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reviewdiaries · 9 months

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Ace and the paradox of finding peace in 4x09

Ace is very isolated this week, and it allows for some quiet introspection - the possibility of getting into his own special kind of trouble. And isn’t that something Ace has always been spectacularly good at? Whilst I’d love to see more episodes like the last two with entire Drew Crew shenanigans and hijinks, I’m also really loving the separate threads that each of the characters are following. The writers have a beautiful ability to weave seemingly disparate threads of stories together into one cohesive whole that makes the season even more satisfying by the end.

So he’s thrown himself into work, because that’s what he does when the snarls of feeling become too much. And yes, the last we saw he and Nancy were very much more on the same page, starting to feel their way through to an understanding, a want, a please I want to be with you more than anything, I don’t care what anyone else says. But that doesn’t magically fix everything. Doesn’t iron out the creases in his mind where the fears have taken root. That he’s not enough, not worth it, that Nancy will die and he’ll be left with nothing but a fistful of memories and a crippling guilt that it was all his fault.

But it’s still there. In the distraction as he picks up the clipboard and nearly shatters Connor’s mug. In the distant half aware way that he greets the latest addition to the morgue. His mind is half on his job and half on Nancy and the way his heart is tied to hers, a tug beneath his ribs whenever he thinks of her.

And then he is offered a distraction. A beautiful shining puzzle all his own. And he can’t resist, he’s never been able to resist, that’s part of why he and Nancy work so well together, so attuned to the frequency of mysteries to untangle, problems to solve, locks to pick. He’s used to the supernatural - the idea of the morgue being haunted barely rating in his top ten creepy situations he’s found himself in. So of course the latest body has brought in its ghost, and of course they’re trying to communicate with him. And he’s part running through all of the things he remembers from Tiffany haunting George, from Odette, the tips and tricks to try and draw them out, help them move on. Part engrossed in the who and the why and the what of it all. Metaphorically putting his fingers in his ears over all of his own feelings and problems and focussing entirely on this.

By the time he makes full contact, Ace has had time to think about this, to puzzle out the problem of his supernatural visitor. I don’t think you’re here to hurt me - famous last words Ace, but he’s also not wrong on his assumptions so far. The entity could have hurt him when they first announced themselves. He drops to the floor expecting an attack, for something to fall, to electrocute him, for danger of some kind. But nothing comes. He’s realised they, whoever they are, want his attention. Want his help.

But it’s the phrasing of the next part that gets me.

Maybe I can help you move on. The slight pause, the stumble over the idea of moving on. And doesn’t everything come back to Nancy at the moment? What they have, how they’re wrapped up around each other, tangled beyond hope, uncertain how to move forward, impossible to move back. Pandora’s box where once they admitted how they felt, once they had those first delicious illicit moments - conversations, touches, kisses - they couldn’t ever go back to not knowing.

Find peace.

He can’t find peace. As elusive as sleep when he thinks about kissing her. And things feel cleaner, lighter, since they spoke. But there’s still a disconnect, still the pain of a dislocated bone when he sees her, so it’s easier to avoid. Easier to stay here in his own space with his own mystery, and not think about the constant beating of what if that thunders in his chest when he thinks of her.

It’s tantalising, the possibility of helping something, someone else to find those things. Like maybe if he can find it for someone else he can see the roadmap for himself. Because it’s all one step forward, two to the side, three steps back. He’s lost and confused and throwing himself into his work at the morgue because it is his. It is separate, isolated, a haven away from the tangles of the rest of his life. And sure, Nancy has a way of finding her way in, even here, she always does, she wouldn’t be her if she didn’t, but on the whole it’s clean lines and antiseptic - impersonal and so far away from the riot of colour and knot of emotions he’s so used to.

So he doesn’t even question. Doesn’t wonder if this might be something bad, something that might hurt him. Just wants to help (doesn’t he always want to help - acts of service, acts of service, acts of service) wants to prove to himself, to the ghost, to Nancy, to the world that he is helpful, he is worthy, he can do this on his own. Wants to shut the feelings away and focus on something else if only for a little while. Plunge his hands into the cold water for the shock of something new, something different, something that takes him out of the loop of his own thoughts.

He’ll tell the others at some point, maybe, he’s not sure at this stage. Too lost in the here and now moment of the puzzle to think about caution, about the need for back up, for different perspectives. To wonder whether maybe he’s being incautious because he hurts, because he’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of the bay, because he’s terrified that Nancy is already moving on and what he meant to her was nothing compared to the size of his feelings for her. It was so much easier to stuff his feelings down and pretend they didn’t exist when he didn’t have the reality of his name whispered out on a gasp from her lips, the feel of her gathered close in his arms, the softness of her hair tangled around his fingers. Now it’s just a relentless barrage of knowing whenever he’s near her and can’t touch her. Worse since their body swap and he became intimately aware of her in ways he still can’t let himself truly think about. Can feel the heat of a blush staining his skin whenever the thoughts slip in.

So he’ll keep pressing through and ignoring the warnings in his head, and not wonder about the curse in the jar that allows the cursed to talk to the dead. Not wonder about the way he fell when the wave swept over the boat. Not wonder at the way Connor doesn’t seem to notice the weirdness that’s been drifting over the morgue like a dark cloud since this body arrived. Just keep breathing and pressing through against the bruises where his heart ties to Nancy’s, and plunging his hands into cold water until he can hear the voice again. Because maybe if he can solve this, help someone else move on, he’ll work out how he can do it himself.

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