2019-12-11 - Bribes and Boxes

For a place Carver described as 'Hectic', 13 Bayside Road is both deathly quiet and near impeccably clean, apart from a few stacked plates on the coffee table showing signs of at least two people mainlining grilled cheese sandwiches as of late. Oh, and tea. Two mugs sit beside the stack, one still steaming with half-filled liquid, the other drained dry in a hurry a short while ago.

As for the owner himself? It's casual house attire as he slumps on one of the two couches with an old, worn looking paperback, the large TV mounted to the wall playing some black and white film set to mute. No waistcoat. No watch. No comfortable coat. Just a pair of dark navy sweatpants and a slightly creased black tee that states in faded print: 'World's #1 Dad'. Carver either thrifts, or just outright steals clothing when he visits people. Or he's a dad. Only one of those options is truly terrifying.

The front door is unlocked and free to open, what with the expectation of guests and the fact a temporary roommate doesn't have a key yet.

Alexander is the last one to critique someone else's fashion choices. He still looks like an Army reject in his oversized olive green jacket, and underneath that is a hideous pink and black sweater and faded jeans. He is, however, carrying a canvas bag in one hand that clinks gently when he walks, and a baker's dozen of donuts in a cardboard box in the other. Thank heavens it's not raining, because there's no sign of a car. He walks without hesitation up to the door of 13 Bayside, but once there, he frowns at it a bit. A knock is arranged, after sliding the bag handles to his wrist, but when the door opens at the touch, he pushes it open just slightly. "Mister Carver?"

Carver's head doesn't so much snap up as slowly rotate skywards, catching the sight of the swinging door once the knock stirs him from whatever sentence he was reading. It's a copy of Hitchhiker's, and it damn near looks like a copy he's owned for decades. A glance only quickly shifts to the stack of plates before the gaze drops back to the barest view of Alexander outside the doorway, whatever urge to clean up the only sign of mess in the house passing as soon as it arrived. "Come on in, mate! Door's... uh, open. Obviously."

"Thank you." Alexander sidles inside like a thief, pausing just at the threshold to take a long look around. Only once he's reassured himself does he come the rest of the way in, and gently close the door behind him. "I didn't see your cat. I thought I might have, once, but when I went to look, it was gone. I told it to go home, anyway, just in case." He makes his way towards the table, and puts the bag and box on some of the empty space, careful not to touch the tea or plates, like they might be being artfully displayed for some reason, and he doesn't want to ruin it. "Would you like a root beer?" he asks, reaching into the bag and pulling out a bottle, waggling it vaguely in Carver's direction.

The grabby hands for the offered bottle are instant, the restraint in the motion from Carver coming only after a moments realization at the lack of decorum. Grabby hands turn into seat-offering hands towards the second couch instead, with all memory of wanting to clean the plates vanishing at the sight. "In fairness, telling a vague shadow you barely noticed to go home is usually a pretty smart idea anyway. Especially if it listens."

He de-slouches mid-sentence to sit something a little more akin to upright in the seating, brushing out a few creases from his shirt and taking the offered bottle at last with a slightly delicate touch. "Appreciate this, Mr. Clayton. To what do I owe?"

"It's my experience that no one ever listens when I tell them to do anything, Mister Carver. And that goes double for shadows." Alexander's voice holds more than a trace of self-mocking humor as he grabs two bottles from the bag, and follows the gesture to move towards the second couch, pausing only long enough to hand over a bottle before he sits down. His is less a slouch than a crouch, a bit wary and hunched, his elbows coming to rest on his knees as he watches Carver.

"You don't. Owe, I mean. I've meant to do it for a while," Alexander says, with a shrug. "Since you offered the information on the Collector. Wanted to say thank you. I just got busy and distracted. I'm sorry." His smile is a flickering, tentative thing. "Glad you're still alive, and have not become a giant baby's pacifier or some other terrible and improbable fate."

"Ah, but we can always live in hope that one day, maybe someone will." Carver grins, taking the offered bottle and raising it Alexander's way in a slight combination of salute and toast before working the cap. Well, beginning to work the cap, remembering there's a book on his lap, placing the book carefully on the table and then actually opening the damn drink. Any inspection or observation of Alexander's mannerisms or posture seem to linger for mere instants, although for the most part his attention seems settled on the man's face between bouts of glancing up and behind him to the second floor landing. Probably for the cat.

"Don't mention it." He finally offers after two exceedingly appreciated sips, gripping the bottle by the neck and letting it hang from the tips of three fingers. "You came, you asked. It's amazing what that can get you."

While the root beer is not one of the really fancy brands, it's not store brand either, and is perfectly serviceable, with a bit of a bite to it. Alexander opens his own, and takes a sip. He's not nearly as circumspect in his study of the other man or his book. He twitches a glance towards the second floor landing every time Carver does, though, which at least breaks up the bouts of staring. "I always ask. Usually it gets me dirty looks and threats regarding restraining orders." Another of those half-smiles before he takes another sip. "So. Not entirely displeased to have another reaction. How have you been?"

"I ignore those for the most part." Carver mutters, a slight creep at the corner of his lips. "If I didn't I'd never get anything done." The additional sips of his drink suggest that Alexander found that perfect middle ground for root beer. Not mass manufactured for sole profit, but no so pretentious as to be just nonsense in a sugar-sweetened bottle. A good choice made. "There was a gargoyle in here a few days ago, neighbours are complaining about the cat, I now have two roommates where I used to have none, and I'm pretty sure someone's starting up an army."

The man's lips purse up and he throws Alexander the briefest noncommittal shrug before bringing the bottle back up to his mouth. "How 'bout you, Clayton?"

"The restraining orders?" Alexander's shoulders twitch in a shrug. "So do I. But they're annoying anyway. Especially in a town where most locals can identify you on sight, and can still make angry calls to your parents." He takes another swallow. "The sudden roommate thing is...startling. Sorry. I did offer Bennie a place as long as she likes, but..." he frowns. "She did not like. What sort of army? And who?"

The question makes him frown at the bottle, like he might find the answer there. Eventually, he says, tonelessly, "A lot of the people I like are hurting and angry, or quietly self-destructing, and probably lying to me about one or all of the above. My girlfriend is being quietly taunted by an older gentleman of power and ill-intent, and she probably wants me to go to a cocktail party - both of these are almost equally terrifying. I spent several hours disarming traps laid by an animated Elf on the Shelf." A thin, sharp smile. "You know. It's the holidays."

"I'm a non-entity that has zero opinion of the lass one way or another, mate." Carver pipes up in regards to Bennie, throwing Alexander another shrug. The two of them might as well be sat on the couches just shaking shoulders at this point. Deconstruct the conversation completely. "She knows you won't judge her or her actions, but there'll always be that little voice of 'Oh he thinks less of me.' Unfair on you both as it is."

He burps. Very lightly. At least he has the wherewithal to cover his mouth with the back of a hand. "Meanwhile I'm a weird Brit and her partner's my roommate. Who gives a fuck what opinions I have when I've already seen the two of them make a staggered crawl of shame up the stairs." Wait. He blinks. Alexander asked something else in the middle there-"Pretty sure it's puppets." His eyes narrow as his gaze drifts up to the ceiling. "Army of puppets. Yeah. Sounds about right."

It looks like he's about to offer some advice, or maybe insight, or even possibly just a 'Sucks, man.' regarding Alexander's reply to how he's doing. But that never comes. Right as his mouth creeps open to speak, a distinctly Sutton-Esque voice comes from behind the door to the main bedroom after an almost witch-like cackle.

'They airbrushed that on!'

Which means that Alexander instead just get an apologetic look. "She has grilled cheese, three bags of white cheddar Cheetos, and Magic Mike XXL."

"That's stupid," Alexander says, with a frown. "Why would I think less of her? I--" he frowns. "Never mind. Sorry. Not your problem, and probably not your idea of a fun conversation with a near stranger. I'm trying to be better about that." He takes another swallow of his root beer. "An army of puppets? ...okay. Explain that, whether it's boring or fun or not. Please. I hated Pinocchio."

And then there's the voice. Alexander twitches, rising just a little bit out of the seat before he a) recognizes the voice, and b) Carver helpfully provides context. His gaze goes in that direction. "That. Um. Well. That sounds like an enjoyable evening, I suppose." There's amusement as he looks back at Carver. "How are you holding up, then? With the sudden invasion?"

"Of course it's stupid." Carver agrees, taking only a mild little delight in Alexander's disgust at the idea of it. "Friendship sometimes is. Meaning always is. I don't give a fuck what Barry down at the Safeway thinks of me when I run six extra large cucumbers, a box of condoms and an economy size bag of jello mix through the till. But Sutton, or..." He pauses. Thinks for a second. "Sutton is a whole different story. ...Fuck me I need more friends."

He's almost forgotten his own drink during all that, and casts a glance down at his hand with a little touch of surprise to find the bottle there. Ah well. Drink up! "An' the puppets thing? Ah. That's just an asshole getting uppity. You know the schtick. 'Ach, mein vork is unappreciated. I vill show zem all!'" Fifth shrug of the evening? Fifth shrug of the evening. "Guy'll probably be eaten by his own creations in a month or so."

As for the invasion upon his household? Carver just offers the guy a genuine smile. Teeth and everything. "Fuck it. At least these two have faces."

"Jello does not make good lubrication, Mister Carver. Too much sugar." This is said with complete seriousness by Alexander, although there's a glimmer of humor in his eyes. "But no. I understand. The more you care about people, the less you want to break their image of you. But it leads to lying and hiding things. And I find lying to be annoying, and hiding things only makes me want to find out what is being hidden." He leans back, doing something like relaxing in the chair. "Friends are nice. Frustrating and painful. But nice."

His head tilts to one side as the conversation swirls back around to the army of puppets. "Mad scientist disease. Ah, okay. If he starts trying to get his creations to eat anyone else, let me know? I don't like that." Then he pauses at the smile, blinking a couple of times. "Do your guests usually not?"

It's possible Carver's noting down that jello fact. In reality, he's realizing that Sutton would just ask him why he didn't also get strawberry jam and marshmallow fluff. Go big or go home, and all that. "I'll be sure to let you know, Clayton. Although-" The bottle comes up to hover just below his chin, fingers rocking the glass gently back and forth. "Sometimes what folks really need to get a little perspective on things is a sudden influx of marionettes in their bedrooms."

The sip that follows is long, and quite obviously bait for a response.

"And usually, no. I've seen more skulls in the past week than the medical examiner, I think. Nice guys."

A response is a thing he gets, because Alexander's expression goes blank. "No. No killer puppets." A pause. "Or even scary puppets. Especially in people's bedrooms. Sleeping in this town is hard enough already." His own fingers tap along the glass of his bottle in a complex and nervous rhythm, just thinking about that, and he shifts uneasily in his seat. "Can I ask you...have you ever met someone who could rob a place of...abilities. Make a null space?"

"And I wouldn't count the medical examiner out. New guy's pretty keen. Good work ethic."

Ah, there's the question. Carver's been waiting for it ever since Alexander arrived. The smile creeps wider, and the man sinks somewhat deeper against the couch, slowly taking a few languid sips from the rapidly diminishing contents of his bottle. "Yup."

Simple as. Wait...

"Met a couple. Useful little trick." The hand comes up to wipe at the bridge of his nose for a moment. "But that's a couple. In a very, very long span of time." Finally, there's a sniff. "The ME often talk to 'em?"

Alexander waits. Not patiently. His feet tap on the floor and the tension gradually rises in him until it feels like he might be considering launching himself out of the chair and shaking the rest of the response out of Carver. That tension dissipates in a rush of air as a sigh when Carver does elaborate. His shoulders droop, and he takes a swallow from the bottle. "No. I mean. I don't know if Yule talks to his dead people or not. It doesn't seem relevant unless they talk back." He takes another swallow, finishing it off. "There's a fellow wandering around. Favors sunglasses at night and indoors, and top hats, and yellow flowers. He turned Isabella's houseboat into a dead zone and killed a guy who was just trying to live his life with his new wife. Unfortunately, I don't think he's going to have the courtesy to get eaten by his own creations."

Oh.

Well.

That gets Carver's attention. The entire ME topic is thrown aside in an instant, the man leaning forward onto his elbows in something of a mimicry of Alexander's initial pose. Face... well, face as attentive as Alexander may have ever seen it, with no sign of that easy smile. For a second. It's impossible to keep down for long, and soon there's a slow creep along his features once more. "Clayton, I figure I've got the best shot at this sinking in with you moreso than anyone else in this town. You seem the kind to weigh up options and consider all the angles. So please, consider this with all the words I offer you..."

He burps once more. Root beer was a terrible choice for this.

"Blanking out a space is hard. Cutting something off from the world like that? I only ever did it once, and that was to myself. I know a few names. A few things. A smattering of those capable of it. Out of thousands. Do not-" He raises a finger. It points. It points pointedly. You are pointed at, Alexander Clayton. "-Do not go in to this half-cocked and eager."

Alexander is pointed at. He stares at the finger like it might shoot lightning. Or fire. Or possibly watermelons. Look, it's Gray Harbor. You never know. "That's what I thought," he murmurs, quietly. His gaze ticks back up to Carver's, and he nods. "That's not all. Before this, he kidnapped Isabella. Turned her into some sort of living fucking battery and damned near shattered her mind in the process. Because he was intrigued." There's a cold fury in the investigator's words. "I met him afterwards. I didn't...I talked to him. Asked him to leave. Nicely." A pause. "And he went and killed an innocent, instead."

Then he takes a deep breath, and lets it out. "But I'm not saying--I know it's not your problem, Carver, and I'm not asking you to--for anything. Thank you for confirming what I suspected. Mostly, I just wanted you to know, because I know you go over to the other side pretty regularly, and this guy seems to have a lot of comfort with both sides. Some of his flowers came from there, things like that. And I think he...likes...people he considers interesting or unusual. Just wanted you to know, in case you do run into him. So you're not ambushed."

Carver stands. Not until he's done listening to all that Alexander's willing to offer forth, mind you, but he stands, his face never really changing from that easy smile despite all of the detail thrown his way. "You hold on to that fury in your tone, Alexander." He offers back, spinning the neck of the bottle around in his fingers for a moment before finishing off the last of the drink and bee-lining straight for the kitchen. "But you keep it tucked away. You're not wrong to feel it, but no good ever comes when you use it in haste."

Preaching to the choir, of course, but Carver is oh so very good at that.

"You just hold yourself in that chair for a minute, and I might have a little something to help you out."

Did you know 13 Bayside road has a basement? Not too many folks do, unless they've seen Carver enter or exit it before. There's a small trap with a loop latch next to one of the kitchen counters that leads down into the beach-side bluff the house sits atop, and that'd be where Carver disappears for a moment, leaving Alexander all by his lonesome.

When Carver stands, so does Alexander, in a nervous instinctive move, although at least he doesn't fall immediately into a defensive posture. "...you're not wrong," he mutters, but with an undertone of 'I'll make all the horribly self-destructive decisions I want, damn it'. He does sort of freeze in place when Carver says hold, expression wary. "I said you didn't have to--" nope, now he's gone.

And does Alexander stay in one place like a good guest? Nope. He picks up his bottle and goes for the kitchen himself. Ostensibly to throw the bottle away, but mostly to snoop around, as much as he can without actually opening anything. And he only avoids that by shoving his hands in his pockets against the urge to pull open all the cabinets and look under the furniture.

The kitchen is disappointingly normal, even upon a good and thorough hands-free snoop from someone used to snooping. There's a small perforation in the only non-stone coated wall in the dining room, sure, but that's about it. That and the pair of yellow eyes that appear at about knee height at the sliding glass door to the balcony for a few moments. But everyone has those. Not even worth a second glance. Probably a cat fighting Hope for turf.

It takes about a minute for the sound of footsteps against the wooden stairs down to the basement, all that can be seen down the hatch being more stone walls, railing-less stairs, and a hint of deep thick carpet at the bottom. Planting one hand on the floor of the kitchen to haul himself out of the slightly narrow gap, Carver's other hand contains a small metal and glass box, carefully clasped for fear of breakage as he pulls himself upright, swinging the hatch shut behind him without even so much as a glimmer of surprise at Alexander naturally having migrated to the kitchen.

The box is offered out immediately. The metal is delicate edge work and filigree frame, and the sides, base and lid are a slightly cloudy glass. It fits pretty easily in the palm, a rectangle roughly 3x2 inches. "Here. Null box. Slap something in there you pull out of the other side, and it's as inert as a rock." Well. That's handy. "Caveats: It only works on ONE thing. Once. Depending on the thing, it can wear out. Someone takes it back out? You're fucked."

Of course, he's also only offering the one. And it's easily noticeable that such a thing could have, say, easily contained a certain gem.

Alexander considers the perforation, and then freezes as he sees the yellow eyes. He watches them until they go away. Or at least, until they can't be seen, which is a little less comforting. Then he finishes his sweep, his attention coming to rest on the trapdoor and the sound of footsteps. He stays clear of the trap, aside from a curious glance downward, and avoids Carver entirely as he returns to the first floor.

The box is not taken immediately. He considers it with a blank expression, before finally reaching out and plucking it gently from Carver's grip, careful not to let their fingers brush. "So. It's like a Faraday cage, but for a Veil item?" A flickering smile. "Thanks, Mister Carver. I'm sure it will be useful. What would you like in return?" He handles it carefully. His eyes flick back up to watch the other man's face. And because, gratitude or no gratitude, he's never met a tactless question he didn't ask, "Did you have this when Miss Winslow was dealing with the ring?"

Carver hisses in a little breath that lets out a soft whistle between a gap in some back teeth. "It was... available." He offers, stepping back once the box is free to lean up against the kitchen counter. Doesn't know much about Alexander, this guy, but he gives space when it's clearly needed. Well, that and it's always good if someone decides to throw a quick right hook. There's a reason those teeth whistle. "But not proximate. I had no intention of lingering in this town for long, and certainly not living here. Most of the more esoteric items I own were three states over in a security shed on reservation grounds."

Which isn't a 'I couldn't have gone and got the damn thing.' And he knows it. His face shows it. "Fact of it is, Mr. Clayton, that these are not easy to come by. Even harder to make. I'd hazard a guess to say the body count that went in to the thing you hold in your hand right now is far, far higher than that ring could ever hope of reaching. But that was just an object. This? This is something with intent."

That's right, no offer on what he'd want in return. The Carver way.

"I feel like one day I'm going to have to clear the account of why I did what I did with that damn ring."

At least, while Alexander still has that cold rage stirring inside of him, it's not directed at Carver, so there aren't any attempts at violence. Although his eyebrows do go up a little as the other man explains more of the circumstances behind the box. "I don't blame you. For not wanting to stay, or get involved. This place is crazy." He looks down at the box, turning it delicately in his hands so that he can inspect it from every angle. "What is its intent, Mister Carver? Will feeding it something cause a larger problem later?"

Look. Alexander always assumes magic is trying to kill him. So far, it's worked for him.

He looks back up at the last. "Probably. Miss Winslow's father died, and while no one would call him an innocent, he didn't...no one really deserves what happened to him, or the other fellow. We handled the rest of it okay, but I wish we could have stopped it sooner, before anyone died. But it wasn't your job, Mister Carver, and you weren't obligated to interfere."

"Oh, not the box, Alexander. Whoever this person is. The ring was just an object. Misplaced, certainly, but unlikely to visit you in the middle of the night." Carver is the kind to assume that glimmer and the like is going to kill someone. Usually the person who uses it. His eyes do glance to the box once more, though. "But, seriously, pretty sure souls..." A glance up to make eye contact. "Like, souls souls went in to the creation of that thing. There have been a lot of favours traded for it. If I find you used it to contain a gumball or something, Hope will be paying you a visit."

The basement has tens of them.

"Byron is pissed at me because I said I'd take it away from her. And I didn't." Carver actually slips himself up to sit on the counter now, legs dangling in a remarkably childlike fashion for a guy edging on 40. "Fact of it is? I could have taken that thing out of state. I could have throw it through a doorway to that other side and slammed it shut behind me. I could have buried it under twenty meters of freshly poured concrete, Alexander. And you know what that would have accomplished?"

And here? Here, Alistair Carver looks both resolute... and so very guilty. "She would have killed anyone in her way. Everyone in her way. Best I could do was have something keep an eye on her. Until she fucking up and vanished."

Alexander is suddenly holding the box a lot more carefully. And there's the clear desire to just hand it back and say, fuck no, man, I don't need the soul box.

But he doesn't. Because the clear, cold little voice in his head that says you might need the soul box is just a little bit louder than the immediate emotional response - or maybe he just wants this mysterious fellow stopped so badly that the desire overrides the disgust and fear. Either way, after a moment, he very carefully places it in one of the oversized pockets of his oversized jacket, and closes the flap over it. "You're saying that the only way for the compulsion to be broken was for it to finish its cycle - it couldn't be interrupted by just removing the ring from their presences." He studies Carver's expression. "I don't have any evidence to refute that. I don't even necessarily think that you're wrong about it. But I also feel like maybe I'm not the person you need to tell."

Then he smiles. It's a brief one, but the warmest expression he's had since he got here. "But, thanks for saying it, anyway. And for the horrible soul box. I do appreciate them both. And I hope you enjoy the donuts and root beer." He looks towards the rooms where Sutton was last heard. "Give my regards to Bennie and Miss Sutton, if you would? I'm glad they have someone they can depend on."

Carver gives a little salute, tapping his forehead with the side of his fingers as Alexander makes obvious moves to depart, swinging his dangling legs back and forth in front of the counter. "Will do, Alexander. Bennie will be pleased to know you asked after her, I'm sure."

Almost like all other topics are as gone and forgotten as the yellow eyes at the window, as quick as they came.

But, let's be honest, this is Carver, so a last word is totally required. And, in fact, offered as he shows Clayton to the door.

"And if it makes you feel any better, I promise you, they were not 'good' souls. It's nice knowing something out there is putting those arseholes to good use, hrm?"