2020-07-14 - Maudlin' Mudslides

August arrives with ice cream, plus other things to cook with in a box and also a few liquor bottles (vodka, Kahlua, chocolate liqueur, Frangelico). He seems to be planning on a simple pasta Alfredo, aka upscale mac and cheese; there's grated Parmesan, fettuccine, a few spices, and some random veggies. He's in post-work attire (a YES Relayer cover t-shirt, black denim jeans, and heavy hiking boots), and probably hasn't hit the shower yet. He holds up the box once Alexander opens the door, announcing, "Lets get you relaxed."

The windows are all covered with their blinds down, and as August's truck pulls up, he can feel Alexander's mind like a searchlight, weighing the presence outside. He answers the door; he's also dressed casually, with a t-shirt showing some bandages on one upper arm, worn jeans, and an expression that's twitchy and paranoid. He looks past August first, then opens the door. "Hey. Come in." Other than the bandage on his arm, he doesn't seen otherwise injured. He tilts his head to one side. "I don't relax. Much. Don't want to disappoint," he adds, apologetically.

August doesn't refuse Alexander's prodding; he's well aware of the need to be certain no one untoward is showing up after something like a shooting. He offers back a gentle reassurance that's echoed in a small smile when Alexander shows him in. "We'll see about that. But I wouldn't be disappointed either way." The drawn blinds fail to catch his attention, but then, his fiance is Eleanor, of the 'no reflective surfaces in my house' interior design.

He sets the box on the counter, pulls out some bottles. "So. You have a blender or a food processor? I can hand-mix, but a blender makes it faster." Next come the ice creams: bittersweet chocolate, vanilla bean, salted caramel, and of course, moose tracks.

There's a rusty miaow when August comes inside, and Blue Bell emerges to rub herself against his ankles, making lovey eyes at his bags. "You're not getting any," Alexander tells her, and she rolls her head on August's calf as if to say, wanna bet? This guy looks like a sweetheart.

Alexander closes the door after him, and gives August a blank look. "A blender? No. I can mix." He trails him to the counter, and looks at all of the ice cream. "August. This is a lot. Are you okay?"

"Oh, she just might," August says, dipping down to rub Blue Bell's chin. "Long as she stays off the counter like a good girl." His teasing tone of voice says he's sure that won't happen and so Blue Bell will shortly disqualify herself from any samples of vanilla ice cream. But the bargain remains on offer.

He makes a mental note to get Alexander a blender for Christmas, half-shrugs as he gets out a bowl and some spoons. "Eh. Yes and no. Wedding planning is going fine, but that shop burning down..." He scoops out some vanilla and salted caramel into the bowl, pours in a bit of milk from a carton, hands the bowl and a spoon to Alexander. "Blend it on up. Just mash it with the spoon until it starts to combine."

He starts on a second bowl, this one just vanilla and milk. After afew seconds of mixing, he says, "Seems kind of coincidental, those cops threatening her when she won't play ball and then her shop," he makes air quotes, "'accidentally' burns down. Just has me worried about the rest of us." Small business owners, he means. People without the capital and influence to safely tell corrupt cops to fuck off.

"She will," Alexander says, and in truth, Blue Bell shows no interest in jumping up on the counter. She begs with her eyes and loving rubs, but seems to have been trained to stay out of the way of everything except feet. It's good to be an empath, sometimes.

He takes the bowl and spoon, and leans over to sniff it. A faint smile appears, and he starts to mix. His eyes go back up to August. "You should. Be worried. I think this is gonna get worse before it gets better, unless this recent escalation makes it all explode." A pause. "Either way, be careful. You hired Jackson, didn't you? You might want to put him where he can keep an eye on people coming in and out for a while. He can probably spot troublemakers."

August grunts, sighs. "Yeah, I imagine it will. Ellie and I were talking about what to do--play along and keep our employees clear of it, or what." 'What' amounts to 'get up in their faces and risk the same outcome', which August is well aware of. And given how it makes him feel to think of them pulling a stunt like this with the coffee shop, he decides to table such scenarios for 'never to be thought of around property I don't want to break'. A nod about Jefferson, with an aside of, "Good idea. Never thought I'd need to ask one of my employees to run security, but..."

Once his bowl's reached milkshake consistency, he pour in a dollop of each of the liqueurs and mixes a bit more. The result gets dumped into a glass and offered to Alexander in exchange for the bowl. "There you go. Here, I'll finish up that one." It's sweet, and strong; there's a hint of Nutella thanks to the Frangelico and chocolate liqueur, and a strong, heady flavor from the vanilla bean and Kahlua.

It doesn't take a lot of observation to guess what August is thinking of, or trying not to think of. "I can swing by the coffee shop at least once a day, if you like. Or if Eleanor just wants to call if she notices that her shop is empty and she'd like some company so that it wasn't entirely empty." He ducks his head then, focusing on the bowl until it's replaced with a milkshake. He considers the glass like it might bite him, but eventually takes a sip. His eyes widen. "This is good. Sweet." He smiles. "And filled with alcohol. Are you trying to get me drunk, August?" It doesn't stop him from taking another swallow of it, though.

August cuts a look at Alexander, the offer of keeping an eye on Eleanor and/or her shop tempting. Too tempting. "Yeah," he says between mixing a little booze into his own mudslide. "If you've got the time for it. I'll let her know." He sighs. "It's not that she can't take care of herself, just," his focus shifts to nothing in particular. He's seeing the burned out hulk which had been the Control Pad. "It'd kill her, to lose that place."

He shakes his head. Nope, not thinking about that. Instead he pours his shake into a glass. "Buzzed, at most. Unless you really can't hold your liquor. Just enough to take your mind off things."

First round of drinks made, he stows the ice cream in the freezer and gets out veggies to chop. "Why in the hell does anyone want to muscle people in a small town, is what I want to know," he says under his breath. "We're not exactly dripping with cash."

Alexander nods. "You love her and you're worried about her. That's normal, August. I don't mind. I like Eleanor." He makes one of those weird-almost smiles at August, then takes another sip. "I hold it okay. I just get odd when I get drunk. As you know," he adds, with a shake of his head, remembering their first meeting. He takes another swallow. And then there are veggies. They're given a dubious look. But the question is answered. "Gray Harbor has a significant port. Not as significant as it was during the timber days, but still decent enough. Along with abandoned warehouses, several roads coming in and out of town, and an understaffed and corrupt police force. It's not a random occurrence. Someone's trying to take over, and part of that is making sure that the local businesses stop supporting your competitor, if they're paying protection money or moving goods for them. And any businesses who aren't currently under a protector, you wanna snatch those up so you can start offsetting some of the funds you're bleeding. It's like a new business trying to capture customers, but you're playing on fear, not desire."

August flicks a few glances at Alexander. He tries not to be overprotective, but it's difficult. There's a very deep well inside him that roils dangerously at the very thought of--

Nope. So. Offer extended and accepted. "Thanks," he murmurs.

Drinking and dancing is a better topic. "I do remember that. You were convinced you could drink yourself to more power, or," August's brow furrows as he tries to recapitulate the memory, "something." He shrugs that aside; there was drinking, a lot of it, that's the point. "But you seemed pretty relaxed, so we'll see if that holds."

August, as it so happens, can hold his liquor, which is why he trusts himself to chop while taking sips of his mudslide. He listens attentively to Alexander's explanation, as this is something he knows nothing about. His reaction to the sum total: a heavy sigh. "Go figure. See," he gestures at Alexander with a chunk of carrot, "this is why I spent ten fucking years in the woods. No one trying to shake me down for Cypress genome data."

Alexander shakes his head, slightly. "I'd just found out that I was the descendent of Gohl, and I thought - that explains it. That explains why I am such a terrible person. And the bones had been burnt, so I was walking around feeling myself burn and I didn't know if it would ever stop, or if it would just get worse until I--" a pause, "until I couldn't take it anymore. And Thorne made a joke about it, but I won't hit him or hurt him if I can ever avoid it. So I needed to not think about things. So. Alcohol." He shrugs. "Lots of alcohol. This tastes much better." A more genuine smile at the last. "Um. If there was a way to make money off of it, they would. But yeah. It's not a great thing to be in the middle of."

"Well since you're not a terrible person, that bit's pretty ludicrous. But feeling like I was on fire and someone I knew making a smarmy joke at my expense would probably make me want to drink too." In fact, it has, as well as destroy things, which draws a sharp laugh out of him. He explains that with a note of, "Particularly since I can't hit anyone."

The veggies go into prep bowls, a pot of water on the stove to boil. August pauses here to have more mudslide. "Well. Joke's on them, they could make money off it. Logging companies are dying for ways to be able to grow good hardwood overnight, and we're only gonna get that one way. They're just too fucking greedy to listen to how to do it sustainably."

Alexander looks as if he's going to argue. But there's a moment where he plays the argument out in his head, then sighs. "It sucked," is all he says. Although his head comes back up at the sharp laugh, and his expression eases. "Yes. That's hard."

A curious look is given to the veggies. "What are you making? Vegetables don't go with ice cream." He takes another swallow, as if to deny those nutrients entrance into his body. "Why bother, if you don't have to worry about the consequences. Better to take everything you can get. They'd think. I don't think that."

With sympathy, August says, "You were drinking diesel fuel, so I bet it did." He measures out some fettuccine and snaps it in half. "Alfredo," he explains. "Good summer food. Only uses the stove top, takes a few minutes to make, tasty as hell. And starchy, to absorb the booze." But the water's not ready, so he pauses again, setting a hip against the counter and folding his arms.

"Mmm. And so the whole world burns down around us," he murmurs. "Be nice if people could pull their heads out of their asses long enough to think about someone else. Anyone else." He sighs, gives Alexander's mudslide a measuring look. "Another? Just some Moose Tracks?"

"It wasn't actual diesel fuel," Alexander informs him, solemnly. "It didn't taste good, though." He glances at the pasta and nods. "I like pasta. It's simple to make and hard to set on fire. These are important things." He glances down at the drink. "It's hard to think about other people, and I don't know that most people really see why they should. And I'm fine." The milkshake is still at least half full - when he's not drinking to get wasted, Alexander nurses alcohol rather than drains it.

"I bet if you poured it into a diesel engine, the thing would at least turn over," August counters. He grunts at the amount of mudslide left in Alexander's glass, but doesn't try to insist on more.

"Is it really hard to think about other people?" He wonders this to his own drink, casting a brief glance up at Alexander, back down into the glass. "Seems kind of obvious. If they're not okay, how am I okay. And if I use that metric for my loved ones, can't I at least extend the courtesy of a little consideration for other people?"

But this something else has August frowning. "Is setting food on fire something you have a problem with?"

Alexander opens his mouth as if to argue with that. And then he remembers how that stuff tasted. He closes his mouth, then mutters, "I'm not prepared to bet it wouldn't." He takes another sip. "This is much, much, much better, August. Thank you." His head cocks to one side. "And it can people. People are often emotionally short sighted. It's pretty natural, I think." He smiles. "You're nice, and good, though."

Another sip before he's able to admit, "I get distracted. I don't mean to, but it's easy to start thinking about something else, and then there's smoke."

August wiggles a bit in place, pleased to the point of smugness over Alexander enjoying the mudslide. He rolls his eyes at 'nice' and 'good'. "Overbearing mother hen who worries too much, maybe."

Speaking of distractions... August looks over his shoulder, checking on the water. Not quite boiling. "Maybe you need to use a lab timer. You can clip them to your shirt and set multiple timers. Keep you from losing track of the food."

"Maybe," Alexander agrees, thoughtfully. Because tact is something that happens to other people. "But it's nice. To have someone worry. About...real things. Not just about what they think is wrong with you." He smiles at the man, then licks a bit of milkshake off his lip. "Just don't worry so much you, you know, forget to take care of yourself." His head cocks to one side at the suggestion. "That's a good idea. I'll have to try it. It would be nice to not have as much smoke."

"Maybe." August is more amused by the lack of tact than anything else. He arches an eyebrow, though, at the next bit. "'What's wrong with you'?" A small sigh, sympathetic and tired. "There's nothing wrong with you, Alexander. I mean, sure, you have problems, but we all do. So you're not what society's unhelpfully defined as 'normal'--" He manages to stop himself before he gets much further in this sermon to the choir. "Sorry. Just. The only thing 'wrong' with a lot of people is everyone wants to 'fix' them, instead of just help them through their shit."

He gestures with his mudslide glass. "I can hook you up. I have a few, if you want to try one out. They're handy if you like to multitask."

Alexander shrugs. It's that shrug that says he disagrees on the subject of his wrongness, but knows this argument will not go in his favor, so takes the path of least resistance. He does venture, "Some people are just wrong, August. They do terrible things, and most of them don't ever rethink it. Maybe they should but--" a pause, before he asks, "you have mind abilities. Have you felt a sociopath's mind? It's beautiful, you know. The most beautiful thing. But it's wrong."

He smiles. "But I would like to borrow a timer, yeah. If you have one to spare."

Of the timer, August says, "I'll bring one by." He tosses in the pasta, stirring it with a wooden spoon that's seen better days. It might have taken an ill-advised trip through the bottom rack of the dishwasher. (Is August making note of what needs replacing in Alexander's mismatched kitchenware? And how.)

A glance at his watch to note the time, then his focus returns to Alexander. He shakes his head, pauses, then admits, "I mean, maybe, but not that I know of. I usually just used them to project and sense emotions as a kid, and..." He pauses, hitches a shoulder. "After Bosnia I wasn't keen to be in contact with others minds at all, for a while." A wry smile for the understatement therein; it fades a moment later. "Beautiful how?"

Alexander bobs his head. "Thanks." He doesn't seem to notice August's notes - his kitchenware is depleted a fair amount, except for Isabella's coffee mugs, the ones with the clever sayings. Those are all still there, but everything else has decreased from 'shabby but functional setting for four' to 'bachelor and non-picky hookup' in both amount and quality. His tantrum must have been fairly epic.

He looks down at the counter. "There's no self-hatred. Or doubt. Or fear. It's like a diamond, beautiful clear facets that reflect desires and purpose without any of the shadows or cloudiness you get in most people's heads. There's no static. It's a beacon, sharp and brilliant." He smiles, his gaze far away. "Some people are just like that."

August ponders that, studying Alexander even as he imagines a mind along those lines. Eventually, he says, "Guess that makes sense. Not sure I'd call that beautiful, myself, but..." He chews over his reaction a bit. Then, "Something that's clear and perfect like that, it's only got one way to go." His eyebrows go up. "Fracture. Damage. That, or stagnation to stay the same. That's no good. Fear and doubt," he rubs his arms, "they're hard. They hurt. But they also shape us. Like," he narrows his eyes, unconsciously looking north and west, "a river carving out a canyon. They're natural. Being perfect and clear," he shakes his head.

"When your whole life is self-doubt and other shadows, it's beautiful," Alexander says with a shrug. He looks suddenly embarrassed to have brought it up. "I just meant that there's more than just people who need help. Some people are just broken in ways that can't be helped. Or fixed." His smile widens. "And not everyone is as drawn to what is natural as you are, August. You're very grounded."

August gives Alexander a small, sad smile. "Yeah. I'd have agreed with you when I was younger." He glances at his watch, stirs the pasta, fetches out a skillet and sets it to warming up. This is no heavy-bottom piece of seven-ply aluminum; August doesn't need to wait long for it to be warm enough to melt a few pats of butter and begin sauteeing the veggies.

"Some are," he agrees, tone soft with memories of just such people. Faceless, in buildings, murdering civilians just trying to go to work. Oh yes; he certainly thinks of them as broken beyond repair. He shrugs that off, says, "Well they should be. Keeps your head clear. ...clearer." He mixes some pepper and parsley into the veggies, keeps a weather eye on Alexander's mudslide.

The mudslide is slowly, but steadily, shrinking in the glass. Alexander doesn't seem to notice his drinking; it doesn't taste as much like alcohol, so he's enjoying the sweetness as he watches the man work with fixed intensity. "It probably does," he admits. "It seems to have worked for you, anyway." A breath out. "Is there anything I can do for you, August? It feels like you're always showing up to try and make things better. But you don't ask for anything. It's odd."

"Excuse you, I asked you to check out that cop who was harassing the girl who owns," August makes a face, "owned, Control Pad." See? That's one whole thing! "Which wasn't exactly a safe thing for you to be doing, apparently. And you're helping Eleanor with that thing in the Veil. Anyways," he glances over his shoulder at Alexander, "I'll ask if I need something other than this. Making sure all of you are okay," he focuses on the vegetables again, "that's what I need. So, you letting me come over here and feed you, that's plenty."

He takes a tentative bite from a bit of carrot, nods, and takes the boiling pasta off its burner. The next bit is a small dance of steps; melting in a little more butter with the veggies, then adding in some cream and warming it, finally, the fettuccine, dripping hot, starchy water. The parmesan goes in last. It's all done in a couple of minutes. He gets out some plates. "Everything else I could need, I've got. An amazing woman who, by some crazy luck, wants to marry me, good friends, solid employees who don't steal or cause problems. Sure, it's not perfect. I still hear mortar fire in town and I still feel like I'm one wrong move from collapsing a building. My healing's weaker," his voice trembles with a hint of frustration for just a second, "of all the fucking things." He plates the pasta and veggies, turns to hand it to Alexander. For all that the weakened nature of the shapers' healing has him upset, he still looks placcid. "But it could be--it's been, a lot worse. So if I'm doing okay, the least I can do it, is take care of all of you. Make sure you get through shit."

"I would do that no matter who asked," Alexander points out, quietly. "And helping Eleanor, too. I like Eleanor." He eyes his milkshake. "I just don't want you to worry so much about other people that you don't let us help you when you need it." He takes a breath. "That smells amazing." A bob of the head with the healing. "I've been thinking about that. Maybe we should look into that. This Doctor thing. Isabella said he essentially was sort of made out of whatever our abilities are. So...maybe we could reach out to him. See if there's a way to change it."

Gently, August says, "I know you would. That's why I know you're not a terrible person." He chases that with a 'so there' look. "And, don't worry, Ellie and Itzhak won't let me go without help. They get made if I try to." He turns his attentions to the dwindling mudslides. "I'll get a couple more of these made. You, eat." He makes good on his word, getting the ice cream back out of the freezer.

As he scoops it into the bowls, he says, "Do we think reaching out to that guy is a good idea? He sounded," August grimaces, "kind of pissed about how she killed the Vivisectionist." Which might mean just Isabella can't talk to him, but August isn't so sure any of them should. "If he placed value in her, seems like coming remotely near him is bound to end with us getting dissolved. Or worse." What's worse than being dissolved? August doesn't want to know.

Alexander doesn't have to be told twice to eat. He settles in and tries the hot pasta dish. His smile is brief, but brilliant, erasing years of trauma from his face in that moment. "This is really delicious. Thanks," he says, solemnly, almost reverently, and then he eats with enthusiasm. "And I don't know if it's a good idea. But if there's anyone who can affect it, it might be him. I mean, maybe this is all his idea of an experiment. Or a punishment," he admits. "I'd...rather Isabella not put herself in his range. Obviously. I can't stop her if she wants to. But I'd rather she didn't. So I haven't mentioned it to her. But."

August smiles to see that expression, brief as it is. "See? Ice cream, booze, and pasta. Great for a few minutes of respite." He ponders the Doctor. "I was thinking experiment. I mean, we saw how powerful he is. Why would he need an Asylum of patients with powers? Unless he's curious about us somehow. Of course," he pauses to pour Alexander his new mudslide and swap it out for the depleted one, "we also rolled on up and stole one of his patients, got one of his employees to turn on him. So, punishment seems pretty likely too." And what a punishment, given how much they heal one another.

He makes a low sound about Isabella as he works on his next mudslide. "...but if she gets wind we're barking up that tree she'll want in," he finishes. "Yeah. Well, maybe at first we just ask around Over There, in the City Hall area. See if anyone has anything to tell us about this guy."

Alexander nods, and there's a smaller smile, but still genuine. "I think it's the friendship more than any of the others, but yeah. Feels good." He nods. "And experiment would make sense. Maybe that was the Vivisectionist's function. To focus the experiments on smaller groups, rather than just changing everything for everyone?" A shake of his head. "I don't know. I don't really understand those people over there."

A resigned sigh, and he bobs his head. "Yeah. Even though he scares her. Because he scares her. But we could start some inquiries. The Archivist, maybe?"

"The friendship's the seasoning," August says, pointing his spoon at Alexander. Once his mudslide is done he gets to eating as well. "No sure we could understand them if we tried, honestly. Especially not the Doctor; he's not even human. Marshall, though--he was at one point. So maybe some of the others were too." Which begs the question of who they were, in those lives, and how long they've been no-longer-human.

"Archivist sounds like a good spot to start. Thorne has a uh," he gives Alexander a surreptitious glance, "thing with her, right?"

Alexander can't help it. He almost chokes on his pasta and bursts out laughing. Thank the mudslide for the startled but genuine sounds of mirth. "I, I think the Archivist has a bit of a crush on the handsome young Mister Thorne, yeah. He might be willing to put in a good word - especially since any of this also affects Lilith." Another of those brief grins. "I regret missing seeing his face with the Tour Guide. I really do." A pause. "Don't tell him that."

He reaches for the new mudslide and drinks with less hesitation. "But he's able to interact with people. Even if he terrifies the piss out of them."

August joins Alexander in laughing. "I mean the part where she made these clones of him kind of gave it away," he says between bites of Alfredo. A cough of his own when Alexander asks August keep that bit about the Tour Guide to himself. "your secret's safe with me," he says, making a scout's honor sign.

Sipping from his own mudslide, he says, "Archivist is a good start, then. Although," he gives Alexander a Look, "didn't Isabella get herself cursed, last time she was there? We should remind her to," a bite of pasta, "curb her enthusiasm."

He eats silently, turning that comment over in his mind. "He's able to, and, seems to want to." More thoughtful chewing. "I can't help but wonder if the fact that we can use the power that he is, it's some kind of...issue, for him."

Gratitude blossoms on Alexander's face. "Thanks. He's proud. I like him. I try to be careful about his pride." He ducks his head and eats pasta like a machine. Although a fairly neat machine; he's learned table manners. "And yes. But I think that was from deciding to read some of the books there. I don't think she was meant to read those books, so she went blind. It doesn't make a lot of sense. But I know she doesn't want to end up like that again, so it should be fine." A pause. "Unless there's another temptation. But she doesn't make the same mistake twice."

"Could be," he allows, after thought. "Maybe we're tapping into...him? Or his thing? I don't know. But I'm still not sure why we have all of this. These abilities. These lights in the darkness. What are they for? It doesn't feel like random chance or mutation. If I wasn't afraid of him exploding my head, I'd love to talk with him."

"He is very proud," August agrees, tone solemn. It might not even be the mudslide talking. He huffs a laugh about Isabella. "Like I said. We'll have to make sure she doesn't, ah, try anything."

He's got enough liquor in him to cop to being curious about the Doctor without as much hesitation as before. "Yeah, same here. I mean, he's going by 'the doctor', which could mean a clinician, but also a researcher. So," he gestures, suggesting the obvious reason he wouldn't mind chatting with a godly powerful Glimmer being who's a fellow scientist. He looks out over the room, toying with his mudslide. "Maybe, tapping into him, or..." He makes an apologetic face. "Most of my examples are kind of gross. But dust mites, how they live in our houses and eat the hair and skin we shed? But they're powerless compared to us. And yet they can give us allergies. Maybe we're like that."

"We'll do our best. Isabella is brilliant, so I think she'd be useful if we get any information. And she's smart enough to realize how dangerous The Doctor is, so I don't think she'd try to provoke him." Alexander stops eating long enough to think something over. "It's interesting that he cares about the Vivisectionist. Is it because it just represents some level of time or investment wasted? Or were they friends? What does it mean for something like that to have a friend." He smiles. "I don't mind gross. I read text on decomposure rates, post-mortem pest infections, and the effects of poisons. I'm okay with gross. But maybe. I don't like to think that we're parasites. We don't mean to be."

August's face takes on a dubious cast at the notion of Isabella being able to restrain herself, but he doesn't say anything. He just radiates 'uh huh' between bites of alfredo and veggies. "It...could just have been a working relationship. But maybe they were friendly." His brows lower. "Whatever friendly means for something like him."

Those eyebrows get a worried cast for Alexander's reasoning behind why he doesn't think being compared to dust mites is very gross, or doesn't mind if it is. He waggles a hand. "They're not really parasites. They're more like carrion eaters, feeding on detritus. Which," he clears his throat, "I realize isn't a lot better. So, maybe think of us as...cory catfish, maybe." Bottom feeders. Not a huge improvement. He sighs. "My point is just that maybe we're on that level, compared to him. So he's curious about how we interact with this, and why we choose to do it."

"It could have been. We don't really know enough. Still, we don't know enough about the things over there," Alexander says, with a frown. "People. I suppose they're people." A shake of his head, like he still struggles with that idea. "What if we are like parasites," he says, thoughtfully. "If he's made of...whatever this is, and we're pulling from that, are we just pulling from the excess, or are we pulling from him or things like him?" He twirls his fork carefully, then blinks. "What if that's why we're tormented? What if it hurts something for us to use our abilities, so it sends out Shadows like...bug spray. Or a fly swatter."

"We don't," August agrees easily. "Which is why Isabella and Itzhak and I keep heading on over there to poke around. Gather what we can."

Pasta done, he sets to nursing his second mudslide. "Mmmmm." He mulls that over. "Well, we do know that doing things over there changes over there. Psychomorphic, like you called it. So it could stand to reason using our power, if it doesn't hurt things, at the very least, has some kind of effect. Like," he waves a hand, "tossing a rock in a pond. It attracts attention, makes ripples, changes the bottom of the pond. It's not hurting anything strictly speaking, but," he arches an eyebrow, "changing it, definitely."

"And because you like it," Alexander says, blandly. "It's new and magical and you enjoy it when it's not trying to kill you." His look says tell me I'm wrong, as he waggles his fork at August. Then reaches for his own mudslide, drinking with more enthusiasm. "I wish we could see the Veil somewhere that isn't a thin spot. I'd like to understand what sort of relationship the two worlds truly have to one another - is it symbiotic, or are we imposing some sort of disorder on them, as much as they're imposing disorder on us? I would like to see the Veil unaffected by our world. Its natural state."

"It's a new wilderness to understand, so," August waves his glass, "of course I enjoy it. Living out in the middle of nowhere, trying to understand it on its own terms, that was my thing for a decade." He grins. "Sure, this wilderness is a little more inclined to kill me. Just means I have to be smarter."

More thinking, during which he turns the glass in his hands. "I'm not sure it has one anymore," he says, eventually. "An unaffected state. Maybe it did, but it wasn't the Veil, then. Sort of like, chloroplasts weren't chloroplasts before they went inside another cell to hang out and harvest energy to fix carbon. They were cyanobacteria. But then endosymbiosis happened, and they became chloroplasts." He thinks about this analogy. "So there might be spots far away from thin points where we could...look back, see the ancestry from Before. But I suspect the nature of our involvement with it is what it is, now. We're not separable anymore. But there might be places you can see the history, like there are cyanobacteria we can look at and see where chloroplasts came from."

"I don't know if that's true," Alexander says, after a moment. His brow is furrowed. "Going over to the Veil, taking things over there, for the most part it wasn't possible without...I guess without intervention from someone like The Doctor. That's the only way I can see the Asylum existing. And it feels like the Asylum was mostly contained. Constrained. I don't know if we /leaked/. But it feels like the changes started to accelerate once--"

Then he frowns, shakes his head. "Wait. No. Margaret and her brother went over as children. They drew maps. Possibly created gnomes. How? How did they do that?" He downs a good portion of his mudslide while he thinks it over.

August points at Alexander. "Leaked, that's a good way of putting it. That could be what happened. Or," another gesture as he mentions Margaret and Thomas, "maybe it was cumulative, like you said. Adding up over time. Endosymbiosis didn't happen," he snaps his fingers, "all at once. It was gradual. Same thing could apply here." He stops with his glass half-way to his lips, blinks. "Created gnomes? Like--those gnomes? The ones who tried to kill Enzo?"

"The ones who tried to kill Vincenzo, yes. But he killed their chief and taught them how to have sex, so I guess they like him now," Alexander says. "It seems like Thomas might have created them, somehow. Or at least changed them significantly. He wrote a book showing them how to have sex." And because he's had probably too much of a mudslide, he gigglesnorts, and claps a hand over his mouth for a moment, before adding, "Vincenzo touched the acorn to the gnome."

August stares at Alexander, then his mudslide, then Alexander again. Is it the booze, the ice cream, or both? "I thought you were going to prevent him from needing to--wait. Acorn?" He waves a hand. "Back up. What exactly happened with all of that." He beckons. "Spill. I need details."

Alexander cracks up at August's stare. His laughter is deep and uninhibited, and it takes a couple of minutes to regain control. "Oh. You didn't hear." Another snicker. "Okay. Um. So. The gnomes attacked Vincenzo in his hospital room, and I and Anne caught one. It made a deal with him to stop attacking, if he came and killed their leader and helped them repopulate. You know that." A wave of the glass. "So, we went over and stomped on some gnomes, with the lead rebel gnome riding Vincenzo. Squish!" A pause to drink. "And then they brought out what I guess is the sacred box. It had two gnome figurines, with acorns for genitalia. One golden, one not. And there was a book. Explaining, uh, how to touch acorns together and get new gnomes. Vincenzo had to demonstrate. Except, he didn't use the two practice gnomes." He grins. "He picked up one of the practice gnomes, and touched acorns to the rebel gnome. Who, it turns out, had a golden acorn. Which is probably why it wanted to take over. The old leader's acorn was gone, you see."

August scratches his head, listening to all of this with a highly skeptical expression. Not that he doesn't believe Alexander; he put chalk on a tree and all the trees got chalk on themselves and watches the Doctor blow up someone's head and dissolve Monty's shambling ghoul remains, he's pretty on board for crazy bullshit across the board now. "Golden, acorn," he repeats, slowly and carefully. He shakes his head. "And Thomas Addington wrote this book?" He squints. "So...they were going over as kids. For decades." Through the cheerful haze of Frangelico and Kahlua he's coming to a realization. "Is it...generational? A family thing, with them?" How it took him this long to put that together he'll never know; Gohl being from over a century ago should have been enough of a signal. And yet.

"Golden acorn!" Alexander practically crows it. And then his features sag. "God. I watched an Addington touch a gnome sex doll to a gnome penis. How is this my life, August? What did I do wrong?" And then he's snickering again, and polishing off the second mudslide before going back to the pasta. "But, I think the Addingtons and the Baxters are more connected. Um. To the Veil. Somehow. Baxters can diminish or destroy abilities when they - we - they die. They take the light with them, I think how it was said." He nods. "Which is why Margaret was grinding up their bones and shattering their souls, so that they're trapped in the Veil and can never take away the light. And the Addingtons clearly had some influence or connection with the Asylum, even if just...knowing about it and turning a blind eye. But I don't know how or why the two families became so important, or connected."

August guffaws. "Wrong, a lot of people would say that's how you know you're doing it right." He cackles, has to spend a second sobering up when Alexander returns to the more serious topic. He frowns about the grinding up of bones and shattering of souls. "She was what? Jesus." He has a drink. "God, I always knew she was bad news, but...fuck." He bites his lip. "So that's what Gohl did. When we buried him--he took some with him."

He's quiet for a few seconds, staring intently at a spot on his plate. Then, "Did Thomas do something, then? When he disappeared? Because," he raises a hand, and a flicker of lightning passes between his fingers, "I never used to be able to do that. Then he vanished, with Gohl's grave, and I swear I felt like my power was turned upside down."

Alexander nods, having much less of an urge to laugh, now. "The Exorcist couldn't stop her, I think, but she punished her. Refused to let her have any children. But the Exorcist also doesn't know a way to fix those spirits. They're just...sort of out there, demanding help. All the way back to the crazy preacher. Who says he can fix it all if I kill myself." He eyes his empty mudslide, then goes back to his pasta. "And yeah. I think she said Thomas tried to fix what we did when we let Gohl go over, and maybe fucked it up? I'm not sure."

August's brows go up. Way up. "She made her sterile?" He has a whole new and horrible appreciation for what the Exorcist is capable of.

Additionally... "So, sacrifice yourself to do what Gohl did." He tips his head. "Why does he think it'd be permanent. If Addingtons can fix what Baxters do, then Margaret just," he flips a hand, "finds an Addington willing to undo it. You died for nothing." He pulls a face, sips from his mudslide. "Preachers tend to be kind of dumb like that, though."

"Maybe," Alexander muses. "Or at least she made it so she couldn't have children. I'm not sure there was anything wrong with the equipment, but the Exorcist seems to be an expert on souls. So, maybe she left the soul-equivalent of a negative star Yelp review: 'do not enter', you know?" He shrugs. "My chair was being a unicorn during some of the converstion, so I wasn't able to clarify as much as I might have liked."

A bob of his head. "Yeah. Sort of. I gather there's a ritual. Lindon claimed that he'd tried it before, and that was why he burned all those women, but that this time, he's got it right, and it will definitely work." A long pause. "I think he might be a little broken. Or a lot." His smile is brief and bitter at the mention of preachers. "People who think they're working for God are dangerous. It's easy to tell yourself that whatever you do is justified. That you're special."

August chokes on his mudslide at the 'do not enter' comment. He's probably not taking it the way Alexander meant. Or maybe he is. "Shit, Alexander." He grabs a paper towel, dabs at his shirt, wipes off his glass between sputters. Once he's gotten control of himself, he says, "I guess it could be that. Or maybe there's some other influence she has." He shudders to think of that; the Exorcist, in the Veil, preventing a woman from having children.

The topic of preachers is a little more welcome, after a fashion. He shakes his head and groans. "Yeah, 'special', 'important', the 'one who can fix it'. As if things need fixing, rather than working on, coping with, living through." He sighs softly, contemplates his mudslide. "And any guy who burned a bunch of women is definitely broken." He mutters it, angry at the mere idea.

The way Alexander smiles at August's double take, he might have gotten it exactly right. But he sobers again as the conversation turns towards preachers. "God's Chosen," he says, after a moment. "It's...attractive. If you're lost, and you're alone, and your abilities have brought you pretty much nothing but pain. Having someone tell you that you're not broken, you're not evil, you're just made for something special? It's nice. Nice to feel special. And if you're hurting people anyway, then at least you can hurt the right people, and it's making things better. Eventually." He trails off, clears his throat. "But, yes. People like that are broken. Very broken." There's more than a little self-loathing to the declaration.

August mmmmms, studying Alexander with more than a little sympathy. "I lucked out, having a family who insisted on being up in my business no matter how bad I got. And ah," he coughs a laugh, "not having anything to do with Christianity, that didn't hurt." He surveys Alexander a little longer. "Well. They were right--you're not evil. Broken, sure, but," he spreads his hands, "seems like we all are, so you're in good company there. And being special isn't a good thing, in my experience. Society just wants us to think it is," he smiles, wry and bitter, "right until we realize it's the 'special' animals picked for the slaughter, and the 'special' trees we cut down to make furniture." He has a healthy drink of mudslide.

"I think my parents were at least half relieved when I was gone. They were disappointed when I came back," Alexander muses, with that certainty that only an empath has. "But I don't...know that was because of me entirely, or just because of who I was when I came back. I wasn't well. I think they hoped I'd learn to be well."

But he smiles, and shrugs. "We are special, though. No getting around that. We're so special it hurts." He blinks a couple of times, rapidly, and then laughs. "God. This is why I don't drink, August. I get stupid. Sorry."

August's features shift with grim sympathy, the kind a fellow empath has. "Sorry. That had to hurt, knowing that, rather than just suspecting it." How ugly their power could be, that it let them know things about their loved ones which they'd rather not. "That's why I don't think of it as being special. Different, sure. Uncommon even. Special?" He runs a finger around the rim of his glass, briefly thinking of another time and place. "Nothing special about some of the shit we've been through, Alexander."

A sharp turn of his head to dismiss those memories and negate what Alexander's said. "Not stupid. Maudlin, maybe. But there's nothing stupid about this conversation. Introspection turned verbal isn't a bad thing all the time."

Alexander shrugs. "I hurt them more, being me. They did their best." He finishes off his pasta, and smiles down at it. "Thank you for the meal, August. And the mudslides. And the company. Especially the company. I needed it." He looks up, then. "I like you. And maudlin is a good word." He stands, a little unsteady, and gathers up things to put into the sink. "It's not. Introspection. It's not a bad thing. It's just difficult."

"Yeah, I did my fair share of hurting when I got back from Bosnia. They were pretty Tam Lin about the whole thing, though." August falls quiet a second, maybe remembering a moment here or there, shakes his head and gets up as well. "Difficult, but, useful. And you're welcome. I like being company, so thanks for letting me come over and harass you." He's not so unsteady as Alexander, though definitely moving with care, as they go about the process of cleaning up.