2020-06-01 - The Hard Goodbye

Alexander comes back to himself by the time they reach the jail, at least enough to nullify a cell for Ruiz to stash Megan in, although his pupils are still distressingly widened, as if he's on some of the good drugs. He doesn't say much on the way home, and once home, he tries his best to follow his usual coping mechanism for severe emotional trauma - which means he grabs some of his books on crime, and retreats to his bedroom, turtling up as best as he can to read and try to ignore the world.

The sensation of being taken care of is new for him, and he engages with it in a haphazard, sporadic manner until he falls asleep. Cuddling in one moment, and withdrawing the next. When he sleeps, it's fitful - even more than usual - and frequently interrupted with bouts of quiet crying. By the time the morning comes around, Alexander is exhausted, but has regained much of what little composure he has.

As usual in these situations, there's always a desire to do more - not just to alleviate the pain of one who she loves so dearly, but to neutralize the bone-shattering sensation of utter helplessness when it comes to such situations. Despite the act being a bitter pill to swallow, Isabella does the best she can; she lets him read in silence while she did the same, offers him a glass of water and uses her own talents, however dimmed, into lessening the resulting headache that blew his brains wide open when Alice was torn apart. Whenever he reaches for her, she is right there, gathering up in her arms and stroking his curls while he clutched at her, and lets him retreat when he wants. What she doesn't do, through all of it, is leave him for any protracted period of time; his fitful bouts of sleeping wake her through the night, but she does her best to soothe, hugging his back tightly whenever he expended his tears. Sleep doesn't come easily for her in the aftermath of the Asylum excursion.

When morning breaks, she's still there, eyes bloodshot with the lack of sleep, but with a face set with that usual stubborn determination and no small measure of concern. She is awake when he opens his eyes, propped up on the pillows behind her and looking through the messages on her phone. A hand seems to have found a permanent place in his hair, stroking absently.

"Hey."

It's quiet, a little hoarse, but pleased to see her. He makes a soft sound at the feel of her fingers in his hair, and reaches out to place a hand on her calf. "You look terrible," he mumbles, tactless as always, but with real concern in his voice. "Are you okay? Were you injured?" He glances over at the phone, then muzzily rubs his head, checking to see...no, it's still there. Oh good. "How is everyone else? Did they get hurt?"

It's his voice that jolts her out of whatever absent reverie the phone is hypnotizing her into. Isabella is suddenly alert, from half-asleep to fully awake at the drop of a hat. Turning her green-gold eyes at him, she sets aside her smartphone and shifts so she's turned on her side facing him, the line of her leg following the touch of his hand. Her own moves, to gently cradle one side of his face and thumb his cheek. "Save for some bruises and assorted aches and pains, I don't think anyone who came with us is going to die any time soon - I don't know if you remembered, but we were able to put Megan Keene in a nulled jailcell before I took you home last night," she murmurs in quiet reminder. "And honestly, at the moment, I'm more worried about you. How are you feeling? You were screaming, were you and Alice...?" She doesn't know for sure, but she is guessing based on what he has told her and the chronology of events. She can put two and two together.

"I remember that. I do remember that." Alexander blinks at the light. "Were we in a car crash? Were we in a trunk?" He shakes his head. "How could we be in a trunk? Ugh. My head hurts like hell." Still, he leans into her touch and smiles up at her. "Connected? Yeah. Think so. Wasn't trying to, but I felt her..." A huff of air. "Die. The Doctor killed her. I didn't want that to happen."

He thinks about it for a moment, then shakes his head. "Probably for the best." A blink up at her, and a slow smile. "I feel like shit, Isabella. But I'll get over it. How about you? Are you okay? It was...violent. And gory. And sad."

"Yes - Cecelia's gone, and so is Doctor Mar-- the Psychiatrist," Isabella supplies, running her fingers through his hair absently. "It might be that they were connected, somehow and that one's existence was dependent on the other. The Doctor obliterated him also, after he was done with Alice." The urge to shudder plucks at the marrow of her bones, but she stills it with the grinding of her teeth from behind closed lips. While she has never experienced being connected to someone when they die, she can guess - she has spent half her life attached to someone in that ridiculously dangerous way, it is not beyond her imagination to speculate as to how much pain that actually causes. "And yes, the Doctor killed her." After a pause, she continues. "You were angry when you found out the truth. How Violet actually died."

He tells her how he feels so frankly, but the resulting expression on her face is a resigned one. "You just found out that your friend was murdered by her own sister," she tells him quietly. "And that she manipulated you and the rest of us into believing that she had no actual direct hand in it. I don't know if feeling like shit is adequate to describe it. And I know you will, but nobody will blame you for not doing so quickly. I'm fine, like I said...that entire thing didn't put me through the wringer like it did you."

Alexander grunts. "Cecelia. That's...the car, right? The one that Dr. Marshall had a deep and possibly unnatural relationship to? We'll have to let--" he stops, suddenly remembering that he cannot, in fact, let Easton know. There's a sigh, and his eyes close. "Right. And I was angry to have it confirmed. I already suspected. I knew she was lying to me about the details, and she was clearly jealous of Alejandro. I hadn't...worked out the details. I thought it was something more complex than it was." His mouth twists. "What a boring motive for murder."

"The car, yes. Unless naming inanimate objects is similar to giving them nicknames," Isabella replies with an inquiring lift of her brows, though her smile is a teasing one. It's muted however, a far cry from the degree in which she usually attempts to sear his eyeballs off with the brilliance of those expressions. But at his exhaustion, she leans in further so she can keep stroking his hair, and watch his face. She is fussing, and she knows it. But she's unable to help it. "Considering how complicated your other cases are usually, I can't blame you for having developed that outlook. Nothing Veil-related is simple." Hers is a visible frown. "And murder is still murder. I just..."

Her frown deepens. "I just hate the fact that you were willing to go so far for the sake of your promise to Violet only for things to turn out this way. I know you'll tell me that shit happens, but...it's not okay, Alexander. And it's okay that it isn't. You don't have to be reassuring that you'll right yourself back up again eventually - I know you will, I just want you to know that it's fine to wallow, around me. I want to be able to help carry you when you need it."

"It's not," Alexander replies, quite solemnly. "It's a proper name. Just applied to an object. Who became a person, and so I guess deserves a proper name." A nod. His eyes open again when he feels her lean over him. "You're fussing," he says, gently, although he doesn't seem to mind. "And it's okay. Once I realized how far gone Alice was, I was already preparing myself for having to deal with her. It was quick. Better than she deserved, most likely. Violet...I will miss Violet. I am sorry for Alejandro. I'm even sorry for Alice. But this is Gray Harbor. People die." He frowns. "They go missing. You can't," a long pause, "you can't let yourself get too attached, or it will break you apart. I'll be fine. Just be careful, okay?" His eyes settle on hers. "It's selfish of me, but I think you're one of the ones I couldn't stand to lose. Not easily. So be careful."

In response to carrying him, he can only chuckle. "Think you did, at a couple of points last night. Sure as hell don't feel like I walked." He reaches up to lay his hand on her cheek, caressing briefly. "It just rattled my cage a bit. I don't like to wallow. I don't want to. I can't do anything about it. I don't think that...Doctor...thing is in our weight class."

A soft laugh when he delineates the difference between nicknames and naming an object, Isabella's features softening in the throes of it. "Good to know," she tells him, that teasing lilt becoming more prominent before it fades again. Rightly called out on her behavior, her countenance becomes a more stubborn one. "Yes, I am fussing," she grouses - their relationship has lasted for almost a year, and she still sounds like she still can't believe that she is; hardly a bad thing, but certainly nothing that she expected when she returned to her hometown last summer. "And I think, Mister Clayton, that you're just going to have to deal with it." She falls quiet for the rest of it, face darkening considerably when he speaks of Alice, but that expression also fades when the conversation inevitably treads upon loss and losing; stark realities for someone who lives in this town, and knows its true nature, and what it can truly take, if one lets it.

"...I haven't not come back yet," she says quietly. "And I don't think it's selfish, Alexander. It's human - what would it say about your life, if you didn't have those kind of people? And it isn't as if I don't understand that. I don't..." She pauses. "I...don't know how many more I can lose, so don't...." A pause when she swallows, remembering all of it, past and present - what Bennie must be enduring, with Easton gone. "...try not to go anywhere."

Her hand finds the back of his knuckles, leaning against the cradle his hand makes against her face. She presses a soft kiss in the middle of his palm, closing her eyes momentarily to savor its warmth and the calluses that render his skin coarser than hers. "Good thing I work out," she quips. "As for the Doctor....he's not like the rest. Not like the Vivisectionist, or the Psychiatrist. I don't think he's even like the Archivist or the Exorcist, he's..."

She pauses. "He isn't a Talent-using entity." Her eyes flicker open to look at him. "While I've never come across anything like him before, I think I've explored and done enough experimentation and research to...." She chews on her bottom lip. "He is the Talent. Or rather, a being made of it. Whatever gives us what we can do, he's the essence of it." A short, sharp tremor runs down her spine. "And he's...I can't think of any other word to use but primordial."

Alexander's hand slides over so he can gently flick the tip of her nose. "Do I look like I'm complaining, Dr. Reede?" He nods. "And I know. You've always come back. And I won't...you know I won't stop you from doing whatever you feel you need to do. I'm not sure anything could," he adds, with a dry note of rueful amusement coloring the words. "And I will try not to go anywhere. And I will try to come back. To you."

A brief smile, there, feeling the warmth of her fingers against the back of his hand. Although the turn of the conversation is enough to sober him. "Not a talent-using entity." He repeats it, slowly. "That's...fascinating." His eyes widen with interest. "And seems like a very bad creature to piss off. Which I think we did. But," he squirms a little, "fascinating, all the same. He," his brow furrows, "he seemed to take an interest in you."

"No, and you definitely shouldn't," Isabella says, unable to help but release a small laugh, her nose twitching faintly at the flick. "And...I know. That you wouldn't, which really does a number on my urge to try and lock you up in my own basement whenever you go off to do something ridiculously dangerous. Perpetually torn between wanting to but at the same time knowing the inequality of it because you let me do what I want, you just grouse and pick at it afterwards." Amusement colors her expression, which softens considerably at the tail end of that, leaning in to press her mouth against his.

"Even if you're not able to, chances are I'll do enough damage to make sure you can," she murmurs. "But you promised, so I'm holding you to that."

She really should know better by now, the moment he says the I-word, she gives him a very wary glance, face flattened in an almost comical way. "Yes. All of that yes, but somehow, I get the feeling that you'll still try to dissect it on a table the moment you get a chance." Pot, kettle. "Not that we've demonstrated any tangible ability to actually touch it. I can't believe Javier's bullets just didn't...at all. I mean, Joe's lightning--"

The archaeologist falls silent at that, and chuffs a breath, mustering every grain of her bravado in the act. "I don't know how permanent said interest is," she tells the investigator. "We already know the Vivisectionist was assisting in the Asylum, along with the Psychiatrist. If she was helping the Doctor perform experiments there, it might be why. That isn't to say I wasn't aware that entire ordeal wouldn't bite me in the ass eventually." A pause, followed by a stubborn look. "Still not sorry, though. She had to die."

"I reserve the right to bitch about your dubious life choices," Alexander says, serenely. And with no shame. But to her remark about the Doctor, he looks briefly hurt. "No. Not dissect. Question, yes. But I don't really want to hurt it. Even assuming that I even could which, as you point out, is highly dubious. I can't even manage to get through a trip over there without having my mind broken further, or getting blown up or stabbed or something." He huffs out a breath. "I just wish I understood more than I do, about all of this."

A slow nod. "You shouldn't feel sorry. You were protecting yourself and Lilith. These things...they have powers we barely understand. If they're going to use them against us, they have to be considered deadly serious threats."

Isabella bursts out laughing suddenly at his serene comment, flashing him that mercilessly brilliant and indulgent smile. "I don't think you've ever held back in that regard for anyone, especially me. There was the incident with the saw mill, to start, letting Megan Keene touch my brain." Mischief cuts at him at her sideways glance. "Even the prospect of dating you from the start."

She's unable to hide a wince at his hurt expression. "I didn't mean...I was just...I didn't mean that you would actually...." There's a pause, glancing down at her fingers. "I'm sorry."

She falls quiet for a long moment, before she sighs and lowers her face to lean it against the curve of his shoulder. "Eventually we'll figure it out. We can't stop touching things, it stands to reason that it'll happen if we keep scratching. I..." She hesitates. "I am worried about this latest development though strangely enough, the Doctor seems capable of some sort of restraint. Take care of this or I will, he said to Dr. Marshall."

Alexander reaches up and ruffles her dark hair, smiling. "It's okay. I know. I just...I wouldn't do that. I hope." And he's not sure he wouldn't, which is why it hurts. He clears his throat. "Anyway. Yes, that's interesting. I wonder what a human being is to something like that? Other than an 'experiment', apparently." He looks up at the ceiling. "Is it trying to help, in its weird way? Like - it calls itself the Doctor. If words mean things, then does that mean that, on some level, it is trying to treat people from an illness? If it just wanted to poke at things, then surely it could call itself The Scientist."

The sleepless knots in her hair have become more hopelessly tangled as she regards him with that sheepish and apologetic expression, but no matter how many times he forgives her for her missteps, she doesn't take it for granted. Relief simmers in her expression, returning his smile and easing in to nuzzle her lips against his cheek. "You wouldn't," she tells him. That, at least, she's willing to go on a little faith. Or at least, she has enough of it when it comes to his generally good and softhearted nature.

"I'm not sure," Isabella confesses after a heartbeat's silence. "Experiment, sure, but I don't think that's all there is, and I think you have something there, how words mean things. I tried to ask the Doctor a question, why he was going through all this trouble reclaiming Megan and Alice after they escaped, because I had some idea as to what his nature was. He never answered it, but when August said it was probably because he wanted to see how the Talent affects humans or the human body...I didn't think that was it. If the Doctor is somehow a living manifestation of the Power, presumably he would already know all of that - wouldn't he? I mean, he's not like the others, he actually appears human so it stands to reason he knows something about what we are."

Alexander returns the nuzzle with one of his own, turning where he lays so that he can stroke down the side of her body, gently, as they talk. "There are different kinds of 'knowing'. It might choose to appear human in order to demonstrate its command of anatomy, that it knows the human body well enough to replicate it in a way that other Veil things struggle with. But that doesn't necessarily mean that it understands - or cares - anything about our hearts or minds or needs beyond the purely physical. I suppose that it conceive that as long as we're not dead, it's doing the right thing."

Then he grimaces, as a flash of memory hits, causing his head to ache and his free hand to come up and touch his skull. "The Hippocratic Oath is clearly not something it ever bothered to internalize."

His scruff always tickles, and as he returns her dispensed affection, she seamlessly moves with him when he turns, her arms curling over his shoulders until he's able to access the long, sleek lines of her and tangling further into his cramped bed. It creaks in agony under their combined weight, but somehow in the last few months, the sound is one that she hoards in her memories with all of the affection she holds for him. She listens, of course - Alexander may have a tremendous amount of faith in her brilliance, but it doesn't change the fact that he has lived longer, and has seen and experienced more things. Her green-and-gold eyes meet his darker ones and after he explains himself, she says nothing for a short while.

"...what do you think he's here for, then?" she wonders, lowly. "I mean, you're right, doctors generally help people. Unless whatever he is, is my kind of doctor." Scholars, academics. It doesn't explain the lab coat though, unless Alexander is right in that the thing knows just enough about them as a race to be able to ape them.

She would continue, but concern overtakes everything else, her hands slipping lower to cup her face. "What is it?" she asks softly. "Do you need more aspirin? Or I could..." A whiff of power, to indicate what she means.

"Maybe it thinks it is helping," Alexander points out, just as quiet. "What do we know about what 'helping' means to it. Maybe it wants to increase our abilities until we become like it, because that's the most helpful thing it can imagine doing for us. Hell if I know." He leans in when she cups his face and gives her a long, lingering kiss. "I need a shower, is what I need," he says, with amusement. "And you need to get some sleep. And not worry about me. I'll be fine. It's not the first time I've had my head blown up."

It's so sad that this is true, but it is. He moves to roll out of bed, but pauses. "I love you, Dr. Reede. And your fussing."

She looks skeptical, but unless they find out anything more, there's real know way of knowing. Isabella would say something else, but his kiss steals the other words away, returning the gesture with her eyes shut and her fingers in his hair. "Should be the town's slogan," she mumbles against his mouth. "Gray Harbor: Hell If I Know." He'd feel her smile, pressing against this unseen expression of his amusement. "I'll think about it," she tells him, regarding sleep, before releasing him and watching him move out of the bed. Legs pull up by the knees, hugging her arms loosely around them.

She's about to reach for her phone, though that last look stays her from it. Her face gentles there, smiling - it's slightly girlish, but always genuinely meant, that pulse of something intense and blinding, whenever he says the words. "I love you too, Mister Clayton," she tells him. "And you better keep your brilliant, beautiful head."