here, seems to know interesting things, but doesn't like to give straight answers. Apparently didn't hide the damned ring like he was asked to." That last is just as bland as everything that came before it.

"Shit, Daniel's been missing houses?" Carver's going native. May god help us all. If he minds the being stared at thing? It's really not showing, and most of the descriptions Alexander gives are met with either a shrug or a nod of approval as he sips the last of his root beer. The bottles don't last long when he's the one drinking them, after all.

"I used to give straight answers." It takes a moment of silence for him to speak up. Which, considering how much talking he's been doing, says quite a lot. "People don't seem to like straight answers. They either think I'm insulting their intelligence or making light of a situation." When the empty is dropped into a waste bin beside him with a harsh sound of glass on glass (This wasn't his first of the day, obviously.) he continues, toying with his cuff for a moment. "And the ring was a case of learning by example."

His hand on the cuff freezes, and once more, Alexander is appraised. Carver, when he wants to, can be incredibly skilled at not blinking. "And it sucks. It always does. I gave all the chances I got, even added a few advantages. But..." He shrugs. "lessons learned in blood tend to stick. Did for me." Even if it comes with a shrug, those last three words are so, so much gentler than the rest.

"Only the Marlowes', place" Alexander responds, "and everyone knows that's because he and Mrs. Marlowe had a thing on the side and now they're fighting. Next time Mr. Marlowe goes out of town on business, they'll probably fuck like bunnies, get over it, and mail service will be resumed," Alexander is a wide focus stalker, and everyone loves juicy gossip.

He seems comfortable with silence, and waits without impatience for Carver to continue or not. His eyes flick to the trash can at the noise, but it's a momentary distraction, like finishing off the water bottle. "Your attempt to educate people made me have to hurt people I care about, and two people died. Not a fan, Mr. Carver. For the record." He moves to put the water bottle into the trash, unless there's something like a recycling bin instead, in which case it goes there. "Can I tell my client that you'd be open to contact? Or would you prefer not to be bothered?"

"That makes two of us. But for the record? Had I taken that ring away and hidden it, you'd be adding a zero on the end of your number, there. Not a once did anyone in that room think to ask the guy who immediately told them the box was bad news for more information."

His tone's casual, and his gestures calm and loose in a way that only comes when someone is really, really trying to appear calm and loose. One of those gestures is towards a little blue bin beside the counter for plastics. "Not a once did Byron Throne or Lilith Winslow decide to ask the man who very literally had a ghost keeping an eye on them and made them aware of it about their little Gohl situation." Ignore the nails digging in to his own palm. That's just a sign of how calm he is.

"Let her come. As long as she actually decides to listen."

Alexander puts the bottle in the plastics bin; he's not a savage, after all. Then he studies Carver, his eyes sweeping him up and down, lingering on the body language. "If you had more information that you thought would be useful, did you need to be asked?" It's quiet, as his gaze come to rest on the other man's face.

He runs a hand through his hair, with a thoughtful sort of frown. "Am I to take that to mean that you would like to be explicitly consulted if there's something that comes up that you might have some sort of information about?" Another of those flickering, barely-there smiles. "Because, fair warning. I have a lot of questions. About a lot of things. You might want to set boundaries." The last just gets a nod.

"I'm a spiteful little prick, Mr. Clayton. I learned what I know through blood, sweat, and the corpse of the only friend I ever had." Carver's return to chill is remarkable, even if he has to cover the slight transition by taking a few steps over to the meat-amalgam pizza, pulling out a half-finished slice to dip in the small portion of garlic herb that came with the order. "With how... openly I've seen people in this town using their little gifts, the part of me that enjoys helping others really can't wait until the clawed hand of hubris comes to teach them the same."

The next words come through a mouthful of food, decorum be damned. In fact, those three words may well end up on his tombstone. "It's like a bunch of kids broke into daddy's gun safe, and he always keeps the pistols loaded."

He swallows. "If I know the answer, I'll tell it."

Alexander thinks about that, then inclines his head. "So noted." Somewhere in his brain, those exact words are probably being written on a mental file, possibly with all the same emotion as approximate height, weight, and country of origin. But there is a longer pause before he adds, "My condolences. About your friend."

His lips thin a bit at the remarks about the use of people's abilities, and the hoped for retribution. He just says, "You realize that you gave an interdimensional creature of some sort a mandate to spy on anyone who might be looking for you without their consent, and without any idea of what an ephemeral sensation of being constantly watched might do to their emotional state in a town where just about everyone is a couple bad days from a complete psychological breakdown? Not to mention whatever the hell that thing can or wants to do with people in its free time? In your metaphor, are you the neighbor next door, smugly complaining about gun safety under your breath while watching the kids reach for the pistols, and meanwhile stowing a few grenades in the closet, just in case?"

A pause. "Okay. That metaphor got complicated. Sorry." He inclines his head again. "Thanks. I've got your number. I'll text you so that you have mine. In case the urge moves you to volunteer something, one day."

"It's a foot tall, called me boss, eats rocks and I scared it accidentally by burping too loud." Carver sniffs, rubbing the tip of his nose with the pad of his thumb and throwing the man a little half-hearted shrug. "This was more breaking up a water fight by turning the sprinklers on and forgetting to turn the tap off when I was done. You know what it told me? 'There's a fing looking for you.'"

His lips thin as he just stares at the man for a moment. "Took me two bloody days to realize they meant 'thing.' Also warned me about my own cat, a bird that landed on my guttering, and some kids that cycled down the pavem-sidewalk."

He glances towards the refrigerator at the incline of Alexander's head, and then throws him a nod in return. He's already thinking about another root beer. "Most pressing question. Go. Consider it a freebie."

Okay. Alexander tries. He does try. But he's not very good at hiding his emotions, and as Carver talks, the amusement first lights up his eyes, crinkling the corners, at 'fing'. By the end of the recitation, there's an actual rusty laugh. "All right. I concede. Not the stuff nightmares are made of." The idea that there might be anything in the Veil that isn't horrific or trying to kill him is one Alexander clearly struggles with. But the image is just amusing. Although he does ask, "It's going to stop now, though. Right? I don't mind being a 'fing', but I don't actually need more reasons to be paranoid. All full up."

The offer makes him stop. His brow furrows. "There are so many." His fingers tip tip tap at his thighs. Then, "Do you think the Shadows have a plan? Above and beyond just gnawing on us like we're tasty pain jerky."

"Fuck."

Out of all the questions. Admittedly, it's pretty pressing, but it's one that causes Carver to wince as soon as it's asked. Definitely cause for another root beer, which he goes for with the utmost haste. "Had to be one about them, didn't it?" If calm and easy were Carver's bread and butter, annoyed and caught out would be his chocolate cake. It's a rare treat, but always fun to see brought out. "No. Clue. Seriously. Not a one. I don't intend to try and find out, either. I feel that's not only opening Pandora's box, but sticking your head in and licking the bottom of it to really make sure you get all the leftover residue."

Enjoy that mental picture while he sips. He sure is. Or maybe that's the taste of the drink. Hard to tell. "I once heard it put like venison and deer. We're food, sure, but they like the hunt. And there's no point in over-hunting. You just get tired and end up losing out on a tasty treat come November." Does he wince again? A little. It's not the best analogy. "Oddly hopeful, in a pessimistic way."

"You're fine now you've come in. I should probably let it know it doesn't have to watch out as much any more. What do you think the tastiest rock is? Figure it's earned it."

"You did say pressing," Alexander says. "I've been dragged into the lost places more times in the last six months than in the last thirty years - and I got lost a lot. More people are being drawn here who stand out, and even people who successfully left are coming back." A pause. "It's weird. And alarming. And I don't know if we're gonna have the option to ignore it. This isn't normal, even for Gray Harbor. And as a predation strategy, it seems...efficient but dangerous." One corner of his mouth flips up. "And, technically, the last thing in the box was Hope. So, you'd mostly just be licking up all the tasty Hope residue. It probably tastes like strawberries."

And then he smiles a real smile, bright but brief. "I always thought tigerseye would taste like cinnamon and peppermint, if I could eat it. That's probably pretty tasty."

Carver listens quietly to Alexander's rationale. Concern? Both? with a touch of an impassive expression, nodding along as he goes. Business talk is only something you can enjoy when there's at least something to look forward to, but this? This ain't one of those. So he drinks, listens, and nods. The term 'Lost places' seems to be what catches his attention the most, but the only real sign of that is a slight twitch of his brow every time the word comes up. It's gone by the time he's smiling in reply to the rock suggestion.

"You know, that sounds perfect. Maybe it'll stop trying to ride the cat." Alexander doesn't know it, but he missed one hell of a sight about three hours ago. A sight that means Carver's sleeves are down for more reasons than just looking good. Separating the two was a chore that resulted in numerous band-aid applications.

"You'll let Vivian know she's free to drop by any time? Or arrange a meeting?"

Alexander glances at the cat. "Sorry," he tells the animal, with a fond little smile. Because that is an amusing image, even if it might be distressing for the cat. Then there's a jerky nod towards Carver. "I'll tell her. Nice to meet you." And then? He leaves. Without another word, slouching his way towards the door and closing it gently behind him.

The cat blinks. It's a slow blink. A trusting blink. It's not given to either of the men in the room, but at least the little bastard trusts something around here. Carver, for his part, gives Alexander a little faux salute, sending the man off with a quick "Thanks. Good meeting you at last." before the guest is gone as quickly as he arrived.

"What do you think about 'Hope' for a name, kitkat?" he asks after a far-too-long period of silence. "The worst of all the torments shoved in that lil ol' box."