2020-02-22 - Third Date

Patrick's not a fantastic person to have a text conversation with, honestly. So let's assume the interaction was brief and to the tune of 'Drinks. TIBS. 7pm. Yes/no?'

And then Patrick arrives about eleven minutes late, because that's his M.O., shedding his coat and what-not while he crosses the room, shooting a quick look around the interior. On the assumption that he wasn't the first of the duo to arrive.

Also, he brought flowers. Dahlias. There are three of them. They're pretty and wrapped in cellophane. He's pleased with himself.

It's a good assumption, not being first. Alexander's reply was equally brief - 'yes' - and he arrived about ten minutes early, despite having to walk from his place to the bar. Not that he had to make the trip all of the way there, since he's been quietly stalking his girlfriend when he hasn't been trying to help another friend through the worst of withdrawals. So, perhaps, it's no wonder that he looks even more like hell than he usually does. He's taken up a booth that (entirely coincidentally) has a view of the windows which look out on the docks, at which can be seen a particular houseboat. He's started early with the drinking, with a bottle of beer in front of him, although it doesn't really look touched other than to be opened.

His sweater is a particularly ugly combination of dark purple and light green, and at least two sizes too big, his hair is disheveled, his eyes are slightly red, and his forehead is bruised. But he looks reasonably alert when the door opens and Patrick makes his way towards the booth. His brow furrows, head coming up to stare in positive befuddlement. "Hi. You brought flowers. My favorites." A pause. "Is this a date? Does Anne know?" He looks confused enough that it's not entirely a joke.

A yellow one, an orange one, and a red one. Patrick smiles almost as sunnily as the cheery flowers that he drops on the edge of the table next to Alexander's bottle. "Did you think it wasn't?" A date. "That's embarrassing." And yet, somehow, he manages to cope. After ditching his coat on the seat of the booth and dealing with the acquisition of a cocktail, he settles in across from Alexander, busying himself with squeezing lime into gin-and-tonic. "What are we looking at?" he asks conversationally, craning his neck to try to follow Alexander's earlier line of sight toward the water. There's nothing on fire out there (right now), and no corpses seem to be bobbing in the surf (right now), so his curious look naturally resettles on Alexander.

"For which one of us?" Alexander asks, then winces, holds up a hand. "Don't. Don't answer that. I'm sure I'd hate it." Still, he picks up the flowers where they've been dropped, and sniffs at them with amusement and a sneaking sort of appreciation. The complex petals are stroked with a fingertip before he puts them aside, safe from passing servers and the chill breeze from the door. The question makes him jump, and clear his throat uncomfortably. "Nothing," he says, hastily. He's a bad liar. But at least he realizes it, because after a moment, he sighs, and says, "Isabella's houseboat." He points at The Surprise in the distance. "It's a nice boat," he mutters, before turning his attention back to Patrick. "How are you doing? Is everything okay?"

De-liming his thumb with a quick suck, Patrick raises intrigued brows at the 'nothing' response, not buying what Alexander is (very badly) selling just yet. "Your girlfriend lives on a houseboat," he deduces, confused by this information. He turns at the waist again, following the point to the boat in question, which only serves to bring his brows down from their questioning lift and into a frowning furrow. "That you're watching. Why?" There's a sort of hand-bat at the questions about him specifically, his okayness, but it's more of the 'we'll get back to it, this first' kind than the 'quiet minion!' kind. "I'm guessing Washington state will slap you with a hefty fine for stalking. And it's probably a felony if it's not your first offense." He very clearly assumes Alexander will be doing time if he gets caught.

There's a flat stare from Alexander as Patrick works his way through all of this and finishes up with the helpful information about the local stalking laws. He clearly sorts through and discards several irritated responses before just snorting and turning his attention back to the window. "I'm not stalking her. I'm just watching over her." He reaches for his bottle, takes a drink from it, before reluctantly turning his eyes back to the other man. "Did you get something for Anne for Valentine's Day?"

"Said every stalker to every judge ever," Patrick mumbles into his glass, side-eyeing the window and the boat beyond it. Just FYI: Graham would totally be on-board with Alexander's stalking plan. Sorry this character is a lame wet-blanket loser. 🙁

Pleasantly, he mms around the swallow of his beverage to answer, "I did. Flowers." He looks at the ones he brought Alexander, enjoying his own joke. "And some earrings. You? For Isabella, I mean?" He flicks a look back out the window, then quickly returns his eyes to Alexander's. "Mace, maybe?"

Alexander rolls his eyes. "Fine. If she complains, you can say 'I told you so'." He slumps in his seat. "She won't, though. Complain. She ate the curry I sent her. She forgets to eat." God, Alexander, you are not helping your 'not stalking' case here, at all. The riposte about Valentine's day only makes his shoulders hunch. "I tried. I made reservations at the Lighthouse. She's always wanted to eat there. It was the place her parents went for special occasions." He drinks more, although it seems automatic. "Mace would have been better. I killed her." A pause. "In a Dream. But it was her. I didn't think it was, but it was."

There's an authentic, sympathetic hiss across his teeth when the information about the Dream hits his ears, leaving Patrick to ask, "On Valentine's Day? That's pretty brutal. Is that why you," for the love of God, why won't Patrick sugar-coat things like this, "look even more like hell than you usually do? Guilt, I mean."

"Yes." If Alexander is offended by that characterization of himself, it doesn't show. And since almost everything he feels tends to show, he's probably not offended. "I haven't been sleeping. And I'm helping a friend through a rough spot, so she's staying at my place. And--" he breaks off, shakes his head. "There's just been a lot. Going on. Don't worry about it." Then his gaze sharpens, and he smiles a little at Patrick. "Or was this whole invitation because someone else is worried? Tell Anne I'm fine."

Hands open, shoulders lift, Patrick 'enhs' his way through the desire to deny the implication. He's caught, why pretend otherwise? "I can't just tell her that you're fine, not credibly. But I'll leave off the 'stalking the girlfriend you murdered' bit, if that will make you feel better." He smiles back at Alexander, pleased with himself for coming to such a perfect compromise. Though the smile slips pretty much instantly when he continues, "I told her that I'm not the right man for the job of talking you off a ledge, but she never listens to me." EVER.

"So. Do you want me to tell you about the stupid thing my cousins are doing? It's the sort of insane idea that you'll really enjoy."

"It would, actually," Alexander says, voice as dry as a desert. He takes another swig off the bottle. "And no. You're really not. I feel like, if I were looking for a ledge, you'd just make sarcastic comments about which buildings were most likely to just break a good portion of my body rather than get the job done cleanly." A pause. "But I'm not. I will be fine. And...I appreciate the concern. And attempt."

Then one eyebrow rises. "Sure," he draws the single syllable out, dubiously. "Is this about Vincenzo agreeing to father gnomes? Because I did enjoy that, but I'm kinda hoping it doesn't become a whole Addington...thing, with more people involved. We don't need you guys in fun size."

"Helpful comments," Patrick interjects, talking right over the top of Alexander for a second there. "They would be helpful comments. Not sarcastic ones. People just misunderstand my intentions." Sure they do.

Anyway, his eyes roll at the mention of gnomes and their paternity. "No, I'm staying out of that nonsense. This is even more ludicrous." One second, he needs to flag someone down to bring him a refill on this drink that he's powered right on through. Fortunately, bartenders and bar patrons speak the same sign-language, so this is accomplished quickly and silently. Now then. With effusive cheer, like he's excited to be a part of this plan (even peripherally), he looks delightedly at Alexander and spills, "They're going on a field trip to the Other Side of the old sawmill."

"Helpful comments," Alexander allows himself to be corrected. "Sorry." He's not sorry. In fact, amusement is twinkling in the back of his eyes, although his voice remains tired and toneless. His other eyebrow rises to join its brother. "More ludicrous than acid-pee gnomes who want your cousin's sweet, sweet genetic potential? Is that even possible?"

And then Patrick goes on, and Alexander's expression becomes closed and thoughtful. He reaches for the bottle, takes another sip of the cheap beer. Frowns. "Why?" is all he says, at first, his eyes nearly black as he watches Patrick.

Patrick, with the HELPFUL comments, "Because they're stupid?" That's seriously his guess.

Alexander gives Patrick an exasperated look. "Objection, Your Honor. Personal opinion stated as fact. We ask the witness to answer the question with evidence, not personal conjecture." He smiles faintly over the top of his beer bottle. "Is it about the shift?"

The struggle not to unload on Alexander's objection plays out with Patrick visibly. He leans back in his chair, eyeing Alexander like 'really?!' and it's right there on the tip of his tongue, he takes the breath that primes the argument... and then he just exhales through his nose instead. There's an unamused dullness that lingers in his eyes for a few seconds, but he presses on in spite of it. "No, it's just a huge coincidence that they decided to go tromping around on the Other Side only a few days after something catastrophic happened on this side." Beat. FYI: "That was intentionally sarcastic."

God bless the arrival of his drink right then, since it de-peeves him considerably to have more liquor at hand. "Enzo is leading the charge. I think he's taking one of George's children and the one that flies the helicopter," Kyle, "with him, though there was some confusion as to who volunteered."

Alexander can't help it; he snickers openly at the struggle on Patrick's face, although the way that his expression goes dull afterwards takes all the fun out of it, and the man ducks his head with an apologetic grimace and roll of his shoulders. He doesn't even snip back at the obviously intentionally sarcastic statement in return. He starts peeling the label off the bottle instead, and it goes the way numerous napkins have gone before it: turned into neat little shreds by nervous motions of Alexander's fingers. "They're not going to try and fly a helicopter through to the other side, I hope," he says, only half-joking.

But, after a moment, he adds, "What do they think they're gonna find over there? Vincenzo mentioned having a dream." It's a neutral observation, although his eyes flick back up to watch Patrick.

"Shit." Because Patrick never thought about the helicopter-through-the-Veil possibility. "I wouldn't put it passed them." He quickly waves a hand in the air in front of his face, resolving, "That's not my problem. Worst case scenario?" Sip. "They try it and suddenly my inheritance swells. Like everyone, they think they're going to find answers over there."

Oh, but yay. Now they're finally back around to dreams. Patrick meets the neutrally observed comment and the watching eyes with a brow-lift. "I heard. Did he tell you the substance of this dream he had?"

Alexander shakes his head a little, dismissing Patrick's remark about the inheritance. He looks back down at the now stripped bottle, and tips it into his mouth, head going back as he drains the rest of it. Despite his disheveled appearance, he doesn't wipe his mouth on his sleeve, but rather reaches for a napkin to use. And then shred. "You want me to go along?" he asks, head tilting to one side. "Try to save them from themselves?" A pause. "Or the monsters which are inevitably going to attempt to eat them."

"And no. There weren't a lot of details. It was dark, he was Thomas, he was patiently agreeing with Margaret about something or another."

Patrick's, "No," is prompt. "I don't want anyone to go along. I think it's a fool's errand, will only end in tears, et cetera." But. He watches Alexander attacking the napkin, and is, at least briefly, coming as close to a struggle to articulate as Patrick Addington has known for many, many years. "They're my family. And it's not that I think Enzo is incompetent, per se, but I do think another grown-up in the room can't hurt." You know what would make this conversation easier for him?

"You could always send me a bill."

Alexander watches Patrick in silence for a moment, then bobs his head. "Sure. If they're okay with me tagging along, I don't mind. Think they'd be okay with Yule? He's a doctor and an actual grown-up, so when things try to eat our faces, he can probably keep us from bleeding out until we reach the hospital." Because let's face it, that's the way all of these things end, and Alexander is clearly resigned to it by now. "And you can cover any medical bills that result, and promise me that I'm not walking into some dark family ritual where I get my throat cut and bones crushed, and we're good."

"Does it matter if they mind?" By which Patrick means, "It's not as if they could stop you." He nods as if agreeably about the inclusion of Yule. "Though. I think Enzo is a little shy around doctors. Or nurses? I'm not entirely clear on it, so probably just don't have Duchannes show up in a lab coat and a stethoscope." He meant to sip his drink casually but winds up sputtering it instead. He gets an unshredded napkin hurriedly, mopping up his lips and chin and such with quick dabs, saying during this process, "You heard about that, then." It just makes him shake his head and look the tiniest bit chagrined.

"Yes, Patrick. It matters." There's a patient air to the response, although Alexander's lips twitch upwards at the caveat. "I think Yule can refrain from looking overly official. For the sake of Vincenzo's nerves." The hint of a smile widens when Patrick actually sputters. For a moment he looks like this is a moment he's gonna cherish for a long, long time. But he says, "Just a suspicion, actually, but thank you for adding evidence to it." He eyes his bottle, which is sadly empty, and signals for another. It arrives, with a disapproving look from the server at the pile of shredded paper on the table in front of Alexander. He ignores this with the ease of long practice, and waits until the server's gone before saying, "You okay?"

Patrick does that thing where he doesn't argue out loud, but his bland look clearly begs to differ; this time about whether or not it matters if they mind. What he will argue about, or at least clarify, is that, "I didn't have the same dream that Enzo had. Whatever it is that he 'heard,'" air-quotes, "Margaret and Thomas talking about?" He shakes his head, flatly denying any knowledge of that specific thing.

Also, fuck that serving person for having judgey eyes. He scowls after that little interlude, like he's the only one allowed to disapprove of Alexander's nervous habits, tyvm. With lingering crossness, he knee-jerks, "No." Oh, but that's not what Alexander meant. "That is, yes. I'm fine. Or... let me put it this way. When you found out that you were related to a notorious serial killer, what was your initial reaction?"

Alexander inclines his head. It's more of the 'I acknowledge that you said that' sort of nod than the 'that is definitely a true thing you said' sort, but hey, he's going to smile anyway, at the scowl, as he pops the top on the new bottle and takes a sip. The cap goes to sit on top of the mountain of shreds, like a tiny little crown. The question means he needs another, more substantial, swallow. "Immediately? 'That explains a lot', I think were my exact thoughts. Then a whole bunch of other angry emotions, and I got very very drunk. So." He tilts the neck of the bottle towards Patrick. "Family is a hell of a thing."

Click goes Patrick's glass against the neck of that bottle. "Exactly. So while 'okay' might be a bit of a stretch." He drinks. Everything. The entire contents of the glass, down in one long gulp. Only a little watery at the corners of his eyes afterward, he smiles grimly to conclude, "I've at least had a lot of practice dealing with my family's," FIND A NICE WAY TO SAY THIS, "peculiarities. It doesn't make them any less horrific, but you do sort of build up a tolerance after a while." Beat. "I'm completely over the bones of your ancestors, though. Why YOU PEOPLE can't just stay buried like the rest of us is beyond me."

Alexander's smile widens just a touch at the clink of glass and bottle. He takes a far more restrained swallow from his bottle than Patrick does of the cocktail, and watches Patrick down his drink with that flat but intense focus. "I realize the answer's gonna be 'no', but if you ever decide you wanna talk about things," he shrugs, leaving the offer more implied than directly stated. "And I'm not convinced that we're not trying to stay buried, but somebody - not naming any names here - goes around and erases us from existence. Or at least from local existence. Which, if you ask me, is a little bit petty. If we're getting snippy about ancestors." It lacks any real heat, but he does punctuate it with another swig from the bottle.

"Well, if you weren't all homicidal maniacs that went around slashing throats and burning people at stakes and ruining perfectly good Ferris wheels and whatever that nonsense was with the carousel, then dot-dot-dot." Yes. Patrick says dot-dot-dot out loud. To make a point. With the ghost of a smile, he sees Alexander's eyes and concludes, "I appreciate the offer, though. Alas, so many of the skeletons in my family's closet seem to have your family's DNA in their marrow. It's fucked up." He means 'sorry about that' but the word 'sorry' isn't part of his lexicon, so hopefully Alexander can appreciate the intent.

"I dispute those allegations," Alexander responds promptly. "Thus far, only one...two. All right, three if you count the homicidal witch-burning preacher, but he burned his own family members, too, and they were probably perfectly nice peo--" It's hard to ignore the trend here, though, so he just scowls and grunts. "What I mean to say is that I think there's some element of propaganda in the mix, even if an unfortunately high percentage of a certain lineage tends to have unfortunate proclivities. Maybe they just have bad PR." He sighs, and shrugs. "Offer's open, anyway. I'm going to continue poking my nose into things, regardless. But you and I both know there's nothing I can do about it." He takes a drink. "Just bothers me not to know the whole story. Whatever it ends up being."

While Alexander is over there scowling and grunting, Patrick is enjoying the opportunity to remind his, uh, old friend, "History is written by the victors." With his thumb cocked to point at this side of the table, the Addington side, the well-dressed side. And then he gets to be the one to leave first for a change, before Alexander does one of those sudden 'then he says 'don't die' and walks off' exits of his, hah! Pushing to his feet, leaving a short splay of bills on the table beneath the weight of his glass, he concludes, "You didn't hear any of this from me, of course. All we talked about was Valentine's Day and the legal definition of stalking."

He's a good two yards from the table before he turns back to add, "This is our third date and I'm still going home alone?" Sigh. "You're going to have to put out eventually." He can drive home on two drinks. No worries.