2019-11-11 - Recklessness

Fall in Firefly Forest is a lovely time, and August's cabin is no exception. The aspen suckers (saplings, now, all around two or so feet tall and full of the big, broad leaves of aspen childhood) make for a brilliant ring of yellow around the property. The scattered maples and oaks of the forest dot the heavy green of fir and spruce with brick red.

August is in the midst of winter preparations for the animals. The shelters need their insulation checked for invaders (rodents of all manner, raccoons, birds...) and replaced if needed, any leaks have to be repaired, and the snow protections need reexamining. He also has to get the gravel dry resmoothed and refreshed from a long year of being pounded on by various cars. The hummingbird feeders need to be brought in; they'll just crack if they freeze.

And there's the big flat aspen stump. He still needs to decide what to do about that. Maybe make a shrine on it? He's kicking around ideas. So he's moving about outside in the fall, mid-morning sun in a long-sleeved, dark blue t-shirt, black denim jeans, and some workboots. The ducks and chickens are free to roam around inside the perimeter fence for the moment, since there's no one coming and going.

After days and days of rain, this is actually a pleasant enough day to make the long hike out to August's cabin. He did text ahead, because it'd be terribly embarrassing to walk all this way and then not find the guy here. He's dressed in his oversized army jacket over a breathtakingly hideous sweater that looks almost like a dress on him, and that over faded blue jeans. He's got a backpack slung casually over one shoulder, and is making good time down the road, slowing when he sees the cabin in the distance.

"Good afternoon, August," he calls out, when close enough, and lifts an arm to wave in that direction. His gaze sweeps the area, noting the preparations, and then lingering on the aspens with a small, satisfied smile. He moved those, and is happy to see them growing well.

August pauses in the midst of cleaning out a rain barrel for the garden to wave a greeting at Alexander. "Hey there." He beckons him on in through the main gate. "Don't worry, they won't try to get out. They know it's not safe out there." And indeed, the chickens and ducks meander a little closer to the entrance, waiting for Alexander to open the latch and come in, but make no actual attempt to rush up to it. He might have food, but August has taught them well: inside the fence is safe, outside the fence is certain death. They're happy to let the food come to them.

He sets the barrel aside, pulls off his gloves and looks Alexander over. He remembers the wedding, particularly the shock Alexander took from the piano player. "How're you doing?" he asks, one eyebrow up.

Alexander does have food, although he gives no hint of that until he steps inside and the fence is closed behind him. No point in muddying their training. But once there, he smiles down at the clustered fowl, clucks a little soft nonsense to them, and roots around in his backpack until he finds a small bag of feed seed, which he scatters off to both sides for them. The fact that this makes a nice little aisle for him to walk down without having to worry about accidentally kicking birds? A nice bonus.

For his part, Alexander looks rather well. He's as haggard as usual from lack of sleep, but not favoring any particular part of his body. "I'm okay. Miss Winslow was found. She's pretty cut up from a dream, but she's recovering in the hospital. Thorne is with her. Isabella has also recovered, and is diving into her various pursuits with gusto." Although his eyes are still shaded with worry for her, he smiles fondly. "How are you, August? We haven't spoken, but it was nice to see you and Eleanor. Even if under less than ideal circumstances."

The ducks mutter, excited; they recognize Alexander and are glad he's back, and with food! Good food! They wander about, nibbling at what they can get. Unlike the hens, who're better equipped to scratch, they have to work harder for it. The chickens are more reserved, if no less appreciative; they cluck and peck, appreciating the offering. The geese have reluctantly determined Alexander's arrival isn't a cause for panic, and so don't send up the alarm. One does hiss and flap her wings at him, though. ("Mei mei," August murmurs at her, and she settles with a furious wag of her tail.)

August watches all of this with a small smile. He's relieved to hear Lilith was found, makes a face about the hospital. Well, if it's not serious, better it be dealt with there. "That's good, that they found her." He rubs at his eyes. Despite the fact that he's up and about, there's no missing the dark circles and occasional wince. He's pay a price for the Masquerade weekend's events.

"Yeah, Isabella she came by the shop yesterday. Glad to see her up and about." He smiles. "Guess we should do something like a dinner to make up for that, yeah? Sure you and Eleanor could stand to talk some shop."

Alexander's smile turns into a grin as he watches the animals enjoy the bits of food, the expression unreserved in its joy. Even the goose just gets a chuckle and a murmured, "What a good girl," at the hiss. He turns the grin on August, although the wattage fades to his normal half-smile by degrees. "It is. She seems in reasonably good spirits, for all the trauma. Something about killer toys?" A wordless shrug that says 'hey, this is Gray Harbor'. His gaze sharpens. "You, on the other hand, look like you've had too much excitement and too little sleep." He slouches closer to give the man a thoughtful once over. "You've been injured. What happened?"

An agreeable noise to the idea of dinner. "That would be nice, yes. Sit down, talk, and maybe not get sucked over to a hell dimension for a while. Itzhak is going to do something for Hanukkah, I think he said. That would be interesting."

August grunts in a wordless 'yeah, it sure is Gray Harbor' of agreement. He makes a face at Alexander's shrewd examination that borders on petulant. "I'm fine," he says, and it tastes enough of a lie that he follows it up with a sigh. "No injury--I mean, aside from the new tattoo. Just, probably bit off more than I can chew. I'm sure the next time They show up for a piece of me it's going to be one for the recordbooks." He sounds sanguine about it, despite that, even manages a dismissive lift of one shoulder. "Whatever. Wasn't going to let that asshole murder everyone at the wedding. It is what it is."

He's is agreeable to most of that dinner plan, except, "I think we can skip the hell dimension part. I'm definitely looking forward to Hanukkah, though. Latkes are amazing." His lips twitch in a wry almost-smile and he nods towards the cabin. "Wanna come in? Made some tangelo-ade earlier. Also have some cider, Erica's mom makes it. She's got an orchard."

Alexander sees that face, and counters it with a Disappointment Face of his own. "August...I do understand. But killing yourself, or setting yourself up as the darkness' favorite chew toy, isn't a good way to handle it, either. People would miss you. And you have a hell of a lot more to offer than your abilities." He clicks his teeth before he can go full lecture mode, and instead says, "I met him. Afterwards. When I was taking Isabella back to her bed. The guy who orchestrated all of it. Be careful, hmm? It sounded like he was planning to stay a while."

"I'm beginning to think the hell dimension part might be mandatory whenever any of us gather together," Alexander says, voice dry. "Cider sounds lovely. Thank you." He just sidles up to August to follow him into the cabin.

There are numerous arguments August was prepared for, yet that wasn't among them. He blinks, looking a little caught off guard, then shakes his head and continues into the house. He dredges up a frustrated smile. "Wow, that's rude, pulling out that one." He huffs a laugh, heads to the kitchen to get their drinks. The interior's much as Alexander is used to it, though there's a temporary next of sorts closer to the woodstove which is clearly meant for colder days; a pile of pillows, blankets, and cushions that won't do for sleeping but works just fine as a place to lounge.

He gets out two of the heavy recycled glass pieces he favors (because they're more likely to break what they hit than break themselves), pours their drinks. He's quiet while he does it, obviously thinking. As he pushes Alexander's cider to him, he says, "The mandatory hell dimension might simply be a concentration of us gets attention." He shrugs about that; what's he going to do, not celebrate an occasion with his friends? Hell will freeze over first.

As to the other part... "I know, that we shouldn't use the Gift when we could do something else." He fiddles with his glass. "And sure, I didn't need to break the piano, because de la Vega shot the guy. And maybe an ambulance could've gotten to Isabella in time. But those flowers, I couldn't think of a single other way to deal with them. And the zombies that attacked us in the cemetary, they almost killed de la Vega and Thorne." He shrugs, helpless. "Maybe I shouldn't. But I can't not do it. And I've accepted that means they're gonna see me as a nice ripe field more often than not. Just how it goes. I'll trade that over people suffering and dying any day of the week and twice on Tuesday." He gestures with his glass, has a drink.

Alexander says, "I'm not a very polite person," Alexander says, with the faintest of smiles. Although his eyes are still dark and worried as he follows the man inside. There's a hesitation just inside the doorway, a scanning of the interior as if an ambush might be lying in wait. He notes each small change in the interior, catalogs and files it, before continuing to move.

The heavy glass of cider is accepted with a murmured thanks. "That's starting to be my conclusion as well. Rich target environment." A grimace. He doesn't argue that people shouldn't gather, though. After thirteen or so years alone, a little human companionship becomes one of those things you're willing to suffer for.

The rest? He listens to, sipping the cider, studying August's features. "I'm not saying don't use your abilities." He shies visibly away from the term 'gift' for them. "They're tools, and you don't not use tools. But you have tools than just them, you know? I agree - you killed the flowers, and that was a good thing. You saved lives, and that was a good thing. But cell phones? Fixing up scrapes and slashes that a bit of bandaging and a week or two of natural healing would handle just as well? That's not good. Not just because it puts you at risk, but..." he hesitates, looks down at his glass, "I worry that it makes people reckless. That they get hurt more because they believe someone will just fix them. And you will. But one day you won't get there in time. Or it'll be a bullet through the brain, or someone's heart ripped from their chest. And you can't put that together again. And that will hurt you, and it will kill them.""

August clears his throat and holds up a hand. "Let the record show I've never actually fixed a cell phone." But he has made a couple of bird cages from trees. And fixed some goggles (to prove a point). And healed his fair share of plants and trees. And detoxed a few people. And took Finch out to set some things on fire so she could calm down...anyways.

Thus, he can admit, "That is a problem," with a rueful smile. "But the thing is, that's a problem with modern medicine anyways. People already do stupid shit because there's a hospital, there's a medication, there's someone who'll pay to fix it. They take their fucking SUVs into washes during storms and get stuck, and put fire and rescue at risk saving them. The existence of fire and rescue doesn't encourage that." He raises his eyebrows, leans against a counter. "I can't stop people from being reckless. That's on them, if they choose to think an easy fix means they can just do whatever. I'm not responsible for their choices, just mine. And sure--I shouldn't heal simple injuries, and for the most part, I don't." Except with Eleanor. And when he burned the fuck out of Itzhak's hand, though perhaps that's more understandable; he's a musician and a mechanic. A hand injury is serious.

His gaze shifts to the living room, distant. "The reality is, even if we stick to using our abilities when we absolutely have to, They'll just make sure that's as often as possible. And not using them just makes us rusty at using them. So." He regards Alexander again. "There's no winning here. No right. There's survival, and keeping hold of one another."

Alexander looks unconvinced. "I think you know that a lot of that is more regular human failure at risk management than it is a conscious decision to put one's self at risk because you know that your friend can do actual healing magic." His voice is dry. He points at the circles under August's eyes. "You're wearing yourself ragged. And I know how that feels, and I know how hard it is not to do it - I had to help bring Isabella out of her mind, and there was that mess with Thorne. So I'm not sitting in a brick house here. But, August, I'm just asking - instead of justifying why every use is vindicated, maybe look for other ways to handle some things. Not every problem is a nail, and even if someone is trying to make us swing that hammer? We're smart, and flexible, and we don't have to do what they want us to. Not all the time."

He sighs, then, and looks down at his glass. "Or that's just my thought on it. Miss Winslow disappeared, and she was gone for long enough that I honestly thought that, at some point, we were going to have to tell Thorne to stop looking. I don't really want to have to have that conversation with Itzhak or Eleanor over you. That's all."

August sighs, gives Alexander a fond, tired sort of look. "I'm definitely not justifying every use as vindicated," he says, gently. "I definitely use it in ways I shouldn't, but I won't try to claim that's okay. Same way," he gives Alexander a Significant Look tinged with wry amuement, "plenty of people do shit they shouldn't." It's intentionally cryptic, but he's sure Alexander has plenty of examples to supply.

He makes a face, sips from his tangeloade. "I think we're just discussing different points on the same scale. Me doing it less doesn't mean I can't do it. Me telling people no doesn't mean someone else won't. The actual solution, is for people to be careful, not for those of us who can do things like heal to not heal them. We shouldn't heal the easy stuff because, well, like you said, it's exhausting, and it brings Them around. 'People might decide to be morons' isn't a good reason."

Another sigh, this one resigned. "Also it's just reflex. The healing, I mean, for me. One I'm trying to unlearn, but...that's going to take a long time. Definitely not something I'll stop doing overnight. Maybe not ever." He snorts, smiles, bitterly. "That won't be a useful conversation for you to have, they'll just tell you to fuck off." A mild sort of look follows which suggests the same would be true of August if that conversation was about Itzhak.

Alexander clears his throat at the significant look, and says, "All right, alright. Point taken, August. I won't rag you about it anymore." A pause. "For at least a week. I just worry." He drinks. "This is fantastic cider, by the way. And if there's anything I can do to help, let me know? I mean, as you're putting things together for winter, or whatever. I admit," his smile slants wistful, "while the circumstances weren't great, and I'm sure you were heartily sick of an occasionally homicidal guest, it was very calming out here. I learned a great deal. And the aspens are growing."

August smiles, sincerely now, through the resignation and fatigue. "I don't mind the harping, honestly. It's good to be kept in line." He finishes off the tangeloade, goes to get the water pitcher from the fridge. He fills his glass, sets the pitcher aside in case Alexander wants any once the cider is done.

"I wasn't sick of you," he says. "And I'm glad it helped." A long pause in which he studies Alexander, because this naturally leads him to the reason Alexander had been brought out there. The specific one. He runs a hand over a metallic fish embedded into the countertop. "Ah, if you'd rather not say and I should fuck off, it's fine, but," he glances up, raises his eyebrows, "you two alright?" He means Ruiz and Alexander, of course.

"I think we're closer than we were to being alright," Alexander says, after a long moment of thought. "I needed some time away from...lots of things, after the Masquerade," a short sharp breath, "so Javier offered up his hotel room. I spent the night there, because no one was going to look for me there," he adds, voice dry. "It was nice. We talked about a couple of things. We didn't talk about some things that we probably should, at some point, but I meant to. But I was also high as a fucking kite, so I think we talked about something to do with baseball and flaccid caves, instead." He frowns. That whole thing is a bit blurry, and the conversation didn't make much sense to start out with. "I'm not sure if he really believes that I don't want him dead, and especially that I don't want him dead because of Itzhak, but...well, at least we sort of talked about it without anyone getting punched. It's progress!" A quick flash of a smile.

August nods, relieved to hear the initial bit about being closer to alright, and entirely understanding the need to hide after the Masquerade. (Look at him, after all.) He's somewhat surprised to hear about getting high as balls, though in retrospect, shouldn't be. He mouths, 'flaccid caves' to himself, decides to mull that over for later.

But then, Alexander talks about Ruiz thinking he wants him dead. (Understandable.) Because of Itzhak. (*record scratch*)

August blinks, stares. "I'm sorry--what?" He sounds like he thinks he can't possibly have heard that correctly. "Want him dead because of Itzhak?"

Alexander gives a sheepish sort of look. "Yeah." He finishes off the rest of his cider and gives the tangelo-aid a longing look - not just because of the awkward turn the conversation has taken. His next words come out fast but flat, like he's just trying to get them out but hoping no one pays too much attention to them. "After what you said, about Itzhak and Javier, uh, circling each other. I asked Javier if he was planning to have sex with Itzhak," LIKE YOU DO, "and I guess it came out sort of...wrong?" He seems confused on how this could have happened. "But I guess he thought that because Itzhak was attracted to me, that I wanted to have sex with him, and viewed Javier as an obstacle to that." A pause. "I don't. I'm just not very good at being friends with people. That's all." An embarrassed shrug. "I think we cleared that up?"

August spies that look, gestures at the pitcher of tangeloade in a 'have at it' manner. He's amused by Alexander's suboptimal phrasing of 'are you going to get with Itzhak' but doesn't find it explicitly out of band."I suspect it's not that it came out wrong." He sips from his glass of water. "Probably he didn't like that you'd noticed. He strikes me a private, insular sort."

He frowns, puzzling over the rest of that, and gives Alexander a curious look. "Why would he think you'd think he's an obstacle to Itzhak getting with you? It's not like Itzhak's not poly. He'll get with whomever he wants, or not, if they're okay with it." But he's glad it might be cleared up because, well, talk about a hell of a thing--to think someone tried to kill you because they wanted to guy you were making eyes at. Christ.

Alexander reaches for the pitcher and pours himself a glass. The faint lingering taste of cider is more of a bonus than a detriment, in this case. "He's very private," he admits, with a sigh. "And I don't know, August." He shrugs his shoulders. "I imagine it's just related to when someone you thought was a friend suddenly tries to make you kill yourself, you start asking yourself 'why the fuck' and that's what he came up with. He's smart enough to know that it wasn't that Gohl made me do anything, just that he took some of the brakes off." He shrugs. "At any rate, talking about it seems to have eased something. Or maybe that was the weed. I think it's a fifty-fifty either way?" Then a sudden snort of self-mocking amusement. "Wow. You asked a very simple question, and I rambled. Sorry."

August sets his glass down, taps the rim of it. "No need to apologize for rambling," he says with a shake of his head. He studies Alexander, then the counter. "That makes sense, that it's just what he came up with--but that says far more about him than you." He quick glance up at Alexander, back down to the counter. "I'm glad it eased things. Or that the pot did. Just," he looks at Alexander again, more directly, "it's not your fault Gohl took problems you have and weaponized them. It's really not. It'd be nice, to not have problems that can be exploited, but we all do. Doesn't mean we're all fault when someone takes advantage of them." He winces, sympathetic. "Not saying I wouldn't hate myself, in your position. I would. But you're not responsible for what Gohl did to you. You didn't want that."

"If there's one thing that having my particular abilities is good for, it's recognizing that pretty much every - well, everyone around here - is broken. In their own particular ways. I'm not beating myself up about it, I promise; I know what I am." Alexander's expression is blank, then hidden by the glass as he drinks. "At any rate. The ghost is wherever ghosts go at the end of it all, and the world is so much quieter." He runs his free hand through his hair. "I suppose I should be concerned about that, but honestly, it's wonderful. We may still be dangerous, but at least we're not capable of murdering each other from miles away."

August doesn't look particularly convinced about that, but he knows a dead horse when he sees one. (Doesn't mean he won't kick it next time he comes across it, though.) Besides, there are other dead horses, which he'll get to in a second. On the subject of the change, he nods. "Yeah we're going to go down to Portland in a week or so here, see if the same thing happened down there. The Other Side's close in a few spots. I came across them as a kid." His expression shifts for a moment. He knows other ones, from when he was older, but he's for sure not going to check on those.

He clears his throat. "I'll pass along what we find out." Now he studies Alexander. "So you are okay with it? Ruiz and Itzhak together?"

Alexander looks thoughtful. "I think that's a good idea. At the very least, it's good to know whether we're dealing with a localized phenomenon, or the entire...thing." His expression brightens. "If it's the whole thing, well. That has possibilities, doesn't it? If there's a way to seal the things that belong over there over there, and let us stay here, in the real world." An undeniable wistfulness at the idea; the Veil has never been a place he thinks of as good, and his own abilities are as dangerous as they are fascinating.

Then there's a blink. "Um." He frowns. "I don't know. I think it's sort of a terrible idea and people are going to get hurt. I hate that. But I'm not as worried that they won't want to be friends with me, anymore. And they're adults. They're allowed to make all the bad relationship decisions they want."

"That was my thinking," August says on a nod. "Get a comparison. And have a look, see how their Side differs from ours." He's wary for half a second, braced for a lecture on the dangers of the Veil. But information is a siren song, and August was a field researcher long before he was an arborist and druid living in a town plagued by oddities.

The wariness shifts to a distant sort of unease. "I wonder how well that'd work, long term." He's thinking of pressure building up in volcanos, and what happens then. He doesn't want to see a Veil eruption into their world. No, he does not.

The subject of the relationship and its probable course draws a fond sigh from August. "Kind of why I'm not with him myself," he admits. "He's not in a place to not be doing stuff like this, and as his friend I've got a bit of a boundary to insulate myself from the fallout. If I was with him, I wouldn't have that, and it'd be goddamned painful when things go south. I wouldn't be any good for him then. So." He shrugs, holds up his glass in a toast. "To watching your friends drive cars off cliffs."

Alexander nods, expression growing thoughtful. And, as much as he might hate to admit it, intrigued. Questions require answers. His fingers fret nervously on his glass. "I wish that I could do what Itzhak and you can," he admits, softly. "It's frustrating, to know that there's information right over there, but have to rely on other people to do dangerous things to gain it." He snorts, and says, with a wry self-awareness, "I'd probably think differently about the Veil if I had any sort of control about when I go over there, and how to get back."

There's a soft hum after August's last words, and he raises his glass to toast. "And picking up as many of the pieces afterwards that they will allow you to," he adds, dry.

"We could teach you, maybe," August offers, one brow going up. "Not sure if you can use that Gift, the matter Gift. But it's worth a shot, if you want to be able to go in and out on your own." Well, in, anyways. Only people as strong as Itzhak or Julia can go out, as far as August knows.

"And picking up the pieces," he agrees, equally dry, and clinks his glass to Alexander's. He takes a drink, pauses. Then, "I offered to show you something, as an explanation." He licks his lips. "Offer's still open, if you want. In the interest of knowing more about these kinds of places. Here, Portland--where the Other Side's close. And about me. Just," he shifts, uncomfortable. "It's pretty ugly. Really ugly, and my memories of it are a little muddled, so it might not all make sense." He stops there, tilts his head and watches Alexander steadily.

There's a hint of that wistfulness, but after a moment, Alexander shakes his head. "I've never had even a whisper of those abilities," he says, simply. "There's no...resonance for me, for them. I can feel the stirrings of the healer's powers, even if they're not something I've practiced, as much. But the way Itzhak, or Isabella, or you, talk about space and objects and the barrier between the worlds?" He frowns. "It stirs nothing in me. I think it'd be a waste of time."

"Yes." It comes without hesitation, his interest sharp, even hungry. That it's ugly doesn't seem to put him off at all - it might even enhance the appeal, much in the way the bloodiest of crime scenes or darkest of case files do. "If you want." That's added after a moment, but with a yearning note, like he's hoping the other man doesn't change his mind.

August mmmms, low and quiet. He doesn't know what it's like to not feel--hear, as Itzhak might say--all three. They've always been there, like sight or sound or smell, as long as he can remember. The understanding that life is more than just what the eye sees; the murmur and shuffle of other minds and hearts around him; the fungible nature of all matter and energy, including that which separated them from the Other Side.

"Might be," he says. "But, might not." A shrug; the offer's been made. The other topic is maybe more important.

"Okay. I do, if only because..." He drums his fingers on the counter. "I've told people. Ellie. Itzhak. And Itzhak saw a little of it. But I don't..." He stops, sighs. "I think you're better equipped to see something like this. Might handle it better." He narrows his eyes, not liking how that sounds but unable to come up with better wording. "Does that make sense?"

And on the off chance it does, a tendril of inquiry, a polite request to join him in the link.

Alexander nods, slowly. "Yeah. That makes perfect sense. There's telling someone a terrible thing, and then having them have to live it." His smile is crooked, his expression casting back, recalling another recent conversation. He holds up a single finger, then goes to take a seat on the floor, cross-legged. He looks up at August. "I don't often get to brace myself appropriately before something like this, so I'm going to take the opportunity."

Then, that tendril is accepted, Alexander's eyes remaining open, fixed on August, as the bridge forms between their minds, his starscape vaulting high above. There's damage there, and recent damage - shattered stars forming little nebulae of ground glass, and a few of the stars are reflecting distant memories of blood. But his connection is strong and steady, his mind voice confident. <<August. I'm ready when you are. If you are. It's okay if you aren't.>> It's not an attempt to back out - that hunger in him, to know, even things that he shouldn't, is stronger here than it was in his face - but an attempt to protect his friend from revealing more than he's truly okay with.

It's a good idea, and one August gratefully mimics: he moves to sit among that nest of pillows and cushions by the woodstove, shuts his eyes. The forest with the river running through it and the volcano crater with the aspen grove filling it all look quite healthy and vibrant, though a little washed out in color. August's exhaustion showing through. Sympathy, for Alexander's pains, and as he'd warned, that instinct to heal them somehow, but he gently turns it aside. Yes, that's what needs explaining, maybe. And there's information there.

<<No, it's alright. Anyways, you're smart, and knowledgable about these things, and...someone should know about these things.>> He knows that doesn't make a lot of sense. Maybe it will in a second.

He warns, <<This is a bit of a ways back,>> and then, they're on the move. The landscape changes completely. The crater isn't a crater, it's a healthy stratovolcano. The forest is big and full and spreads forever. There's a lake. A sense of vitality pervades everything.

He's young, so young. Barely graduated High School. Off to basic training. This is all a blur, all a little indistinct. Before those memories are sometihng Alexander can sense: more Glimmer. Another thin point. Portland.

August doesn't dwell on that. He gets on a transport. It's an interminably dull and long ride. His abilities have grown drowsy, almost retreated into hibernation, through basic, since he wasn't anywhere the Veil was thin and got out of practice with using them. The transport lands, and he gets off it.

It's like falling into the ocean. The actual surroundings (Sarajevo Airport, barely functional) don't register beyond a pock-marked series of runways and buildings that shouldn't still be standing. He's drowning in the fear and pain of hundreds of thousands of people, and the reason why--something he won't understand until much, much later--is because the Veil is right there, lingering just beyond the reach of the matter Gift. And his other two Gifts, well--they're awake now. They're entirely awake.

<<It wasn't like this in Portland.>> But Portland hadn't been under siege.

There's a flicker of pleasure at the praise, although Alexander smothers it quickly, as if embarrassed to be pleased by a friend saying nice things about him.

He keeps his eyes open as the images and memories unroll in his mind; it helps to ground him, remind him than then is not now - which is doubly important as August steps out into that city under siege and the echoes of that distress are enough to cause his heart to speed up and his mouth to go dry. Even Gray Harbor, with all its broken people, all its pain and loss and isolation, can't really match the kind of emotional intensity a city can put out.

<<It's a wounded place, drowning in pain,>> Alexander murmurs, with both a deep empathy for that pain, and a repulsion from it. He struggles not to put up his mental barriers, shut it out, and to listen and accept it instead, letting it flow through him without dwelling on each life represented by each smoldering ember of hurt. These people are dead, or have recovered, or are suffering in a place he can't reach, a time that is past and gone.

As awful as this might be, it doesn't seem to bother August so much. It was a shock to the system, certainly, to land in it. But the view and it's memories broaden. <<I was there for almost three years.>>

The shock gives way to a dull, constant ache, and he gets used to it. Hadn't the Vietnam veterans all told them war was hell? And so it was. An unending throb that he learns to ignore sometimes (when he needs to eat, or sleep, or concentrate on something someone is saying) and not others (when he needs to find someone--he can sense their fear, their wounds, and identify friend from foe this way, seek out the ones hiding from the snipers while evading the snipers themselves).

How had he survived it, Easton had asked? And the answer was always the same: he didn't know any different. He didn't know that everyone else in his unit wasn't going through this. It didn't occur to him to ask. 'How did you know she was under there?' someone asks as they drag a little girl out from under a bombed out car (she survives). 'I could hear her,' he says, because it's true. They give him weird looks.

On and on. Three years. But gradually, Alexander begins to see things which are out of place. August clearly doesn't understand them as such; these are his memories, and to him all part of the same collection. Photos all the same size and color scheme. To Alexander, for whom they're new, a few are out of place. Bits of the Veil seep through, revealing signs of Them and Their machinations. Strange creatures. Nightmares August has which aren't simply nightmares. <<I can't honestly tell, sometimes, what was Over There and what wasn't.>>

Markale. He's not going to go into that, but it's there, a memory they don't linger on, an ugly, horrible darkness that he dove into head first, trying desparately to find anyone they could help. They pass by it, like a car passing a smoldering wreck on the freeway. They're closing on something else. Something much worse.

Alexander gains his mental footing fairly quickly in the stream of memories. Part of it is August's own remembered coping, but part of it is just that after the first overwhelming reality of it, he's able to sort it into yet another horrible thing, and deal with it the same way he deals with anything he can't smash or electrocute - endurance. Those signs of the Dark Men are noted, and with some fascination. He doesn't try to alter any of August's recollection, even to highlight the unnatural things, but his attention might be felt to linger on them. Because it's hard to see them when they're stalking you, blending into your nightmares and insecurities.

You get a clearer picture of the dark in other people's pain.

Markale gets a flare of interest, a sense that if he were driving this bus, Alexander would linger here, try to understand it in greater detail. But he's not in control (thankfully), and he follows where August leads. Sensing the looming Something in the distance, his breath becomes slower, deeper, striving for calm.

The pictures in which Glimmer is more obvious sharpen into focus. People emerging with wounds that don't seem to make sense--slashes from raked talons. Bite marks from beasts. 'Escaped zoo animals' some say. 'Bears' claim others. The Veil protects itself, even in a city under siege.

A wave of flu claims dozens one winter. August overhears a doctor muttering about how he's never seen anything like it before, a fever that seems to bring nightmares people won't come out of.

The misery itself is a feeding ground for Them, no doubt. People vanish and aren't seen again, but the way they vanish is what's puzzling. Right from under others' noses; August will turn and they're gone, and he can feel a door shutting. 'A basement that opened up.' 'A tunnel that collapsed.' 'Snipers.'

The thing in the distance is a hospital complex. Old Soviet architecture in these memories, brutalism at its most severe. Even here, in a meory, August's stomach turns. It's up on a hill, entirely unprotected. Shells are falling all the time. They're moving people out of a building that's not in good shape. Another hit and it's going to come down.

August is one of numerous Peacekeepers guarding the doctors and orderlies and nurses as they work. He's inside. He hates being in hospitals already, but he'll do what he's ordered to do.

A shell lands, close. Another, much closer.

"Take cover!" It's not in English, though. It's French. Then the shell lands, and the world shatters.

It's hard, not to reach out when Alexander feels August's distress rising, that turn of the stomach. In fact, he's not able to not do it, at least a little - there's a thin trickle of calm that threads it way through the link, offered rather than imposed, the mental equivalent of a hand on the shoulder.

For himself, he is not a fan of hospitals, but although through the link it's clear that some of the root causes are the same (too much pain, too much sadness and suffering and dying), his own antipathy is but a flicker to August's flame. The sounds of war are new, though. Entirely new for a man who's never served, never been to a warzone, and he experiences this with as much fascination as sadness. Little flares of <<so that's what that's like>> here and there, linking lived experience to media, to story, to imagining.

When the world shatters, he makes a noise. A sharp sound of surprise, his eyes squeezing shut. He doesn't sever the link; even as his emotions slip down it, his grip on that connection remains steady and strong.

August's appreciation for the hand on his shoulder is a wave of warmth. And he returns the favor, bracing Alexander against that impact by dialing the volume all the way down for some of what comes next. Alexander can feel it happen, knows what's going on, just not anywhere near at full strength.

What's next isn't something August hears (there's hearing damage, from some kind of head wound, so that's all muffled anyways) nor sees (there's nothing to really see). he's only sensing with his abilities now. They're ramped to impossibly high levels, either because of the sensory deprevation, or the sheer level of everything, or maybe this is when he went from being relatively weak to the strength he's at now. And so he just knows things, like there's a wall laying on top of him and rebar has run him through in at least three places. But he's alive. Somehow.

And so are a lot of other people, all around him. Just barely. And he has only one way to get to them.

<<I just laid there, healing them, until they pulled me out. I didn't...know what else to do. And I don't even know if I helped anyone.>> There's no sense of that beyond a small flicker, the barest hint of trying to keep people stable only for them to die. Again and again. Then it's gone, and there's a hazy notion of being cut loose. A lot of nothing, after that, until Germany. The Gifts don't go dormant this time. They stay awake, shocked into it, listening. Always listening. Always.

Alexander hisses. He doesn't 'look' away, suffering that pained, desperate darkness with August as best he can. But there are tears tracking down his cheeks, that he doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe just doesn't care about. His hands are practically knotted into his jeans, and his own healing abilities flare up in sympathies, pushing uselessly towards a pain that exists only in memory. <<Christ, August.>> His voice is hushed, even mentally. <<It's a wonder you didn't go completely mad.>>

August doesn't bother with what's next (twenty-three years of recovery and counting). It all fades back to the forest of now; the volcano that's a crater. He apologizes for the tears; he's not crying any of his own, but then cried this one out a hundred times already. Still, that hadn't been his intention. So there they sit, in the now, the pain decades past.

<<I think I actually did. Just...not the way most people would think.>>

The healing. It's so hard, so impossibly hard, to not do it. Someone's injured, and he wants to throw up when he senses the injury, but he has to do something about it first. Then he can go be sick. And he can't hurt anyone. All the fierce fights and scrapes of his youth: gone. He won't hit anyone for a damned thing. He'll break stuff and throw things, sure, but a good and proper fight? No. He can't do that. And at some point, he finally figured out how to turn all of it off. To stop listening. But sometimes, he forgets.

And so, when he burned Itzhak, his reaction was twenty-odd years in the making. He's relieved in a way, to have told Alexander, but also feels guilty. <<Sorry. Just. I know you wanted to know why I'm like that.>> The wind passes through the aspens, over the river in a sigh.

<<Don't be sorry,>> Alexander says, immediately on the heels of that guilt. <<I'm your friend. I like to think. Friends bear pain for each other, when they can. Or at least listen and share what they can. I don't mind crying,>> he adds, and actually seems distantly surprised that he is. He wipes the tears away, but not with any particular shame. Or regret for having seen what August shared - although there's a keen regret that he had to live through that, experience that.

And there's a swell of understanding. <<Healing is your way of taking control. That makes sense.>> A mild swell of humor. <<I can't promise that I won't chide. Understandable or not, I still don't want to see you eaten. But I get it, a little better, now.>>

August's forest stirs at that description. <<It is.>> He's relieved to have a way to describe it. And then he pauses to look up at the stars that are Alexander. <<I know you've got your ways of taking control of things that've happened to you too. You don't need to tell or show me them, but--that's what I mean. When I say it's not your fault.>> He means Ruiz, of course, but also all the things he doesn't know and yet suspects are there. The same way he knows they're there with others: because they're there for himself.

He's lying in the nest, dry-eyed and looking a little flat, but manages a small smile. <<I don't mind the chiding. I know it's because you care. And you're right, I shouldn't. The reminder helps.>> It's too easy, really, for he and Finch to run around healing everyone and anyone in and attempt to undo things that already happened, or stop something that might still come. So maybe there's something to the recklessness theory. <<I don't really want to be eaten. But...that spot in me, where I should be afraid of it. That's gone. It didn't come out of that hospital with me.>> A little regret for that; he's aware it's not a good thing. But it is what it is.

Alexander's stars shed light on the forest; not the harsh, broad light of the sun, but something more piercing than moonlight, as sharp as the glass the stars are made of. And where there is no light, there's the shadow and the void. <<No,>> he says, after a moment. <<I know what you mean, August. But no. Things didn't really happen to me. I tended to happen to things. People.>> There's a brief flash of memory - not sight, not sound, but the tactile sensation of that peculiar slick-grittiness of blood washing over his hands, smearing on skin. It's only a moment, before it's tucked neatly away - although those walls are thinner than they were before, when August had brushed up against them. Thinner and cracked, straining with the effort of keeping there from here.

He takes a breath. <<And you shouldn't be afraid of your abilities. Fear interferes with control, if it's too strong. I never want any of you to be afraid. I just want you to be...careful. Make the choice, rather than having it made for you. If that makes sense.>>

August doesn't lean into the memory, just lets it come and go in passing. Much the same way the Markale Market came and went for Alexander, August only gives this a passing glance. Alexander will share it, or not, as he decides. August has no expectactions in this.

There's a sense August doesn't agree with that assessment. It's there when shrewd light of the stars shines down over the forest, in the way the aspen leaves tremble in the breeze and cast it back as flickering gold. He doesn't press that topic, just accepts what Alexander has said. <<I'm not afraid of it. Well, not most of it. The fire, and dragging people back...those are more difficult.>> Too much pain already. Too many people who slipped through his fingers like water. <<But I'm getting there.>>

He mmmmms, out loud. <<It does. I'm still reacting, a lot of the time, when I heal someone. I'm not choosing or letting them insist.>> He sighs, looks askance at Alexander. <<Turns out having magic powers kind of sucks.>>

<<It does,>> Alexander says. But there's also the suggestion that he doesn't entirely believe that. He's not immune to the fascination and wonder of...well, of something like what he and August are doing right now; the link flows with his pleasure and contentment at the linking of minds, even when dealing with such trauma. <<But it's good that you can move beyond it. I think a lot of people get stuck, or think that moving past means somehow forgetting or erasing the past. Rather than healing just leaving scars.>>

He sighs, eyes opening again. <<But it takes time, doesn't it.>> It's not a question, although there's a deep wistfulness, a desire that there was a way to jumpstart the healing of the mind in the same way August might do with the body.

Even August, for all that the Gift hasn't been a barrel of laughs for him, can't deny it has its high points. (He's not going to think about dryad tree sap, for example, and how it turned him into a space cadet. Or the fact that dryads are a thing he can actually talk about with seriousness. Or the part where he was able to control Finch's fire--) And this is chief among them; that he can show Alexander something he hasn't been able to explain to anyone else. Not his therapists and councelors. They'd think he was crazy. Not Itzhak, though that came close. Itzhak has something buried inside him that's already eating at him. August can't add this to that plate. Not Eleanor, not yet; she's only still learning how to not fear the Gift and the Veil. Eventually. But Alexander, well. He's a bit like August in many ways. It feels safer to share it with him.

The river's voice rises and falls in an agreement about scars. He'll never have his healed off. He's not going to forget what happened in Bosnia, in some ways needs the reminder. Is maybe a little proud of the one Alexander stitched up, now that it's part of a tattoo. (See? I didn't have anyone heal it!)

<<It's never really done. Kind of like a forest that gets destroyed by a fire. There'll always be another fire. And another forest after it. That's just the cycle.> Bitter amusement colors the landscape, reflects on the scintillating stars which are Alexander in pale shades of pink and lavender from a sunset. <<This is part of why Itzhak and I aren't afraid of going over there. Of the prospect.>> No attempt to defend that, just an addendum. Going through things like this ruins one's perspective.

Alexander grins at the brush of the idea of the scar being incorporated into a tattoo. There's a brief flash of a new one he's picked up - the lightning from the organist, turned into a peculiarly beautiful fractal pattern of reddened, darkened skin on his shoulder. He's oddly proud of this one, despite it having come from losing a fight rather than winning one.

<<Yes. I suppose. I don't have to like it, though,>> Alexander's mental voice is dry, his desire for clarity that remains clear an ache in the back of the words. For all his outward dishevelment, he's a creature of precision and desire for accuracy and stability underneath it all. The great cycle of nature just...kinda sucks. <<I just worry that you might not come back. I will always worry.>>

August starts laughing. Really laughing. Maybe he's a little emotionally exhausted. <<Oh, I don't like it at all.>> He wipes at his eyes. <<I'm just too used to it, I think.>> So when They come, when They threaten and they claw at him, now, he sits quietly, and thinks back, meet me in the pit//.

A flicker of wonder at the scar. Who cares, it's lovely. And a similar one, this in white, branching out onto someone's arm and side. Itzhak's. <<Speaking of being careful when we're over there.>> August's tone is dry as a summer desert. He's done being upset and worried about whatever it was that happened. Something about a satyr and a unicorn and Isolde. It's muddled.

<<I don't mind that you worry. I would, in your place. And we'll always do our damnedest to come back. Always.>> To come back to all of them, he means: FinchIgnacioEleanorAlexanderIsoldeRebecca. <<I don't have any intentions of dying over there, or getting lost. And I'll always make sure, in whatever way I can, no one else does.>> Silence, for a time. Then, <<But I think we have to start working against Them and Theirs in whatever ways we can. And that means gathering up knowledge. Spreading it around, recording it. That's where these kinds of things really start.>> Well maybe it's not a surprise he's with Eleanor, in the end.

He groans in his nest of pillows. "Want some lunch?" he asks, out loud. "I've got some dove poppers, and some leftover elk chili, sourdough..."

The laughter makes Alexander start - as always, there's that flicker of alarm, suspicion, like the joke is mocking or at his expense. But the mind link soothes those fears faster than usual, and he chuckles along with him, although he also sounds tired.

Then worried, as there's the mention of Isolde. Instant protectiveness, even as he chides himself <<...she's an adult, she's a survivor, she doesn't need a watcher...> but he still probes sharply at that flash of something, before he can stop himself, his entire being shifting to something more aggressive for a moment before he pulls back. <<She's okay, though?>> He makes himself ask. Not try to take.

And then a flicker of fear, and worry, about the idea of working against Them. But not necessarily disagreement. He shifts to out loud as August does. "All of that sounds amazing. Yes please. And if there's ever an apocalypse, can Isabella come up and hide out with you?"

August reacts to Alexander's start first with surprise, then a brief reassurance. No, no mockery from him. His mockery is reserved for people's questionable decisions, particularly of the relationship flavor. (A brief hint that he laughed a lot when he realized Itzhak and Ruiz had hooked up.)

It turns out, at least on this, August doesn't entirely mind the demand for knowledge. Even relates to it; in Alexander's place, about Itzhak or Eleanor, his reaction wouldn't be much different. As it turns out, Isolde is more than okay: she was the hero. Traded with a raccoon, healed Itzhak of a deadly injury with her lightning. (Her lightning.) August doesn't know the fine details. Something about kissing a satyr? <<You should ask her about it. It sounded crazy.>>

August eases out of the nest of cushions, gives Alexander a confused, amused look. "Yeah, sure. Assuming this is still standing." No request for clarification on the apocalypse's timetable.

They'll get to that.