Forensics is eloquence and reduction

"Rose?"

Ellison stands despite the instruction to sit and wait for the results he needs. Dr. Mescal had been clear in his instructions-- don't make a spectacle, Ellison, I swear to fuckin' God, or you're never getting my toxicology report-- and doing anything to get himself noticed was a clear violation of them. Still, it's hard not to notice the girl who's been around for both of his book tours (and had even helped out before Kentucky Blood even existed). Ellison's brows furrow slightly at the wonders of coincidence, but his mouth quirks up into a clearly chipper smile.

"Hey," he says, extending a hand for her to shake. It's sort of a reunion at this point; having frequented smaller bookstores, he'd been able to talk to his readers more intimately, Rose included.

"So this is where you're working now?"

It makes sense, of course-- every intern's bound to start working for real someday. But what're the chances that she'd end up on the East Coast after interning all the way in Kentucky?

Unable to keep from beaming, she takes Ellison's offered hand in her own, offering an almost too cheery, "Hey, Ellison!"

With an easy nod, she looks around her place of work before her gaze returns to the man. "This is, indeed, where I'm working. I interned here for a bit while I finished up my Masters, and I was fortunate enough that they hired me right after."

There's a fond laugh huffed from her lips as he continues to speak, putting on a playfully curious expression, arching her eyebrow high into her forehead. "What? You mean the lack of a work-life balance, insane hours, and studying the shit out of anything biological that comes from a crime scene to help maybe get a conviction isn't the dream?

"Sure could've fooled me."

She folds both of her hands around the small stack of papers in her hands.

(He rushed to check out of his motel earlier, that was certain. Chances are he probably left a shirt in the closet, but Ellison was so many miles away now that it hardly mattered.)

"I have my stuff," he starts, brows furrowing, "uh, in my car. I probably should've grabbed those on the way, huh?"

Stumbling out of the driver's seat earlier, Ellison had only thought of getting to somebody. Anybody, really, that wasn't fucking dead or missing or whatever the fuck it was Bughuul did to people.

She's just grateful he didn't.

"I can help you grab whatever you need later, yeah? Just... get settled and take a breath. You can stay as long as you'd like. Let me grab you some water and we can figure out where we're ordering from because I am two and a half weeks overdue for a grocery trip."

With a reassuring squeeze, she finally pulls her hand away from Ellison's and gestures to the couch. "Make yourself at home," she calls as she moves to grab the aforementioned water and her stack of menus.

When she returns, she holds the glass out to Ellison with one hand and sets the menus on the coffee table.

"What do you want to eat?"

@spatnotsplat, prompts.

"Shut up," Ellison says dryly, hand curved tight around the side of Rose's doorframe, "it's been two years."

Two years since his son and wife died in his sister-in-law's house. Two years since Ashley went missing. Two years since Ellison started seeing ghosts, and hearing the buzzing of flies in his ears, and had visions of killing everyone around him (to feed Bughuul, the poor thing, because he's been starving for fucking centuries).

"You said I could visit whenever I wanted, right?"

Maybe Ellison's paraphrasing, but the thought of being alone tonight makes him sick to his stomach. He isn't sure what he'd do, but already he knows that whatever it is, it wouldn't be smart. If not for the god lurking in the shadows of his mind, he'd think sobriety would likely be the death of him.