(no subject)

[11calls]

God Alex is tired. She’d thought, perhaps naively that her sleep would end up getting better when Strand returned from wherever he had fucked off to this time (Charlie. And Alex doesn’t blame him for that truly. His daughter deserved to hear what had happened to and with Coralee in person. It was why when Strand had reached out to get the full file over email—the only time he reached out actually—Alex had sent all of the unedited footage even if there had only been a few more words that were basically a promise for later that didn’t come. She just wished that he had told her where he was going or had answered the call when Trump had been elected. It’s kind of hard thinking you may have started the end of the world and had that happen honestly.) but so far it hasn’t. Alex had spent the last two weeks at Howard’s house going over every Black Tape that he’d never shown her before. In the episode she had said that there were maybe a hundred of them that she’d not seen before and Alex had been wrong. There were 133 of them and each one of them was a fucking nightmare. It was so bad that Alex had ended up just passing out on his couch from sheer exhaustion and making the briefest of pit stops in her apartment for a shower and clothes and so that she didn’t arrive at the same time that Strand did. Nic gave her enough shit already—she doesn’t need anymore.

But given that the episodes were back and that Alex had an early morning interview tomorrow. (Thomas Warren. That should be fun, especially considering how Strand became a sulking child who slumped in his seat and crossed his arms whenever the man was even mentioned!) She actually headed home to her own apartment to try and sleep at least where she wouldn’t end up with a crick in her back. Maybe the shadows in her apartment would be familiar enough that she could actually sleep. Of course Alex isn’t holding her breath, but she does always try to have hope even when it seems fucking impossible to do so.

Ordering in dinner from her favorite pizza place (the one Strand hates because it’s too greasy and unhealthy and Alex Reagan really doesn’t cook) and opening up a bottle of cheap and too sweet wine, she’s got her feet up in the warm and slightly mismatched and cluttered apartment. Her couch is vastly superior to Strand’s and her tv is too even if Alex doesn’t want to admit that she actually does miss his company. The lights of the city are bright behind her curtains and it’s probably too late for dinner, but Alex really doesn’t care. When you don’t sleep like she doesn’t sleep time is an illusion and pizza is amazing.