2020-05-10 - Ginger is not Garlic

13 Elm Street looks like the person who lives there is ready for spring. While he was hiding from the world - and his stalkers - while Isabella was at her conference, he spent a fair amount of that time gardening. So beds have been laid out, new soil laid in, the lawn front and back has been mowed, and even some of the paint has received a touch up - although that part is hard to see in the evening gloom. The rain is falling onto tiny, tiny little buds, which have barely begun to take hold. The lights are on inside.

Because Alexander and Isabella are home. Alexander got his intrepid and bold girlfriend back, and when outside to seethe and kick things for a bit, but the cold rain sluiced a lot of the initial temper tantrum out of him. Now he's still damp, but cooking in the kitchen, carefully and precisely preparing eggplant parmesan for the oven. It is, to be honest, one of the very few recipes that he knows, but even so, he is concentrating on it with a ridiculous intensity, as if the fate of the world weighed on whether he got the cheese to sauce ratio right. (Since he's cooking for Isabella, there's a LOT of cheese in that ratio.) Blue Bell is curled on the couch, and Luigi is singing in his cage, a rare outburst of song.

Rain meets the windshield of Ruiz's truck, and barely has time to start making wet tracks against the glass before the wipers push it away. The vehicle rolls to a stop in front of 13 Elm, idles a couple of minutes while he finishes up a call, then kills the ignition and rummages for something in the glovebox. Shouldn't be any surprise what it is.

Shortly after, the sound of the cop climbing out, that something shoved under his jacket, and the brim of his cap tugged down as if it'll help keep the rain off his face. He slams his door and ambles on up the walk. A furrowed brow for the manicured lawn, the flower beds, before he raps on the door with the side of his fist. Police style, of course. Under his left arm, what looks like a tupperware container.

There is no reasoning with him in this state, nevermind the fact that he has good cause to be concerned, but Isabella will be Isabella, ever so unhesitating in the pursuit of answers - and even moreso when she's still carrying the effects of her self-defense murder of the Vivisectionist several weeks ago. It isn't as if she hadn't weighed the pros and cons in the three minutes they were asked to make a decision, right? But there's some huffing, and grousing, and some annoyed exclamations (along the lines of 'How am I unreasonably reckless, you let crazy homicidal people dominate you ALL THE TIME!' and 'You can't say I can do what I want and then GET MAD AT ME!'), before off he goes to the garden, and she stomps off to the bathroom to take a shower.

That was around half an hour ago.

Now the scents of eggplant parmesan are in the air, and Isabella is on the couch, a bottle of Excedrin clutched in her fingers and her eyes closed, because arguing while somewhat addled by the reintroduction of a lot of things that she has forgotten can take a lot out of someone, and it is a good way to forget the burgeoning headache blossoming in the back of her skull like an angry rose. Her hair is damp, still, wet tendrils clinging to the sides of her face, clad in a loose cashmere sweater that drops off one shoulder, a pair of shorts and black, thigh-high knit socks. Compared to her most frustrated, firebrand self from earlier, when silent and sleeping, she looks positively angelic, with one arm and its dandelion bracelet thrown carelessly over a pillow stuffed in a case printed with little Corgis and German Shepherd puppies chasing one another, cheek nuzzled into the soft surface.

The remark about letting crazy people dominate him clearly stung, and so Alexander is giving Isabella the closest thing he gets to the silent treatment until she drifts off. So, curt queries on whether she's all right, and if her brains have started to leak out of her ears, yet. RABBLE RABBLE. When the knock happens, Alexander actually jumps, having almost forgotten about the possibility of Ruiz coming over with churros. The cop will feel the briefest touch of his mind, just enough to verify that it's him, before the door opens and a grumpy, damp Alexander looks out at him. "Hey." He hopes the door wider and gestures. "Come in. You'll get wet." He backpedals to give the cop room to come in, and says, "She's sort of sleeping." A gesture to the couch and the angelic-faced archaeologist.

Of course it's him. Only one mind in Gray Harbour with that scent, like rain soaking into the charred remnants of a forest burned to the ground. Only one mind with meathook claws and teeth like serrated knives and sleek fur when touched like Alexander deigns to touch it then. He's standing there looking a little damp, the captain, once the door's cracked open. "Little late for that," is murmured in response to the you'll get wet. He sniffs some of the rain out of his nose though, and ducks inside. Even though he's nowhere near tall enough to need to do so.

"Uh," is the sound he makes when Isabella's sleeping self is pointed out. His gaze slides toward her, lingers a beat, then ticks back to Alexander as he drips in their entryway. "You want me to just, uh, leave this and come back another time?" The tupperware's shoved at the younger man.

None of that precious gray matter is leaking out of her ears yet, at least. But ever aware, especially these days, of changes to her environment, the moment there's a rap on the door, green-gold eyes flicker open, Isabella setting her pillow aside and slowly sitting up. The headache is gone, at least - Extra-Strength Excedrin works surprisingly well for her body, for some reason, and fingers have lifted to rub at the corner of her eyes in an effort to banish the quick foray into sleep out of them. The scent emanating from the kitchen is pleasant, and the house is warm in spite of the chilly dampness outside.

"Mrgh?" There's a question in there, somewhere. Eyes lift and turn towards her grumpy lover and the guest that he admits into the hallway, the familiar sight of another dark-eyed face pushing her further into alertness. "Javier? Just visiting?" She swings her legs off the cushions, feet finding carpet.

Alexander gives Ruiz a blank sort of look. "Why would I want that?" He seems genuinely baffled by the thought, and closes the door behind Ruiz. Then there's tupperware being shoved at him, and blinks. "You actually made churros?" That warm, rare smile blooms on his face. "Thank you. You didn't have to. Would you like something to drink?" He steps back with the tupperware, to take it back to the kitchen, and to fetch a kitchen towel to offer over to the Captain. "He brought churros," Alexander tells Isabella, warm with pleasure. "Would you like one?"

Isabella's squinted at a moment, the cop's expression difficult to read. Maybe a touch of concern, like a churning undercurrent beneath superficially still water. Her words, or perhaps Alexander's, serve to jar him from his thoughts. "Isabella." EE-sa-bayla. And then in exchange for the tupperware containing baked goods, he's being handed a sheet of kitchen towel. Which he glances at with some confusion. "You asked me to," he lobs back to Alexander, tone one of mild incredulity. The churros are still warm, in fact.

Then a breath's blown out his nose, and he nudges his boots off before wandering further inside. Ballcap and jacket stay put, giving him the look of an interloper, foreign and out of place here. "Wouldn't mind a drink," he confesses, low-voiced, as he looks over the place. As if something might've changed since he was here last.

Churros? The fact that Javier actually cooks, and cooks well, returns to her eventually, details seeping through the cotton fog of post-sleep and firing up the cerebral engines of her again. Isabella isn't all that fond of sweet things, but it isn't as if she passes up on many homemade dishes either. With Alexander visibly happy over what's been brought, her expression softens considerably, inspired by both affection and remembered guilt - why does he look so innocent when he smiles that way? It isn't fair.

"Just a little one," she tells him with a small smile. To Javier, she waves in an encouraging attempt to get him inside. "Strip! Sit!" she tells him. A pause. "...well, no...not completely...you know what I mean! The jacket, the cap. Alexander made eggplant today and it smells delicious, you should try some before..." A wary eye is cast to the plants he keeps in what should be the dining room. "....something else happens to it, like last time."

"Yes," Alexander agrees, "but that doesn't mean that you would, or that you had to. But you did. Thank you." He moves the churros carefully onto a plate, making a little design with them, a sunburst pattern. Then he pours some coffee for Isabella, and his special bottle of Ruiz tequila is unearthed from under the sink and poured for Ruiz. He returns to the other room with everything on a tray. Isabella's command for the cop to strip causes him to blink a couple of times. "I wasn't aware that was on the agenda for the evening. You should let me know about these things," he says, almost entirely serious, if not for the gleam of amusement in his eyes. He sets the tray down. "I think the garden learned its lesson."

Things are mostly the same in the living room. The bird cage has new toys in it, but Luigi is still there, and he still stares at Ruiz with deep suspicion. Everything is neat but worn, tidy but slowly decaying. Another water spot on the ceiling, and the door to the murder room still firmly closed.

She has the good grace to flush slightly - it's rare to find her in a state of heightened color, often only emerging when she's in Alexander's arms and drowning in his kisses, but it hasn't been all that long ago when the very act led to a vaguely traumatizing incident long-distance with Easton Marshall and a birth of a new distressing word that he would probably toss tables over if he ever heard it again. She clearly remembers how much the word 'strip' has gotten her into mortifying (hilarious) trouble, these days. "You know what I mean," Isabella repeats for Alexander's benefit, making such a face, but amusement does play over the line of her mouth.

Her half-sleepy expression does brighten at the sunny design Alexander's made of the churros, because it's adorable and she's trying her best not to make it seem like she thinks so. A quiet murmur of gratitude to the investigator, when she finds her coffee mug on the tray - she didn't even need to ask. She plucks it up from the arrangement and sinks further into the cushions, bringing the mug close enough to her face that she could scent the beans, until her eyes are her only visible features, peeking out from on top of the ceramic rim.

"How have you been, Javier?" she wonders. "Everything going okay?"

The abrupt request for him to strip gains a furrowed brow from de la Vega, right as he's eyeing up the murder room and its closed door. The handle was replaced long ago, courtesy - somewhat ironically - of Rosencrantz. "Huh?" is returned to Isabella along with a blank look. Like, did I just hear that right? Then she's clarifying, after telling him he knows what she means, and by the continued furrowed brow, he really, really doesn't. "Oh," is his eventual grunt, and the ballcap comes off. Then the jacket. Inked knuckles scruffed through dark curls, before he tosses both atop the couch and drops his weight in shortly after.

"Gracias," is murmured to Alexander, with a brief dimpled smile, as the man returns with tequila. He salutes him with the glass, and settles back into the cushions, knees spread as is his wont. "Eggplant, huh? Brings back memories." Sip. "Fine," is about the most non-answer answer he could've possibly given Isabella. At least he doesn't bother to look her in the eye when he gives it.

"I do, but it made you blush. I like that," Alexander says, without any shame at all. And his smile widens at Ruiz's blank look. He contemplates them both for a moment, before saying, "Eggplant parm? Want some? It's probably edible." Okay. Look. HE TRIED, and that's the important thing. And it is...edible. In that it won't make someone sick. But someone maybe decided that ginger would be an interesting substitution for garlic, and now that's what it is. Very INTERESTING.

God help you all. His expression is hopeful, though, as he looks at them. "I think it should be about ready. Also, Walter Whitehouse is dead. You should know that. If anyone files a missing persons report. Don't bother putting too much effort into it." He turns away to go get the eggplant.

It made you blush.

"It did...." Not? Even if she wasn't before, more color is bleeding further into her cheeks, as it often does whenever someone points out to another person that is indeed what's happening. Coupled by the fact that the only man she's ever really paid attention to in that way for close to a year is ribbing her about it doesn't help. She groans and takes a sip of her coffee. "You're terrible." But said with infinite affection.

Fine, Javier says. Isabella inches further into the edge of her seat, and plants her chin on both hands, elbows braced on her knees. "Okay," she says, cheerfully. "And then?" Yes, it is a non-answer. Is the archaeologist letting him get away with it? Absolutely not. "I've been out of the city for two weeks, Javier. I have some catching up to do. Help me out a little?" Even as she says this, her green-gold eyes are following Alexander out of the room so he can retrieve his latest culinary attempt. If her line of sight drops a little bit lower in the doing, well, she just said she had been gone two weeks, don't judge her!

She also nearly chokes on her coffee when she picks her cup back up to take a sip, and he leaves the room with that parting. "He didn't do it," she tells the police captain hurriedly, because that needs to be clarified, considering how the investigator was put in the hospital the last time. "His daughter killed him. Alice."

Nothing like mixing business and pleasure to leave Javier looking vaguely discombobulated, as the conversation veers between smalltalk and murder talk. "You haven't been experimenting again, have you?" he teases, narrowed-eyed gaze trailing Alexander's retreating back as it disappears into the kitchen. And lingering there when he mentions Walter's death. "Por supuesto," he murmurs into a sip of his tequila, glass held loosely in that big hand of his, knuckles decorated with recently healed cuts. Maybe a fence pissed him off.

Dark eyes switch back to Isabella when she rushes to defend her boyfriend, and he chuckles low. "I'm sure you both know I have to make sure due process is followed. Regardless of what you tell me. But I appreciate the heads up." Of how he's doing, still no indication. But, "I heard you had a run-in with Megan." He's still gazing at the brunette with the green-gold eyes, unflinchingly, and with that hunter's intentness.

"A moderate experiment," Alexander says, cheerfully. He pulls out the eggplant dish, all gooey with cheese. It LOOKS fine, at least. There's something a bit...off about the smell, but he serves up three plates, anyway, and brings them back to sit on the coffee table, along with silverware. "Ginger is sort of like garlic, isn't it? They're both roots, and have a certain savoriness to them. I thought it'd be interesting." Oh god he's entirely serious. He glances at the knuckles around Ruiz's glass as he sits down. "I'd steer people away from it. They won't find anything, or won't remember they find anything, or they'll just die. She's...she's dangerous and powerful." A glance back at Isabella, the 'terrible' remark bringing a slow smile to him. "And you're reckless." He tips his head towards Ruiz as he brings up Megan, as if to say case in point.

It's the cuts that finally pull Isabella's eyes away from said boyfriend's backside to regard the state of the man's battered knuckles. "What did you get in a fight with this time?" the archaeologist wonders. Given the swollen red of recent hurts, she may not be an expert, but she knows recent injuries when she sees them. She takes another quiet sip of her coffee and nibbles on a churro - because it might just be the last thing she'll ever eat.

She does have room in her to look faintly sheepish when Javier reminds her about due process and a policeman's obligations. "I know," she replies, hurriedly. "I'm just...you know. Since Alexander mentioned it, and I know that he didn't part on good terms with Walter Whitehouse the last time he talked to him." And when the man brings up Megan Keene, her expression shifts in that faintly resigned way. "How did...this happened just this afternoon." Small towns, Isabella. There's a glance towards Alexander, dark brows lifting in silent query: Did you tell him? "I heard from August that she made Joe remember the Asylum?" It's a feeler, to gauge the reasons why Javier is asking.

The riposte has her wrinkling her nose, called out on her recklessness, and poke her tongue out at her lover, before she reaches for a plate. She does smell the ginger, but she trusts Alexander to feed her only good things. He hasn't steered her wrong before, so she playfully wiggles her fingers in the form of grabbyhands because finally, finally, she won't be denied a cheesy eggplant dish wrought from his efforts. There's a certain anticipation there, because as she has already proven today, the young woman fears nothing.

Oh sweet, summer child.

Their guest looks rightfully dubious as the dish is set down, and portioned onto plates. Ginger's a fine root, when used in the correct context. Like this? He can smell the wrongness a mile off. But he's got just enough manners to reserve judgement until after he takes a bite. Which.. wait for it.. "I'll keep it in mind," he says again, fork pausing an inch from his mouth. Then lowered to his plate. Crisis.. well, delayed. "Would you be willing to give a statement?" he asks Alexander, crease forming between his brows as he considers the man. As to Megan, "Yeah. She's been going around offering to return peoples' memories, and.. augmenting her power with them, somehow. I think."

And then, finally, he takes that bite. And after he chews and swallows, "What the fuck did you put in this?" His eyes squinch up, deep grooves marked at the corners as he considers what he just ate. "Ginger?*

Alexander shakes his head to Ruiz. "No. You can't...there's no way you can bring her in. All you will do is make her angry. I only tell you so that you know. And you can steer clear. I don't want you to get hurt," he says, in a mutter. He does give a nod to Isabella at her silent question; of COURSE he told Ruiz. Because Ruiz. He's reaching for his own fork when Ruiz takes the plunge, and he ducks his head as Ruiz's face squinches. "I...yes. Fresh ginger root was on sale, and I thought that it might add a little zest to the flavor. Like some recipes use lemon zest. And I forgot to get garlic, so I figured, they're both savory sort of, and if you cooked it down, it probably would taste pretty good." The words come rapid and anxious, and he's quick to take a test bite of his own.

And his face...changes. He chews, slowly. He swallows, reluctantly. "...ginger was not a good choice," he admits, softly. "I'm sorry."

"Augmenting her powers? How? Or rather, how did you know that? That it's what happens?" There's a look of skepticism on Isabella's face - standing close to the woman as she had been when it happened, she didn't get the impression that had been the case - the woman was already powerful. Around the same level as, well, Alice. Since they've heard that the two women have been in the Asylum around the same time, and set others free from their cages, it's probably not a coincidence. But her expression is a thoughtful one even as she takes a bite of the deli...

...cious...

Her jaw works around her first bite slowly, her face looking somewhat pinched. She chews. She swallows. There's a glance at Alexander's apologetic face. And just to drive home all of the day's remarks and chastisements about how reckless she is, she buckles down, girds herself, and....

Eats. The. Whole. Thing.

Just what's on her plate, though. Let's not get crazy! She clears her throat and sets her fork down, knowing full well that she will probably pay for this later tonight. But love, affection and guilt are very powerful motivators for the archaeologist. She finishes it off with a swallow of her coffee.

Ruiz considers what remains on his plate. Considers, perhaps, even taking another bite, on the off chance that the next one will be palatable. Or, perhaps just to appease his friend, who's worked so hard on this, after all. But ultimately he can't bring himself to do it. The fork's set down, the plate pushed away; a napkin procured if any are handy, and his mouth and beard given a quick dab. His dark eyes flick back up again to regard the other man, and there's a twinge of something in his expression. Agitation. How this fucking town is forever thwarting his ability to do his job. He glances away again, reaches for his glass of tequila.

"I won't bring her in." And then he favours the investigator with a sudden, and quite genuine smile. Contrition in the crook of it to one side, the way he looks almost.. shy, for a moment there. And then he speaks again, voice low and warm and rough and earnest as he tries to snag the other man's eyes, "No hay nada de qué arrepentirse. Gracias por invitarme. Gracias por la comida. Yeah?"

Alexander watches with something like horror as Isabella finishes her plate. "Isabella. It's terrible, Isabella. You don't have to eat it." Alexander makes one abortive reach for her plate to try and spare her from the food. But ulitmately, he can't make himself take it away from her, so he just turns red. "I...you didn't have to," he mutters, ducking his head. But he looks a little bewildered, and a little pleased, as well, knowing why she did. He makes no attempt to finish his own plate, because it's awful. There are paper towels for Ruiz, and he pushes them towards him. "It'll be better next time," he promises them both.

Ruiz's smile catches him off guard; he blinks at it a couple of times, then returns it with equal brightness. His Spanish is still faltering, still accented with Ruiz's own origins, still taken, in large part, from his mind, even if it's being done subconciously as he says, "Gracias por venir, incluso si fue terrible. Sé que te preocupa. Perdón por ser frustrante." Then, he clears his throat. "Anyway. I. I don't know entirely what Megan's deal is, but it doesn't seem like she's allied with Alice anymore, if she ever was. So. Two powerful and unstable mindfuckers trying to do...god knows what. Alice wants to burn down the Asylum. I've promised to help." A glance back at Isabella. "Because I'm easily dominated by murderous crazy people." That last is deadpan.

It's tough being the law in a town where the supernatural is the norm, and there aren't any real rules but the ones that usually don't apply. For a moment, there's a ripple of sympathy stitching over the young woman's face as she glimpses the frustration on the older man's features. "Probably for the best," she says, her words carrying a hint of apology, but resignation also. It is what it is.

"I know," she says, stubbornly, at Alexander's entreaties that she doesn't have to. But she wants to, clearly. Nobody's putting a gun to her head - though there's something satisfied in her eyes when she watches Alexander turn red. To her credit, she doesn't tease him about it, and instead takes an additional gulp of her coffee. With no reply to her own questions, the archaeologist is about to say something else when the lawman suddenly switches gears. Watching the byplay between the two men, Isabella's expression flattens visibly, almost comically and considerably, her voice as dry as a desert as she remarks: "Do I need to leave the room?"

She doesn't contribute to the conversation just yet - just quietly listening. She knows a few words of Spanish here and there, but otherwise, most of what is being said is lost. Frustrated is the one she picks up immediately, and at the investigator's deadpanned remark, she returns his look with a level one; she feels guilty enough saying it in a fit of irritated pique, but it's true, and all she does in reply to that is to hold up her plate, ostensibly for another serving of his over-gingerfied eggplant parm: Go ahead, you terrible man. I'll eat it until I expire.

Isabella's bone dry remark is met with a briefly bewildered look from the captain. And a somewhat gruff, "No. I was apologising." He considers the remaining food left on his plate, half contemplates trying one more bite of it, then quickly stamps out that thought before looking back to Alexander. "De nada," is murmured with a little wink for the man. Then another sip of his tequila. No, he never did elaborate upon where precisely those cuts on his knuckles came from, did he? Alexander can probably guess, though.

"You're not planning on going in there alone, I hope," has a faintly chastising ring to it. Like he's just waiting for Alexander to admit that he wasn't going to invite de la Vega, and a handful of their other trouble-seeking friends along.

It's not that Alexander is bad at reading people, exactly. Mostly, he's just bad at knowing what to do with the information. He notices Isabella's sudden flatness, and stares at her fixedly, as if trying to rifle through a mental list of ways to respond and address it without making it go worse. He settles on confusion, which is at least earnest. "Why would you need to leave the room?" His head cocks to one side, and when she raises up her plate, he simply takes it, and puts it under his own. No more hellplant for Isabella. He holds out a hand for Ruiz's plate, so he can scrape that which should not be eaten all into one plate, and stack the rest neatly underneath for transport. And possibly burial.

"I don't...she's paranoid and dangerous and very, very strong. Stronger than me. They're /both/ stronger than me," he admits, with guilt and resignation, like this is a personal failing of his. "I don't know if she'll let me take anyone along." A pause. "I think she might have a Shadow inside of her. Or something."

Spared from more hellplant servings, Isabella leans back against the couch. "They could have just been in the Asylum at the same time," she says, finally, cradling her coffee and nursing it, a thoughtful look down at the black, glassy surface of the brew and breathing in the hazelnuts roasted with the beans. "An alliance of convenience if they broke people out that day for whatever reasons they have in destroying the place, now. Seems like both were held there around the same period, are of an equivalent power level, and now wants people to remember that the place exists and bring it down. I don't think it's a coincidence, there's too many points of commonality."

She thumbs her coffee mug absently. "The place moves in a specific pattern but there's no way of anticipating its next location unless we know how the pattern starts." Her brows furrow, the things she didn't used to remember rushing back into the forefront of her jolted mind. Leaving it for now, she lifts her gaze towards Alexander. "Alice probably knows how, if she remembers everything and she escaped, but I think you ought to convince her to take some people along with you if she's serious about wrangling you for help. You don't have to let her do anything." Her earlier frustration starts to creep in her voice.

"Well," de la Vega murmurs, finishing off his drink and checking the time on his watch, "you can either take a few people along with you. Or I can find out when you're going, and do it myself. Unless you can give me a better reason than that." Alice having her own ideas about how she wants things to go, he means. "As it is, I'm going to have to track her down for a chat." Which doesn't bode terribly well, but the captain seems undeterred. He pushes to his feet with a soft grunt as his joints protest, a flash of his gun as he moves. To Isabella, "I don't think it's a coincidence, either. And Easton.. it's possible he may know the pattern, as well."

"Thanks again," he tells Alexander. For the eggplant, perhaps? Or the company. He fetches his jacket, his ballcap, and tugs them both on.

"It's possible," Alexander says to Isabella. "Neither of them seem like...people people. Exactly. And this is me saying it." Which is either very sad, or epic levels of takes one to know one. "As for the Asylum, we can probably deduce it. We knew that it was at the morgue door the day we went. If we can identify the morgue door on the map, then we can calculate based on the date we successfully crossed over, derive a few possibilities for doors and dates, attempt to cross over. We've been given the patterns, the map, and at least some of the doors. We can do that."

He rises when Ruiz does, to move to show the other man out, although his shoulders hunch a little as both of them point out that he really doesn't have to let the murderous psycho dictate the terms of engagement, here. "I'll...I'll try." He doesn't look all that confident about it - whether his ability to stand up to her, or to weather the consequences of that. "Thank you, Javier," he murmurs, in turn. And, if the man allows it, he reaches out and lightly touches the scarred knuckles, the briefest of touches. "And if you want to talk about it?" But he doesn't press more, just leads him out.