2019-10-26 - The Persistent Friend

Half an hour wasn't a very long time, truth be told, so by the time Byron pulls up to the Apartment gates, he'll wait there for Clayton to reach the complex, even though he is expecting the other man to be soaking wet by now. This was a rental, as fancy as it is. This way, it would be a far easier task for the both of them to smuggle Alexander into the building rather than alert security and do that same old song and dance.

Alexander may be unfamiliar with the vehicle that's waiting for him, but Thorne has the windows rolled down. "Clayton." He even calls out when it looks like the man may pass him by.

Yep, Alexander is soaking wet. The army jacket droops heavily around him, and his hair is slicked flat to his head. He just continues to walk briskly along, though his phone has been put away into a somewhat less wet inner pocket. He probably would have walked right by the car if the voice hadn't come out of the windows. He startles, visibly, before turning. "Thorne." His brow furrows. "Hello. I didn't expect you to wait on me." But he's already moving to get into the car, if that's where this is going. "Thanks. Did your meeting go well? Reassurance achieved, or was she actually decorating with flaming penises or something that you had to say no to?"

Yeah, Byron could have just pulled away and drove in through the apartment gates, leaving Alexander behind, but he does not. The interior of the car is warm, but this isn't his Wraith, which actually had temperature controlled seats. He also doesn't seem to mind that the guy is making his passenger seat all wet. Once the door is shut, he drives the short distance where the gatekeeper lets him inside. "It was fine. She, like many others, tend to overthink things."

He doesn't ask many questions once they are inside, driving down into the dry parking garage and taking the elevator all the up to the top floor.

Once inside, he removes his gloves and tosses them at the entryway table, before he begins to shrug out of his heavy coat. The coat is hung up in the coat closet, where he also stores his still dry umbrella.

Making his way to the bar, he asks "So what is that you needed to speak about that's only semi-urgent?" By the looks of things, Vivian had already moved out.

Now that Alexander is here, he has a bit of trouble bringing it up. He takes off his jacket instead - the sweater underneath is only slightly damp, so he rolls up the jacket to try and minimize the dripping on Byron's rug. And then?

Then he paces. Prowls a bit around the penthouse, looking at things rather than looking at Byron. His expression set in a frown. Eventually, he says, "When's the last time you visited your family's old home on Oak?" A pause. "Wait. Not the right question. Sorry. The last time you were inside that house. What did it look like? Decor-wise."

Byron's at the bar pouring himself a glass of whiskey, when he asks, "Care for a drink? I'd offer you water but," He can see that Alexander is all washed up. One cannot miss the nervous pacing that goes on behind him, so murmurs with a smile, already pouring a second glass of whiskey, "I insist you take the whiskey. Baby sips."

With both glasses in hand, he hands one over to his guest. The question posed, however, is an uncomfortable one and Byron does look surprised when the house on Oak is brought up. He doesn't immediately answer, but it makes him take pause before his own glass is even lifted to his lips, "Why do you ask?" Why would Clayton ask this right now? "The last time I was there was shortly before Gohl's funeral. I didn't get a chance to enter it though. The new owner," Wasn't home? Careful eyes watch Alexander, "I heard she had a stroke."

He then takes a sip, "Something which I only found out about after Gohl's funeral, when I went to check in. See, I was supposed to go there to look for something that I could use as a sacrifice, but at the time, it seemed like no one was home."

For once, Alexander doesn't turn down the whiskey. He stops pacing long enough to take it. He stares down at it, and his lips quirk upwards. "Whatever this is, it's probably far too nice to be guzzled," he agrees. And, agreeably, there's a small sip. That instinctive little twitch of someone who doesn't drink much hard liquor feeling the burn hit, but it doesn't stop him from taking a second sip. "Thanks." He bobs his head at the answer, although there's clearly something about it that causes the investigator a pause. "Yes. The new owner. Olivia Marchand." He studies Byron for a long moment, then says, "I met your mother, the other day. Outside the house. We went inside to check on Miss Marchand, and her relative. Amelia? She's closer to your age, I think."

He tries not to show any discomfort when the old house is brought up, taking a casual path to settle himself down at the couch with his free arm stretched across the back as the other lifts the glass to his lips once more. Byron nods his head in Alexander's direction, "Have a seat?" He knows that the other man may still be damp, but once more, he's not overly concerned. When Alexander brings up Olivia up by name, his own dark eyes silently studies the other man's expression when he speaks. What does he know? However, then his mother is mentioned and this gets him to blink. "You met my mother outside of our old house?" That bitch. Just a hint of annoyance can be seen once he's told this, which is soon followed by this just as annoyed smile, "I wonder what she wanted. I keep telling her not to bother the new owner."

His own expression softens to something almost neutral when he hears that they've gone insidel, but there's this dark intensity within his eyes that may hint otherwise; or that quiet set of his jaw. "Marchand wasn't brought to the hospital at all then?" Alexander then mentions Amelia at the same time that Byron goes in for another drink. "I'm not quite sure how Amelia Birchwood is related to Olivia Marchand. I was surprised to see her at the house when I went to check on what had happened to Marchand the night before." Those eyes lift to stare at Alexander again, "So was Olivia Marchand there? How was she?"

Alexander sits, after a blink at the invitation, like he didn't even remember that they were standing. His nervous energy is still there, though, so the hand not holding the glass is tapping out a rhythm on his thigh and he continues to watch Byron with dark, concerned eyes. He doesn't miss the annoyance. "She's not bothering them," he says, after a moment. "Have you been inside, Byron?" He frowns. "Recently. When I went inside...the interior of the house was," he frowns, "familiar. It looked similar to how I remember it." Over twenty years ago. "Looking in. Olivia is..." he pauses, then breathes out in a huff. "Not okay."

"No one in that house is okay. They're reverting it. Or, the house is...asserting itself. It's hard to say. But Amelia's mind was full of memories that she had no way to know," his eyes skitter away from Byron, clearly not wanting to dwell on the content of those memories, "and Olivia quoted part of a conversation you and I had that you probably don't even remember, it was so long ago. And I know she wasn't there for it. I know she wasn't." He takes another sip of the whiskey. "She's taken what I'm pretty sure was once your bedroom for hers. And it's...I have a strong suspicion that you'd recognize it if you saw it."

"The last time I was there, inside the actual house, it was..." Byron shrugs, "2016? When my mother dragged me over to see it and meet with the new owner. I-- didn't get a chance to revisit the place due to Marchand's stroke." And no, he doesn't believe that his mother isn't bothering the new owners. Taking a deep inhale, his words come out dismissively when he says, "But you've never stepped foot into the house before. How would you-- Right. You'd hover near the windows to get a better glimpse of Detective Thorne's life."

He then quiets, taking a deep swallow when told that Olivia Marchand was not okay. This is followed up by something more, something that speaks of Amelia and the house itself. If he tried to read Amelia.. then what did he see exactly? "Why were you," A pause. Rather than leaning back against the couch, he's seated forward now. "Why were you doing a reading on any of them anyway? What you're probably just sensing /is/ the house. It's an old house with a lot of memories." Byron does not like the idea that Alexander's gone prying into these old memories. Hearing that Olivia quoted something said in a conversation best forgotten all those years ago, Byron is reminded of what he'd seen when he first stepped foot on that property. That exact same memory when he'd first met Clayton.

Rather than taking another drink, he leans forward to set his glass down. "I'll speak to them. I don't know if what you say holds any truth, because you were never there." Inside of the house, "But if there's some game that they are playing, I'll get to the bottom of it." He knows how much the place has changed and how it was truly starting to resemble the home in which he lived in.

"Because they were creeping me the fuck out," Alexander says, bluntly. He does not seem to mind being reminded that he was a creepy stalker at seventeen. Or, let's face it, at thirty-nine. He sips his whiskey and watches Byron with a steadily growing edge of exasperation. "And I do know the difference between reading an object and reading a person. And I may have never wandered around inside that house, but I'm a trained investigator. And your mother noticed it, too."

After a moment, he adds, "I don't want you going there alone. I don't think it's safe for you. I'm not sure it's safe for anyone, but particularly not for you. Your former lover is sleeping in what I suspect is getting to be a painfully accurate recreation of your childhood bedroom. Even taking out any supernatural influences, that's 'creepy stalker shrine' territory." A pause, before, a bit more sharply, "And you don't have to deal with it alone."

Byron's own mind goes back to that one night he'd met with Olivia Marchand and found Lilith's black heart. He remembers seeing Marchand in a different light then. Something more sinister. So that wasn't his imagination? His own action are now justified? Even so, he puts no faith in that thought now. Instead he focuses on Alexander's reminding him that out of everyone that Byron could be accusing of having their powers go awry, that he knows the difference between the different types of readings. "The first time that I was there, when I'd just returned back to town, various memories were triggered by just stepping into that place." Of course, that was mostly likely due to his regaining these powers that he'd forgotten he had once returning to Gray Harbor. "The house is full of them."

He then blinks, his posture straightening. "My mother noticed what too? The changes in the house?" His eyes narrow know, "I wouldn't be surprised if this was all my mother's idea in the first place. I don't know what she was thinking by going there, but..." He's about to go off on a rant of his mother and while he sometimes complains about her, even to his own friends, especially in recent years, both were so used to pretending that they were living the normal life of a mother and son within a normal family that he realizes that his true feelings towards Mary Thorne were truly showing.

Alexander then mentions this former lover, something which Byron practically scoffs at. "That was short-lived." But when told that she's residing in his bedroom now, not the master bedroom, there's a quirk is his brow. "She lives in a cottage on Bayside, a little further down the road from here." Why is she still living at his old house? In Byron's head, the more he realizes that someone else, someone other than his own family, was getting a far better picture of his traumatic childhood, the more panicked he becomes. He tries his best to hide it all though. For now, he does this by reaching for his glass once more and taking a much needed sip of whiskey. After licking at his lips, he states, "I'll handle this. Starting with my mother. Get her side of the story."

Alexander's brow wrinkles. He's really not good at hiding his emotions, particularly not in the face of someone else having emotions at him, so Byron's reaction and focus on his mother - well, he might attempt to hide it, but it doesn't work. "Why would you think this was all your mother's idea? Why would two strangers agree to redecorate a house in a fashion entirely unfamiliar to them based on your mother's wishes? She's not strong enough to influence them into it." He's studying Byron thoughtfully as he points these things out.

But as Byron goes on, his lips thin with annoyance. "Will you stop that?" It's an irritated snap. He takes another sip of his whiskey and puts it aside. "You don't have to handle this by yourself, Byron. I'm willing to help. And you could probably use the help. That house is oppressive, and if it's exerting control over people, then your mother and you are likely the most vulnerable to it. And we have to figure out a way to break its influence over Olivia and Amelia and them out safely, too. Maybe the stroke made Olivia vulnerable. But Amelia..." he frowns. "I don't know. I wouldn't drink the tea there, though."

When Alexander questions him regarding Mary Thorne's involvement in any of this, Byron meets his gaze directly, the tension very evident in his features. He doesn't say anything for a moment, quietly debating /what/ he should say. How much he should reveal. When he does finally speak, it's a strained, "You don't know my mother."

Then Clayton snaps at him, both men seemingly tense within this conversation. There was a point, that he barely recalls, that he was glad that Alexander was the one pulled into that one bad dream. No one else. That was because Byron thought that Alexander knew... /something/ about his past. Perhaps more than anyone else would have, but he knows that that's a lie. Magnolia's father probably knew too. Some of the others who worked at the police department. Neighbors. As hard as Byron tried to keep everything locked up inside of him, people knew.

And yet, there's a point of knowing and there's a point of knowing too much. Clayton would be crossing into that territory the more that he tried to dig into this. "I don't..." He starts, though Alexander can probably already tell how Byron was planning on finishing that statement. //I don't need/want your help, Clayton.// Something along those lines? Breathing in deeply, he says as calmly as he can, "This isn't your fight. I'll purchase the house from them, then they can leave."

"I don't." Alexander's honest about that. "And what I do know, I do not particularly like." He's trying to meet Byron's eyes squarely. "But I'm certain she wasn't expecting your room to be altered, at the very least. And I got no sense in their interactions that she was driving any of this. She's not displeased about it. But I don't think she has that kind of power."

He goes all tense at the start of that sentence. He absolutely knows how it ends, and his jaw is starting to set. When it changes, he makes a brief, wordless sound. Half exasperation, half worry. "Thorne. If they're being influenced, then they may not agree to sell, at this point. Or just use your attempts to purchase it to lure you back there. And no matter what they may be being influenced by, showing up and trying to throw two women out of their home is not gonna be a good look for you." He finishes off the rest of his whiskey, and hunches over, playing with the tumbler between both his hands, not looking up.

"Let me help, Byron. I know you hate having anyone in your personal business, and I don't have to read you to know that. It's everywhere. All over you. But some things are better dealt with not on your own. It's too easy to get lost in bad memories. You should have someone to pull you out of them." Then he sighs. "And I get it. We're not friends, you don't want me to be that. For you. Don't blame you. But there should be someone, and your other option is breaking this down to someone else."

With everything that Alexander is telling him now, how rationally the other man is thinking when Byron's mind is going in separate directions-- thinking on how to deal with his mother, the house, the women. Then he just has to wonder how much Alexander knows. The man brought up the incident where they met, when things, while they were tense and frightening for a six year old, were tame in comparison to what followed. Was that all he witnessed?

The silence that now surrounds them means that Thorne is thinking and he's thinking /really/ hard on this. Once he's finished with his drink, setting the empty glass on the coffee table, he runs a nervous hand over the bristles of his beard. Clayton was right in a sense. Maybe he's overreacting. Maybe Clayton doesn't know as much as Byron thinks he knows. There could be a way to put this to bed without him knowing any better.

There's a glimmer of a moment when Byron narrows his eyes. No, Clayton knows more than Byron would like. And yet, he says, finally breaking his gaze from the other man to turn a look to the side, "So how do you expect to help?"

Alexander is comfortable in silence. And he's not unaware of Byron's intense thought, even if he's not privy to the content of it. He keeps his head down, and waits for the other man's decision, one way or another. And then, at the question, he lifts his head and offers a quick, bright smile of relief. "Well. There are a couple of ways I might be of help. We have a couple of options, but they depend on what exactly is going on. If it's the house, or the memories in the house, that are the ultimate source, then...have you ever cleansed the emotional residue off of an object?" A pause. "Together we might be able to cleanse the house of the worst of the memories. That could lessen or eliminate the influence on Amelia and Olivia."

He clears his throat. "But. It's Gray Harbor. I don't rule out the idea that it might fight back."

Of course, emotional residue cleansing. Byron had considered it at some point, before the idea of never entering that place again entered his mind. Taking up his empty glass, he turns towards Alexander, seeing if he'd like a refill before heading to the bar. "I have." He responds to the question on whether he'd ever cleansed an object before. "You know how long that would take, don't you? How much this use of our abilities might attract unwanted attention." A pause, "Especially there."

Refilling the glass, he says, "The place is shrouded in darkness. I don't know if you can see it or whether only those," Traumatized by it? "Affected by the house or..." He shakes his head, "Obviously, I don't know what I'm talking about. But that house, it's always had something that was a part of it." Then again, it's not difficult to see the darkness in everything when you've been what Byron's been through there.

Without even looking at Alexander now, he inquires, "The women. Once they are released, do you think they'll remember anything about what happened to them?"

Alexander shakes his head at the offer of the refill. "Yeah. It'd be a bit of an undertaking. But maybe if we can find key spots, places of the most significant resonance, and cleanse those, we can weaken the rest. As for the attention it might attract...that's not necessarily a bad thing, Byron. You're right. There are shadows there. I felt them up in that room, at least. If we start poking at it, I'm betting something will poke back. At least then we'll know what we're dealing with. Might even force it to manifest somehow in a way that we can actually wrangle."

Although Byron might not be looking at Alexander, the investigator is looking at him. Watching him. "I don't know. I hope not. Having other people's worst memories stuck in your head isn't fun. At all. They'll probably want to forget all about it," he adds, and there's a deliberately soothing sort of pitch to his voice. "We'll figure it out."

This is why Byron keeps his back turned to Alexander as he ponders the responses given while also planning ahead on things that might need to do. The PI is just as inquisitive and attentive as he is. While he's able to hide his expressions, his shoulders do square tensely when Clayton brings up these key spots within the house. His mind already goes back to everything that he'd experienced, at least the moments he remembers.

Eventually, he turns around one arm crosses over his chest, the other resting an elbow on that arm with his glass in hand. His tall frame leans against the bar counter. "For their sake," He says, lifting his glass to his lips, "I hope that they do forget." He then takes a sip.