2020-01-10 - We Should Really Form a Book Club

With Isabella and August's information, it's not hard for Alexander to pinpoint where Ruiz's new cabin is. Getting there is another matter; it's a long damned hike through the cold rain and slush that is the bounty of Gray Harbor winter, not to mention dodging cars and - as he gets closer to the woods - logging and industrial trucks from the mills. It's a good thing he's wearing layers, but it doesn't stop him from being somewhat soaked through and cold by the time he reaches the lovely little A-frame cabin. He stops from his careful, pained gait and studies it, looking for signs of life - he's done his best to sync his arrival with Ruiz's off hours, but with the job of a police captain being what it is, he has no control over whether the man's been called back into work to deal with something, or has just decided to stay over at someone else's house or go out for a night on the town.

It probably would have been smart to call or text ahead, but instead, Alexander seems to be putting himself into the hands of wayward fortune.

Going out for a night on the town has become a less and less frequent occurrence for the captain. For a multitude of reasons, not the least of which.. he's fucking tired a lot of the time.

Late in the afternoon, the sleet's shifted to that cold, hard rain, and he is indeed home. Puttering about in the kitchen, no less, like the domesticated creature he isn't. A flicker of movement outside draws his gaze, and he flicks his eyes up from his phone, and squints slightly like he isn't sure he's seeing right. With a sigh blown out his nose, he tosses his phone on the counter and goes to push the front door open. "Alexander?" Warmth floods out of the cabin, along with the smell of cinnamon sugar and something or other baking. "The fuck are you doing out there?"

Alexander takes a step back when the door opens, and offers a quick sort of smile. "Javier. Hi." He sniffs the air. "You're baking. What are you baking?" His hands are in his jacket pockets against the cold, but instead of his usual slump, he's standing unusually straight. "I wanted to come by. See your new place. Say hi. Thank you for coming to the party. Get that book." All of it said in the same quick monotone. "May I come in?" He scuffs the ground with one foot. "I didn't bring a coffee. I thought about it, but it's a longer walk. I thought I might drop it."

He opens the door, and is immediately greeted with a litany of questions. And answers layered upon answers, with get that book not-so-cleverly concealed in the pearl of that oyster. A glance down at Alexander's booted foot, then back up to his face, with a look on his own like you have got to be fucking kidding me.

Finally, "Fine. Come on in. Shoes off. You want some coffee?" He's starting to look a little cold, holding the door open like that, and dressed only in a ratty tee shirt and sweatpants. Dark hair askew, and slightly damp like he'd recently washed it.

"Thank you. And yes. God, yes. Coffee, please." There's stark relief on Alexander's face for a moment when Ruiz says come on in. He steps inside promptly, and bends over to work his boots off - something which prompts a litany of quiet, pained cursing until they're off and he can straighten up again. He steps carefully, almost daintily off to one side - his socks are thick, thermal things, with tiny planets and stars on them. Don't judge. "How are you?"

Oh, he's definitely judging. His look, though, is amused. And perhaps even a little bit appreciative, though damned if he'll admit to it. "Well enough," is his non-answer as he thumps the door shut, sealing out the miserable cold and wet. The deadbolt's thrown, and he pads back into the kitchen to fetch a mug from one of the cupboards and fuss with the espresso machine. "How'd you know where to find me?" seems almost a pointless question, because it's Alexander.

There's a well-appointed living room in some stage of being unpacked still; dark leather couch with a pale wool throw, newish looking rug underfoot, high pile. No television, but a few boxes stacked against one wall, and a closed laptop on the couch. The place is mostly heated by virtue of the wood stove sitting in the centre of the room, currently crackling away. "Have a seat," he murmurs without looking over.

Alexander follows along behind Ruiz, although at a distance mandated by his need to stare openly at the man's new surroundings as if he's going to be quizzed about it. His eyes shift back to Ruiz at that question, and his eyebrows go up. "Was I not supposed to know? August and Isabella know." He reaches into his coat. "I brought you something. For the house." It's...a horseshoe. An honest to god iron horseshoe that looks at least fifty years old, although the rust has been cleared off and it's been cleaned and sealed against further tarnish. "For luck."

He puts the item carefully down on a flat, empty space, then moves to go sit down, back straight and careful, and his attention resting on the stove. "This reminds me of August's place. It's very nice."

It's a little smaller than August's, but, "It's a damn sight better than the fucking murder motel." Which it is. By leaps and bounds. Javier looks over his shoulder to find Alexander holding up a horseshoe, and furrows his brows a little. For luck. And it makes him smile slightly, for whatever reason. "Gracias," is murmured low, a moment's pause before he resumes his puttering with the coffee machine. "Milk or sugar?" Hand on the refrigerator as he asks the question.

That surprises a soft laugh out of Alexander. "Yes. There's not much that isn't better than the murder motel, Javier. I'm glad you have a place with a kitchen again. Isabella brought home tortilla soup. She said it was yours. It was excellent." A shake of his head at the offer. "Just black is fine. Right now, as long as it's hot, I'm happy." He runs a hand through his damp hair, looks back at the kitchen with open curiosity. "What are you baking? It smells like dessert."

Just black seems to be his own preference as well, and the fridge door is nudged shut again, Javier taking a lean against the kitchen counter as the coffee machine does its thing. "Glad you liked it," he offers up with a slight smile. Then for want of something to do with his hands, pats himself down for his phone, and does a quick check of his messages. "Churros. Promised Rosencrantz I'd make him some." He swipes a couple of times with his thumb. "Tell me why you want that book." His eyes tick over, and fix on Alexander steadily.

"I did," Alexander assures him. "And once we've worked through all the leftovers, I'm going to try something with the Instant Pot. I'm thinking chili. It's cold, and it seems simple enough." His eyes light up at the mention of churros. "I'm sure Itzhak will like them." At the question, of course, the smile dies. He stands up, and starts to pace through the living space. "Because Violet is dead. But she met her sister. At the Asylum. The other books made that clear. I need to know what happened after that. I have to find Alice, and either know that she is okay, or know that she...isn't. And won't be." He doesn't say 'dead', because at this point, it's not necessarily the thing he fears the most. "I promised Violet. That I would help." His eyes cut to the side, towards Ruiz. "So I need the book."

There's no comment on the instant pot, or Alexander's plans with it, though he does give what sounds like an approving grunt when chili's mentioned. His phone is eventually tossed back on the counter once the machine winds down, and a couple of cups full of steaming coffee brought back to the couch. "You need the book? Or you need what's inside it?" One cup's handed over, and he settles in and blows, sips.

Alexander stops pacing, at least long enough to take the cup that's offered. "Thanks," he murmurs, with a flicker of a smile. And the prospect of coffee has his restless movements subdued, just for a moment, as he blows on the cup and lets it cool. "I need the story that clings to it. The memories. You can have the book, if you like. I'll only need it for a bit." His mouth twitches. "Although if the sex scenes are shit, then I don't know why you'd want it."

"Has it occurred to you," murmurs the cop, after another, thoughtful sip of his coffee, "that I might have already read the fucking book?" His dark eyes track the other man as he paces, his own posture one of deceptive laziness. "Has it occurred to you not to treat me like a goddamned child with a toy that you want?" He blows, sips again. "You could have fucking asked me if I knew what was inside, rather than demanding I hand it over, like you're the only one capable of making sense of it."

"Of course you've already read it," Alexander says, with a puzzled sort of look at Ruiz. "I assumed you had. August read his, too, even though I told him he didn't want to, and I was right." A grumpy sort of satisfaction in that, an unsaid why does no one listen, that is nonetheless unsaid very loudly. He frowns at his own coffee, takes a sip. "But I want to read it. The other parts - there has been a feel, like an incomplete story. If I read it, I might know if this is the last book, or if there's more." He falls silent, then, and turns to stare directly at Ruiz. "I've never treated you like a child."

Despite Alexander's reassurance, Javier still looks irritated. Which is about par for the course for him, to be fair. "Bookcase, third shelf down, on the right." Yes, he's finally gotten his bookcase reassembled and stocked up with reading material that most would be hard-pressed to believe he's ever heard of, much less enjoys. Poetry volumes, literature from a variety of cultures, even a few religious tomes. Not much in the way of mass market paperbacks; the one in question sticks out like a sore thumb. "Do you.. think.. we actually went there?" he murmurs. "To the Asylum. I know we were talking about it, and I can't recall picking up that book elsewhere, but.." The memory is hazy, intangible. He frowns slightly.

Alexander takes another sip of coffee, before looking for a place and a coaster on which to put the mug down on. Once he's found somewhere safe, he goes to the bookshelf. Nosy bastard that he is, his fingers run lightly, almost like a caress, over the other books displayed, studying them with keen interest, before finally finding their way down to the paperback, which is carefully extracted. He looks down at the cover, opens it, checking for a sign of ownership. "Yes. I think we did. I have some notes I must have written while there. They're nonsense without context - something about souls and constructs and whether there's a difference. But we all have the same time missing. So. Yes. I think we went." He stands up, turns back to the cop. "What did you see?" A waggle of the book, making it clear what he means.

No coasters. He's not that sort of man. But there is something resembling a coffee table that looks built by hand. Probably not his hands. Ruiz remains seated as Alexander goes rifling about for the book, an occasional sip of coffee, those dark eyes still fixed on the other man more than the tomes he's rifling through. "Maybe," he concedes, quiet. An absent shake of his head. "I just can't remember anything about it. Not a single thing. I tried, and.." He doesn't finish that sentence. Instead, his own cup set down and his fingers scruffed through his still-damp hair.

"A girl. Blonde. Kind of.." He gestures as if to say frizzy. "Very dead. Though the memory of her was speaking, said something about a doctor having killed her. That they needed to get out. That someone could get them out." Here, he looks contemplative, like he's trying to bring the rest of it to mind.

Alexander takes a deep breath, goes still. Pain tightens the features of her face. "Violet. That was Violet. It might have been her twin, Alice, speaking. They were identical." His expression shifts, becomes hard. "A doctor." The hand not carrying the book curls briefly into a fist. Then, with another deep breath, relaxes. He moves back to reclaim his coffee, and take a sip as his thumb plays over the pages. He makes no attempt to read the book himself, not in company. "I can't remember, either. Nor could Isabella. Or August. There's a fellow, Cavanaugh, who just came to town. Says that the memories feel corrosive - trying to remember, I mean. Dr. Stevenson seems to agree, but in different words."

Acknowledgement, in the form of a rumbled sound in his throat. His hand drags over his face with a scrape of his palm against rough, short beard. He's had to grow it back out, after shaving it off for that ridiculous Gatsby-themed event Itzhak dragged him to. Mention of Cavanaugh prompts a bit of a visceral response in him, though one that's mostly stifled. Might not even be noticed at all.

"They're running through a maze of hallways," he continues eventually, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. Voice slightly muffled as he speaks into his fingers. "Fair skinned hand in a darker one. So much grief, it's.." The memory of it makes him swallow hard. "Alarms blaring, loud. Terrifying. Someone pushes a door open, and shoves the blonde girl out. Into what, I don't know."

There's more, probably, but he needs a minute, heart hammering a mile a minute in his chest.

Caught by his worries over the Asylum stories, and what might be in the vision held in the book, Alexander misses the response to Cavanaugh's name. "Escape from the Asylum, maybe." He takes a breath, focuses back on Ruiz. "I'm sorry. That you had to feel that. It hasn't been pleasant. You...don't have to say more, if you don't want to." But it does make him return to the couch, and sit near the older man, not touching, but close by, his back still carefully straight rather than his preferred hunch.

It's brief. There and gone again in the blink of an eye. Ignoring Alexander's assurance that he doesn't have to say more, Javier does in fact continue. "There’s a brick building in front of her on a street with a single spruce tree. No name over the door. Just a bright red neon 'OPEN' sign in the dark window, and one of the letters is out. I.. can't remember which one." He drags his hands off his face, breathes out unsteadily, and reaches for his coffee. "And she's alone." Sip. "That's all I managed to see."

"...huh. Back here, maybe? I wonder." Alexander's frown grows deeper, despite the coffee. "If it were familiar to you, you'd have recognized it," he reasons, "so if it is a part of the town, probably a back road or something that you haven't been often, or at all, maybe, yet. Interesting." He takes another drink, then offers a tentative smile towards Ruiz. "Thank you. For telling me. And letting me borrow the book. I wonder why you all took them." He stares for a moment longer. "Your beard is growing back. It looks nice."

Ruiz shakes his head as if to say, I don't know. "De nada," he offers eventually, to the thanks. No enlightenment's offered, as to why he took the book. Why any of them did. His look shifts to one of mild confusion when his beard's commented on, though it clears a moment later. "Oh. Uh." It's scratched at with his blunt fingernails. "Thanks."

Alexander grins, a quick burst of amusement at Ruiz's confusion. "You and Itzhak looked good. At the dance," he says, hands cupping his coffee mug. A pause. "You got my e-mail? The other one. About Peregrine. Would you be willing to meet with us and talk about him? And what we're going to do about him?" A pause. "He seems to live - or at least have a holding - Over There, so getting to him isn't easy." He clears his throat. "Unless you're an idiot and stumble right in, which I don't recommend. There are snakes."

He and Itzhak. Like they're a thing. And they sort of are, and it makes him smile slightly without quite realising he's doing so. "Huh?" when an email's mentioned, because his mind was clearly elsewhere for a moment there. "Meet with who?" His eyes narrow a fraction, and he runs his tongue along his back teeth before sipping again at his coffee. "Yeah, I could.. I wouldn't mind coming. To talk." Then a few quieter words, half-mumbled like he's not quite sure he wants Alexander to hear them, "Yeah, not planning on doing that again."

Alexander nods. "Isabella thinks that Peregrine might be interested in people who were at the Church. That the hospital might have been a way to get at Erin, and then August and Eleanor. Isabella's already had an encounter with him. As have you, in his mind." It's said without any particular judgement, just - he knows. "And then I broke in on his hideout." That's more sheepish. "But. If it's the case, then Byron's the only one that hasn't had further contact with him. Since the first time." A pause. "But you shot him. So. Could go either way?"

Of course Alexander knows. Somehow, this doesn't seem to surprise him. "Roen talk to you?" he wants to know. Perhaps so he's clear on whether the guy needs to be tracked down and given a piece of his mind. Then again, perhaps not. "I can talk to Thorne, and see if he'll agree to some eyes on him." He means security. "But knowing him, he'll probably tell me to fuck off." Though not necessarily in so many words.

"I've got to head over to the precinct in a few. You need anything else?" His coffee's finished off, and he pushes to his feet slowly.

Alexander shakes his head. "No. August didn't say anything about it." He finishes off his own coffee in a couple of gulps, then rises to his feet. He moves towards the kitchen to quickly rinse out the cup and put it neatly on a drying rack, if such things exist in the new area. "No. I don't need anything else." It's toneless, and as soon as his hands are dry, he starts moving towards the door. "Sorry to have interrupted. Be safe on the roads? They're slick."

"Don't be a fucking idiot, I'll give you a ride out." He doesn't roll his eyes, but he's probably thinking about doing so. And there is a drying rack, with an assortment of cutlery and dishes that suggest he's had other visitors. "Come on." He goes to grab his coat and shove his feet into boots, apparently not planning on taking no for an answer.

Alexander hesitates, then bobs his head. "All right." A pause. "Thank you." A brief smile towards the cop, although he doesn't even tease about being allowed to drive. He just shoves the book into one of the deep pockets of his jacket, and then shoves his hands in after it, and watches Ruiz with a steady, dark gaze. "I appreciate the lift." And other than that, he does his best to be a good rider - he doesn't even eavesdrop TOO obviously on the police radio. He has his own at home, after all.