2020-01-17 - Men Are From Mars

It was nigh impossible to see Anne when she was initially admitted to Addington Memorial Hospital. She'd lost a lot of blood and the damage to her arm was significant. But be it through word of mouth or eventual texts that Anne was able to send, Isabella would be aware that Anne was stable and expected to make a full recovery. It would just be a long one.

It's been a day and a half or so now, though, and the hospital seems to be relaxing on their visitor policy. Anne's room is on the top floor of the hospital, overlooking the front parking lot. It's a private room, small and nothing fancy. It's obvious that someone other than Anne's been here - the 'visitor' chair has been pulled close to the bed, but is vacant now. There's a bouquet of overtly cheerful flowers on the side of the bed, your standard 'get well soon' arrangement. And then there's Anne, with bandages on her arm and on her foot, sitting up on the bed with a tray over her lap, frowning as she makes notes on a pad of paper that the nurses have brought her.

She had texted Anne that she would come to see her the moment she is allowed, and once informed that she is allowed, Isabella wastes no time coming.

While she hasn't elected to stay in the hospital - there's really only so much doctors can do with broken ribs save to administer painkillers and let them heal on their own - Alexander has done his best to convince her to stay in the house until she's at least well enough to move around without crying. This has led to a variety of experiments to stave off the boredom of being cooped up in one residence, so when the archaeologist arrives, she is moving slowly while carrying her own tokens for her friend - she has a few issues of National Geographic History, as well as a small vase of cheerful flowers and a ramekin filled with homemade dark chocolate pot de creme and a plastic spoon. There's no small measure of guilt when she espies the damage on her friend's arm, and her elevated foot.

"Hey Blue Eyes," she says, moving so she could carefully set the things she brought on the table next to her. "How are you feeling?" There's a glance at the other set of flowers.

There's a glance upward at the motion of the door, movement of pen across paper momentarily stilled in mid-letter. But once she spies Isabella there in the doorway, Anne brightens into a dimpled smile. "Hey," she waves her good hand, pen and all, to encourage Isabella in, the smile diminishing when she sees the slower movements. "I'm better today than I was yesterday. Alexander said you broke your ribs," and that brings about the frown as she shifts her pen and paper to the side, "You should sit down. You can have the chair? Patrick went to work," she tips her chin that-a-way. "I don't know if he'll be back."

"Yeah - it wouldn't be the first time, but there's only so many things a medical professional can do for those save to prescribe some really good painkillers and send me on my way. I'm more worried about you, though. What did the doctors say?" Isabella moves to take a seat on the chair vacated by Patrick. "I was really bored yesterday so I tried making Alexander dinner....again....for the dozenth time. I think I did okay? I did better with dessert - irony at its finest when I can manage to do those well despite not liking sugar very much." There's a hint of a smile as she arranges the magazine issues in a pile on the table next to Anne.

It's the wording that has her brows lifting upwards, more concern rippling visibly over her mien. "If he'll be back?"

"Yes, but the really good painkillers are really good," Anne remarks with a quiet laugh, more likely than not speaking from experience. The humor is short-lived though, lips curving back into a frown as she fusses with the magazines that Isabella's brought by. "They said I'll be okay. A couple more days and I can go home. I'm probably going to have a scar, but they said that's better than not having an arm." and there's a haunted look cast over the bandaged arm, brows furrowing together. "He said I was really lucky. The doctor." With a breath, she lays back towards her pillows, a slim shoulder rising in a quick shrug when Isabella asks of Patrick.

"He didn't say," if he'll be back. "There's a lot of things he said. But whether or not he'd be back wasn't one of them." She huffs out a sigh and abruptly changes the topic: "Alexander sent me a picture of the crabs."

It had been really close, and Isabella's jaw sets faintly at that, green-and-gold eyes falling on the side of the bed and her brows drawing down. "I'm sorry," she tells her quietly. "I should have moved faster the moment you got me over the fence." And there she was, thinking she was so clever. By all rights, Anne seems to be taking her injury in stride, but she knows how deceiving appearances can be. "Or figured out a way to pull down that fence. Something." Her fingers ball tightly in a fist on her lap without a thought, nails digging into the meat of her palm and leaving sharp, crescent impressions on her skin. After a moment, she speaks up, her voice taking on a more tentative note. "Anne if...we need to stop going there for a while..." Her voice trails off there.

Her consternated expression grows even more when Anne tells her Patrick didn't say, because of course he didn't and she release a quiet and aggrieved breath. "Alexander was in a bit of an ill mood last night after he texted you, and something about punching Patrick in the face," she confesses, up until the crabs come up. She groans. "Of course he did. He laughed his ass off and let me flounder for a bit while I chased the damned escape convicts with the cat, and they were for him!" But the glimmer of amusement evident in her expression suggests she doesn't mind it despite her bluster and outrage - she loves making him laugh hysterically, has even managed to do so at several occasions (and largely at her expense). It's just that getting dragged off by wild horses would be the only way she'd admit it.

Anne's quick to sit back up again on the bed, but with the elevation of her foot, it's hard to do more than just put herself in a position to look firmly into her friend's green-gold eyes. "No. No, Isabella, it's not your fault," she insists, reaching out with her good hand to try and catch Isabella's own. "I went through the hole, I made the decision to go in there unprepared in the first place. If you hadn't brought your gun, if you hadn't thought to throw it in the saws... I don't know what would have happened. But I didn't get hurt because of you, Isabella. If anything, I would've died if it wasn't for you." It's a firm belief, this isn't something spoken just to make her feel better. She gives Isabella's fingers a quick squeeze before she withdraws with a sigh, and casts her eyes back to the pad of paper she's been making notes on. If.. we need to stop going in there for a while..

"I still want to go," she admits quietly. "I still have so many questions. But I'm not suicidal," she'd said that to Alexander, too. "So if we go again, we go with a plan. With gear. I've been making a list. I'm not going to let any of us die in there, Isabella. I'm not going to let any of us get lost," she stresses those last two points, "But he doesn't understand. Patrick. He doesn't understand and I don't think he wants to. He said he didn't care. That he can't care. And I don't know if that means about me, or about this, or about anything.." she catches her breath, and her blue eyes start swimming, but she doesn't let the tears fall. Quietly, afterward: "But I want him to care. I want that more than I want anything else."

It's an emotional moment, so she's thankful for the laugh about Alexander and the crabs and the cat, even if the sound is mostly dry and hollow. "Alexander is a good friend," she says, and her smile to Isabella is genuine. "You both are. And you're good together."

There's no resistance when Anne catches her hand and for a moment, she's unable to meet her friend's eyes because she's reliving the moment of Anne being pulled towards the saws and being unable to stop it, her dazed, crystal-blue eyes staring out towards her while she screamed furiously. Impotently. But the lull is brief and she grips her hand tight, the rest of the words choked in the back of her throat; she doesn't know how to begin to describe it, knowing that the archivist made the decision to save her first...or how to explain to her that it wasn't the first time anyone had ever sacrificed themselves to make sure that a Dream didn't consume her, resulting in a loss that she will carry forever. "I don't think any one of us could ever be fully prepared as to what happens there," Isabella says quietly, instead, finally lifting her gaze to meet her friend's, virid turbulence within it. "But losing you would've been absolutely, entirely unacceptable."

She takes a breath, and she can't help but smile at her determination. "A standard gear list is a good idea and honestly, I think we know enough about what to expect across that we can at least come up with a few ideas as to what to bring." She searches her face. "Why is it that everyone I actually care about in this goddamn town so bloody stubborn?" she wonders with a hoarse little laugh, her expression laden with affection; not like she wouldn't be saying the same, but it's different on the other side of the fence. It's her vehemence, however, that catches her attention - it wouldn't be the first time she's heard of Patrick saying he doesn't or can't, and her hand reaches for Anne's again, if she allows. "I think Patrick's a liar," she murmurs. "When he says he doesn't care. And he's a lawyer, language is their foremost weapon. It's probably true when he says he can't care - there might be something about his mindset there that would make that an honest statement, but that doesn't mean that he thinks he shouldn't, or even that he doesn't no matter what he says. Otherwise he wouldn't be..." There's a glance at the flowers. "How we feel about other people...it's not like it's voluntary. It's not like we can control it with any degree of grace when it really gets going." After a breath, she looks up at Anne's face and curbs the urge to wipe at the dew starting to form, not until it falls, anyway. "Does he know? Your reasons...why you want him to understand, or care?"

Her words on Alexander has her smiling ruefully. "He doesn't think he's a good person," she tells her. "And completely stubborn when someone tries to tell him that. But I'm glad that you think he is. I keep hoping that if more and more people tell him that, he'd start to believe it."

"Losing any of us is absolutely, entirely unacceptable," murmurs Anne with some finality. Her hand goes easily into Isabella's once more as the archivist drags her teeth over her bottom lip, willing herself not to let the tears in her eyes fall down her cheeks.

Talking about Patrick - beyond the surface conversation - is difficult for her; maybe it's obvious that it's been a long time since Anne's had anyone to talk to about such things with. "I don't know," she admits as to whether or not Patrick's a liar, and she follows Isabella's glance to the flowers. "I want to believe that he cares. That he just can't say it for whatever reason. But maybe it would be easier if he was telling the truth. We could just continue on being.. whatever it is we are being, and eventually he'll leave again and it won't hurt as much as the last time, because he never cared and I've accepted that." But it's fairly clear in tone that that last part - about Anne accepting it - hadn't happened and probably wouldn't happen. But has she told him? Does he know her reasons? That makes her sigh once more. "I.. we don't.. talking isn't our specialty," she admits with some chagrin.

To the point of Alexander, Anne crinkles her nose. "I hope he realizes it someday. He's very well loved. I saw that at his birthday party."

Agreement flashes in her eyes at Anne's very final statement about people dying or getting lost in the Veil, and Isabella's burgeoning smile curls up higher on the corners of her mouth. There's another squeeze from her hand onto the archivist's own.

Hints of skepticism are evident especially when her friend tells her that she's accepted it, because really, she wouldn't be looking like she's about to cry if she had, and her jaw works in an attempt to find the words. "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride," she reminds quietly. "And...nothing worth having is easy to obtain, and it's even harder to keep. Honestly? I'm not a huge expert on the entire..." She gestures to the side. "...but I do sincerely believe that he does care. Psychologists say that body language is more truthful than the spoken word, and all. I don't know if he will ever tell you that he does, or come clean, but sometimes a person doesn't have to say it for you to know. And....I get it. Talking about this stuff is hard." There's a quiet grousing in turn. "Especially when one's got a temper and the other's avoidant as hell. But maybe...try, or keep trying until something gives. I know you have it in you to beat someone into submission." There's a teasing grin at her there. "You're fiesty, I've seen it." A more serious expression falls over her face quickly, however. "You already lost him once before, and you clearly still feel for him - if this is charting the same course as it did the last time, maybe it might be time to deviate from the past approach."

Anne's quiet as she listens, mulling over the advice given with the occasional glance back to the obnoxiously bright flowers at her bedside. But the idea of deviating from the past approach has her internally cringing, another sigh released into this tiny room to intersperse with the beeping of the monitors. "Maybe," she allows, but then she shakes her head. At least the talk of her being feisty earns Isabella a brief, bold grin. "I don't want to hurt him," she jokes. "Not really. Maybe just beat him a little bit." And with a laugh, and another huff of air, she leans back into her pillows.

"I did try, you know," it's after a bit of quiet, "To deviate a little. I told him he could leave a bag at my place. And the response was very much no. The sort of 'never going to happen' kind of no, and that was before all of this happened," there's a chin tilt to the bandaged arm. "So I imagine the response would be an even stronger no, now. He's ... he's vehemently against this, Isabella. My going there. My taking other people there," And therein lies a problem, her brows furrowing. "So maybe it's better to just.. let things be status quo. I want something more, but is that even possible when we're so far off about this?"

With Anne leaning back into her pillows, Isabella eases her hand away, and proceeds to fuss over Anne's blankets, to make sure that she's warm and comfortable enough - and will probably need to be batted away at it before long. She's a restless creature most days, and being worthless and useless in the face of her friend's very visible hurts is something she clearly can't abide until she's smacked on the nose with a newspaper.

All the while, she listens quietly and turns over the complicated history that her friend hints at with Patrick Addington. "Well, regarding the bag..." She pauses. "I had a very weird conversation with Alexander recently about keeping a drawer in my place because he was starting to keep things there for convenience's sake, and I knew how tidy he was, so I wanted to give him some manner of space that way he wouldn't lose any of his smaller items and he became wary instantly. Apparently, it means something? Of your willingness to turn what used to be your space into 'our' space and I thought it was kind of strange because that wasn't what I was thinking at all." She lived out of a suitcase for years, going on expeditions, she's taken up other people's drawers without thinking it means any more than that. "But if that's the default reasoning behind it, maybe it's the same for him? I'm only guessing, but...the two of you just found one another again and decided to....be somethings." She doesn't know how else to describe it. "It might be too soon to say something like that, even if that wasn't what you meant, because apparently people get weird about leaving things in other people's places and I'm just now learning about it." There's a look on her face that's both helpless and mildly exasperated, because she thinks it's dumb, and all of it seems an unnecessary reading into things that might not even exist.

But the crux of it is a serious one. "Notwithstanding the demands of normal survival instincts and good old common sense," she begins, with a self-deprecating smile. "Did he ever tell you why he is? Against it. And did you ever tell him why you're so willing to go despite the risks? I mean, I know you said talking isn't necessarily your strong points, but...even a hint, other than the fact that he's an Addington and this last Summer?" When Patrick lost his siblings.

"Men are very complicated," Anne mutters after Isabella's drawer story, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. What's funny is that the 'men' in this equation would both likely defend how simple they are, and it is instead the women who are difficult, which Anne proves with her next comment: "All I wanted him to do was leave a bag. Not because I wanted my space to be our space but because I want to feel like he wants something more than... whatever this is," she huffs, obviously a little irritated that Patrick can't read her goddamn mind. "But it's fine," no it wasn't. "It's fine that we're .. whatever we are. Friends. Or .. friends who frequently sleep together and one of us clearly has feelings and the other..!" Ugh. Boys.

"Sorry," she ahems about her outburst, rolls her shoulders back, and offers an appropriately apologetic frown to Isabella. "I'm just kind of high and I want to get out of here. Enzo and I were talking about escaping, I half wonder if he booked it out of here and didn't take me with him," she hrms to herself, making a mental note to hobble down the hall and see if Enzo's been replaced by a mop or something. But Isabella's question earns her a /look/, and she's just barely holding herself back from another rant. "No, he hasn't. Not even a hint," she informs her friend. "He had the audacity to complain that I took his cousin, like I held a gun to Enzo's head and forced him to come, and then after he said all that nonsense about how he doesn't care, I yelled at him and told him that I care, and he insinuated that I didn't care because it supposedly wasn't hard for me to leave even though I knew I could vanish and he'd never know what happened to me." She snorts. "So no. He hasn't been very clear at all."

"Well..." Isabella hesitates, her brows drawing down, because this kind of puzzle is completely new to her, and she's unable to help but approach it in a way that her other problems require - there's nothing supernatural here, but it might as well be a situation that originates from a completely different planet, involving an alien species. "I mean, there's nothing wrong with..." And there's a smile. "I know you are extremely organized and your personal daily planner probably looks like a Botticelli compared to the series of post-it notes I stick everywhere to remind me of things. But I think...just give it time, and try to enjoy one another first before thinking about the other stuff. The two of you haven't really been together in any measurable way since....I'm not even really familiar with the chronology, just that it's been a while and you've been here all this time, and he's been out there and he just recently came back. Go out on dates, text him about silly things, have lots of sex. I mean...a lot." Her dark brows waggle at Anne playfully at that. "I know it seems shallow especially since the two of you seem to have an extremely complicated history, but there's definitely nothing wrong with just trying to get to know one another again."

She shakes her head at her apology. "Don't be, we're friends. You're allowed to vent, especially when you're stuck here." And with the other rant, her expression shifts into a more indescribable one, and she falls silent for a very long moment as she tries to arrange what Anne has told her into some semblance of order before she says anything about it. "Considering the fact that Enzo was all about riding the Carousel, you definitely didn't force him into anything," she begins slowly. "And I know that sometimes when you're terrified of losing someone, it's very hard to look past that fear. It becomes all about your feelings, nevermind that it's the other person who's all bandaged up and in the hospital." And by the look on her face, it's very clear that she has made that misstep recently and she's still smarting and guilt-ridden about it. "It's...it happens without you meaning to, but people aren't logical, or rational, when they're scared. And if we're going by the very reasonable and logical conclusion that he cares about you, I think he was. Terrified. Hell, I was and we're definitely not having lots of sex with each other." She winks at Anne there.