2019-08-12 - Mission: Ridiculous

There's a Jeep idling outside the entrance, and the windows are down juuuuust enough for the theme music to be heard playing. Alexander is in the driver's seat, still grinning to himself. There's odd bruising and scratches on his face, around one side of his nose, but whatever tiredness he was fighting earlier has been chased away by the amusement value of...all of this. He's dressed in t-shirt and jeans, with some gauze bandages on one arm, and a thickening around his waist that suggests more there, but all in all, he's clearly having a good time and is happy to be here.

The sun is already hanging low, its undercarriage touching the distant line of the Pacific when the designated door of the hospital's side-entrance in its west wing opens. Alexander Clayton would find her easily enough, though were he not involved in this ridiculous operation, he wouldn't be able to pick her out at all. With her slender figure clad in burgundy-red scrubs, her dark hair hidden under a surgeon's cap, and the lower half of her face shrouded by a matching mask, she looks just like any other medical professional intent upon taking a break. There is a bag clutched in her grip, full of the things that she has accumulated in the hospital, proof positive that suitcases are always heavier after a trip, no matter where it is; she has had visitors other than him, and they all came bearing gifts.

Even under the growing shades of indigo twilight, those eyes are unmistakable, peering from above the mask and flaring with vibrant, viridian, gold-spangled life. The sight of the cherry-red Jeep quickens her steps. She maneuvers around to the passenger side, opens the door and hops in, hinting, at least, that whatever grievous injuries that she has sustained are well on the mend, if not inexplicably vanished completely. She buckles in, like a responsible passenger.

Isabella doesn't say anything to him, like a true professional covert operative - at least, not until he starts peeling out of the parking lot and they're on their way back to her residence. It's only then that she turns to him, long fingers reaching up to peel her surgical mask away and pulling the cap off her hair, a direct reference to the characters of the show and movies removing those infamous disguises, letting those dark-chocolate waves spill free and flutter in the Summer's wind like wayward streamers. Their dark contrast makes her eyes flash as they blow around her face, framing a smile brimming with unadulterated mischief. Humidity has left her sunkissed skin warm and dewy; it is unforgivably hot today.

"Mister Clayton, I presume," she says in her best British accent - and it's passable, considering her years in Oxford. "Mission accomplished!"

"And I suppose you're very proud of yourself," Alexander says, with a deep sort of amusement. He looks her up and over rather critically before pulling out of the parking lot. Just enough to reassure himself that he's not helping a critically ill patient escape care she actually needs. Once reassured, he drives! Her brimming smile is replied to with one of his own, sweet and sunny. And, like all his smiles, rather fleeting.

As they pull up to the light just outside the parking lot, he says, "So, Agent R. Where are we going? Back to your houseboat? Back to my place? Somewhere else? Your wish is my command." A pause. "Especially since it's your car we're driving."

"I am. I really am." Isabella leans back against her seat and sighs. "If I don't do this now and then, I'd go mad. Drive a fast car. Jump out of a plane. Scale the side of a mountain, or board down on it if it's winter. Dive...I miss the ocean. I know it's only been a few days, but I can't help it. It's in the blood."

She rolls her head back and closes her eyes; it's hot, sweltering - didn't she tell him before, that August tends to be the hottest? But she cracks a single crystal eye towards him when he asks her where to go. "You should pick," she tells him, crossing long legs by the knee. "Though I wouldn't mind seeing where you live." Her eyes tilt down to herself, however, a faint frown playing over the shape of her mouth. "Though if we did, I'm going to have to use your shower, and borrow clothes. Unless I'm not allowed, then I suppose I'll just have to dance around your living room in a towel and nothing else."

She plays it up, that innocent expression that isn't at all, the face she wears that could practically call tanks from the nearby National Guard outpost to neutralize an imminent threat.

"I would think that living in Gray Harbor would be excitement enough for any human being, without adding sky diving and the like to it," Alexander says, but it's more amused than anything. "I'm glad you're feeling well enough to be restless and bored, though." A glance to her bag. "Seems like you cleaned up, too. Hospital visits: Unexpectedly lucrative." It's teasing. He drives carefully through the streets, even more so than usual - possibly annoyingly so, since he seems to be taking extra time at each light to look in each direction and all that.

There's a thoughtful pause. "You're allowed, but I don't have anything that'd fit you. Let's go to your place, hmm? There will always be time for you to meet Isolde and Luigi, once you're washed and comfortable." He takes the road that turns them towards the harbor. Under his breath, he starts humming, "It's a Small World." He doesn't seem to realize he's doing it.

She's never seen him drive; the first opportunity had been denied her when she was felled by both his mental acumen and Vivian's sedatives, unable to assist in the Hanging Bridge episode of their growing list of troubles that they've experienced together. But his amusement and clear enjoyment of her quirks and foibles - after all, it isn't every day that she finds someone to be a willing accomplice to her shenanigans, much less offer to be one without her prompting - has her smiling at him in that winsome, youthful way that can't help but emphasize the dozen-year difference between them. No matter how intelligent, no matter how articulate, no matter how passionate she is with the glories and defeats of Academia, Isabella Reede still manages to find some room within herself to dare to be stupid.

"My place it is," she says, and there's a hint of relief there, too, and one that she can't completely quell.

There's a side-eye when he starts humming It's A Small World. "If you get that in my head, I'm kicking you out," she says, but she's clearly jesting. There is, however, something else in her tone - concern, perhaps, and apprehension.

The drive doesn't take long - small towns are what they are and even with Alexander's very careful driving, they arrive relatively quickly. The bag hefted in her grasp, she checks the mailbox with her name on it before they proceed to walk across the planks and down the docks where The Surprise beckons the eye, a gleaming white knife that readily soaks up the colors of the day's vibrant sunset. Here, so close to the Pacific, it is cooler than the heart of town, the salty breeze rustling over their clothes.

The little tricks, she told him once. As she gets closer to the door, there is a telltale click followed by a deliberate slide to leave the entryway to her abode wide open for the two of them without the help of her keys. "I couldn't bring back all the balloons Byron brought to my hospital room," she says with a hint of regret. "And he stopped by to pick up some research materials and my laptop for me. But I brought back all the flowers, the book you loaned me - I'm almost finished, by the way. And then Easton stopped by to drop off a bottle of scotch and some pastries - chocolate croissants - which you can have the lion's share of, honestly, you know how I feel about sweets. I get to have one, though. I'm curious." She flashes him a wink.

She attempts to lead him into easy conversation, at least, anything to keep him from humming, or keep his mind off his most recent ordeal. She sets the bag carefully on the kitchen island.

"It feels good to be on my feet again," she confesses to him quietly.

"Get what in your head?" Alexander asks, absently, as he pulls into the exact place she left her Jeep, and kills the engine. The keys are handed over to her, as his eyes widen and he seems to realize what he was humming. "Fuck. Sorry. It just...it stays." He shakes his head, hard, as if trying to knock the song out. From his exasperated breath, it doesn't work. "It's not just me, though, so at least I'm not going uniquely insane. August keeps hearing it, too. Or did." He clambers out of the Jeep, moving carefully but not with a great deal of pain.

He will cheerfully offer to take her burdens, if she allows, raising an eyebrow at the mention of Byron and balloons. "You could probably bribe some nurse to sneak them out, you know. I could go and pick them up." Another flash of amusement, then startlement at the way her door opens by itself. A hint of that twitchy paranoia for just a moment, before he makes himself relax. "And Easton, hmm? You are quite the popular lady. And I suppose I could take the burden of flaky sweets off of your hands. If you insist." Dry playfulness that segues to concern. "I'm sure it is. Just don't overdo it, hmm? I saw your chart. You should rest for a least another couple of days. Or at least try to stay out of any more firefights."

It just stays.

Levity tables itself for a moment as Isabella watches him, but when he offers to be a gentleman, she doesn't deny him, handing him her burden with a small and appreciative smile. She'll be addressing that later, but she can wait until they're both in more comfortable environs before she starts grilling him. As always, she is insistent - he had pegged her right in the earlier days of their acquaintance, that she, too, harbors a certain adoration for mysteries. Not the Gray Harbor kind, but that lends itself to a particular tenacity for the quest for answers.

You're quite the popular lady.

"I tend to be," she says with a quick grin, though there is nothing egotistical about the tone, but rather a statement of fact - apples from students, flowers from colleagues and the occasional moony-eyes from barristas who make her coffee. "At least in my later life, which is strange because when I was growing up, I wasn't. Too brash, too opinionated, too competitive. Though in Easton's case, I'm relatively sure that one was powered by guilt. And honestly, he shouldn't be - he had absolutely no control over what happened that day." Her voice drifts off in remembrance, jaw setting on that delicate, stubborn hinge. But she takes a deep breath and slowly lets it go.

"I insist," she reassures him with a smile. "And I promise I'll try not to overdo it. Staying in my own home will be good for me, and I need to start swimming again." She shifts, unsure how to explain it. "It feels like years instead of just mere days. Anyway...you want to make us some coffee while I get out of these?" She gestures down to herself. "Do you remember how to use the French press? If not, there's the Keurig."

She waits for his assent, but whenever she gets it, she'll pivot to start heading into her room, first, and then the bathroom, the door sealing shut behind her. There's the telltale spritz of the shower head engaging, and a soft, quiet, echoing, feminine groan of pleasure and relief when water hits her skin.

"Teenagers are easily intimidated, especially in romance," Alexander says, dryly. "There aren't many who are secure enough to see someone driven, and see someone who can match them, instead of being afraid they will exceed them." He hesitates once inside the houseboat, looking around it with the eyes of someone whose memories of the place aren't exactly good ones. But the worst of that no doubt happened when he came back to plunder the smuggler's hole, so it's only a moment, before he's slouching his way to put things down.

"You're right. Easton should not blame himself or feel guilt. But he's a good man. He has to work it out in his own way." He turns to her, and gives her a slow up and down with his eyes, and an even slower smile. "You look charming in them, actually. But," a wave of his hand, "I think I can remember how to make coffee. Even in the French press. Shoo. Go relax." And then he's heading to the kitchen, and it turns out that the practicing he's been doing at home has paid off - he actually DOES remember how to use the French press. He starts humming to himself as he works. No money for guessing the tune.

She is not about to tell Alexander Clayton, or anyone, that it had taken her until the second year of college to go on a first date.

She'd swat him for the once-over he gives her, but Isabella is forever cognizant of the thin, glass wall that they maintain between one another out of necessity; instead, she laughed and shot him a look over her shoulder as she went. "I think we already talked about you being a biased audience," she had replied, before shutting the door completely.

If the houseboat had room for a bathtub, it might be that she would be sending him on his way to have some time to herself and some bubbles, but the archaeologist finds some satisfaction enough in a hot bath that sluices away the persistent cling of blood and antiseptic. When the door opens again, it releases a cloud of steam, her slender figure stepping out of it and clad in the things that she often prefers when she is at home, especially in the heat - a tanktop, shorts, sheer, black thigh-high stockings to keep her relatively modest. Drops of water cling to her skin like diamonds as she drags a towel through her hair on one side, moving to the kitchen and gravitating immediately to the scent of coffee.

Not prone to being an idle creature, or even all that accustomed to being pampered, she looks for Easton's pastry box and opens it so she can pluck two croissants out of it and sets them on a plate. She moves to the small toaster oven so she can heat them up just a little.

"I heard that," she tells him with a look; it's wry, but it fades immediately with concern as she takes a good look at him under the illumination of the dying sun outside, the exhaustion lingering in his dark eyes and the hints of bandages she sees. "You've worried about me enough in the last few days, however. You visited me every day. Do you want to see if I can at least help things along?" Her fingers gesture lightly to his bandages, though she doesn't necessarily mean that. She is also referring to other injuries that aren't all too visible.

"Bias only introduces a probability of inaccuracy, not a certainty," Alexander points out, lightly as she shuts the door.

He busies himself, otherwise - he's been here before, and remembers where the coffee cups are, and so has two out and ready. Also, takes a moment to examine the beans, likely much better quality than the ones at his home. If it twists his smile a little off center, that's gone by the time she emerges.

When she emerges, there's another look, appreciative at the same time as it is clinical, assessing the damage he can see in her new outfit. He moves out of the way easily for her to assert ownership in her own kitchen, taking one of those barstools instead. The offer is given a shake of his head. "The visiting was a pleasure. And one of August's friends already took care of the worst of it. Just a couple of small bites, and they're healing well." And the possibility that a worm ate a small chunk of his brain, but he's not gonna think about that if he can help it. "I prefer to let things heal naturally, if they can without further danger. It's not wise to attract attention if it's not worth it. I especially don't want you attracting it, until you're entirely healed." A mock-stern look, there.

She seems to appreciate that riposte extremely. She in fact, says, with a lift of her chin and a lower of her lashes, her contralto a deliberately soft murmur: "Are you trying to seduce me, Mister Clayton?"

Isabella doesn't fuss over her appearance, even with the presence of a man she's clearly interested in making himself comfortable in her kitchen. The towel is set to the side so she can gather up her wet hair and leave it in a damp twist, secured to the back of her head by a piece of elastic, tendrils left behind by the careless loop clinging to the sides of her face and leaving dark, curling patterns at her nape and the hollow of her throat. The moonstone pendant, buffed and cleaned of blood, rests at her clavicle, motes of color illuminating one visible scar in the midst of his appreciative-clinical assessment. He is already familiar with the first one, the white line on her left shoulder, but there's a new one now, in the place where Sheriff Addington almost ended her life - a small, thin 'x', perched just before the feminine inner swell of her left breast and paler than the rest of her skin, dangerously close to her heart.

I especially don't want you attracting it.

Her back is to him now, sparing him the way her face twists at the words - and there is only a half-second pause before she's moving again, taking the plate of croissants and delivering them to the island. She takes a seat next to him, turning her body so she could look at him directly. Fingers reach for her coffee.

"Where did it happen?" she asks him, green eyes searching his face. "When you got lost? You told me before it happens regularly, for you. But does it happen this frequently?"

Alexander seems to consider the question. His brow furrows, his fingers beat out an absent rhythm on the countertop (Iiiiiit's a Smallll world, aaaaafter alll...) and he studies her with that blank look of concentration that could so easily be read as a creepy coldness. A blink, then, "I don't know. I've never seduced anyone, Miss Reede. But I guess I wouldn't mind giving it a shot. In the interest of new experiences, and all." A faint smile, then.

Coffee steams fragrantly at their places, and she is watched, unwavering, until the treats are delivered. He does look down, then, to break off a piece of the end, and pop the warm pastry in his mouth. "The carousel at the park. I...and others, it seems, had an urge to ride the damned thing, and everything got bizarre from there." To her last question, he shakes his head. "No. Or, it didn't until a few months ago. When I noticed a lot of people who stand out starting to come, or come back, to Gray Harbor. I'd only been in a group...Dream...twice before. Now I've been in several. I don't know if we just attract more attention when we're together, or," a shrug, "if we're starting to tick people off."

There's an amused twitch of his lips. "You should meet Itzhak and his friends, at some point. They're very keen on taking the fight to the darkness. I suspect you'll enjoy their spirit."

The clinical reply has her blinking once, before her lips pull up at the corners. "I was joking," Isabella says, with a sudden burst of laughter. "That's alright, Alexander." Her gaze returns to him in a sidelong tilt. "Stick to your honesty. It works for you, trust me."

She remembers the carousel well, in the park. "I can't believe it's still there after all these years," she murmurs. "But I suppose it shouldn't be surprising, it's a fixture now. I went jogging there, in my third day back, that's when I ran into Byron again. I can't believe how well maintained it is, even after all the rain." There's a hint of a frown. "Ruined, now, there's something to be said about this place doing its level best to chew on happy memories."

She falls quiet, when he proposes his theory. Her eyes gravitate to the croissants, reaching out to take hers, pulling it apart into pieces and slipping one between her lips. "It can go either way, I think." Though the last words tastes more like I know rather than an actual guess, absent in a way that suggests that she has once again stepped outside of her body to let it do what it wants.

She keeps her eyes averted when he mentions Itzhak and his friends, and the rest of her expression is buried by a timely sip of her coffee. "They sound nice," she tells him. "And you know me, I'm always a fan of people taking the fight to the threat." Her eyes glint faintly under the sunset's light. "I think you're acclimatized enough with my personality to gauge that with some degree of accuracy."

There is something unspoken there, though, hanging between the words. It feels, and tastes, like a but...

"But I'd love to meet them. August sounds interesting, I don't think I've ever had a lengthy conversation with a botanist or horticulturist before."

She surreptitiously slides the plate under his tapping fingers, to let them sink into pastry and chocolate. "Remember when I told you about what I heard the evening of my mother's murder?" she wonders. "Byron experienced something similar, recently. Like stepping mid-conversation into something."

A blink, almost but not quite a flinch, at her laughter. That wary hint in his face as he searches her expression for mockery. Finding none, and with her words, he's able to smile back at her, and offer a sheepish sort of shrug. "Sorry. Sometimes I miss a joke. But I tend to find honesty is cleaner."

"Don't let what happened to us ruin your memories of the park, or even of the carousel," he adds, softly. "If you do that, then all of the Harbor will eventually be a terrible thing. You have to let things go, sometimes. Just accept they happened, you survived, and that means you win." A flash of a smile. He eats the croissant mechanically, as if he can hardly taste it. Or most of his attention is on her. And even though his usual wits are impaired by the unceasing melody in his head, he doesn't miss the aversion of her usual direct gaze. "But?" It was hanging there, so he gives it form and weight and sees what happens.

"They're interesting. Itzhak is...bright, brash, protective. A mind like a machine of infinite depth and complexity. It appeals to me. August is steadier, deeper, a river in a dark forest. De Santos is," a hesitation, "I don't know if I like him. He thinks he's very funny. But he's not shallow. Miss Celaeno is...bossy. Also brash. And waiting to see what happens with herself, I think." A shrug, since he clearly expects Isabella to know about the history of that Harbor family.

The tapping fingers find something more squishy, and he blinks, looks down. Grins. "Sorry. I was doing it again? It's hard not to. Um...huh. You mentioned that. What did he hear? Was there another murder associated with it?"

"I know," Isabella tells him simply, regarding his honesty. Slowly, she nudges a stocking toe gently with the flap of his jeans underneath the island, by his right ankle as those long lashes lid, lips playing up with a feminine, almost feline quality: "You're sexier that way."

She keeps consuming her croissant, and it's delicious for all of her usual bellyaching of things that too sweet; the dark chocolate helps, and that is how she prefers it, the bittersweetness folded in with the airy pastry. But she is fully aware of his stare, however; he has a knack for making it feel like a touch, against the side of her face - an intangible sort of pressure that her rebellious spirit can't help but resist, because that is the way she is. Eventually, however, she relents, because she, too, is incapable of not meeting someone's eyes for long. Green-gold irises lift to meet his gaze, and under the haze of the sunset glowing behind his head, his darker ones look like embers, imbued with midnight heat.

"But you can't face it unprepared," she says, quietly. "And there's so much about it we don't know, still."

It can, and will take everything from you.

The way he describes his other friends is curious, too, and the young woman's interest heightens there. She takes a contemplative sip of her coffee and sets it aside. "It sounds like you've bridged with a couple of them." Bridged? She is using her twin brother's term for it. "If they were unusual before, they're even moreso now. Not many would elect to do that - I had to convince Ronnie to let me just so I can show him what happened. It's understandable, though...that sort of thing requires a tremendous amount of trust." Wistfulness, that aching hint of regret, threads over her words before she shoves another piece of croissant in her before moving on. "Celaeno sounds familiar, though the particulars escape me at the moment."

She sighs. "And no, no murder. Not yet, anyway. But Byron heard it out of the blue, something about how the voice was saying 'I'm willing to take the risk - the house is a rental anyway'." She pauses and shivers slightly, lifting her fingers to rub absently on her arm. "You know, some cultures in the world believe in death rattles," she tells him. "Pieces of memory that linger in a place, I can't help but be reminded of it, sometimes, when it comes to the voices."

Alexander doesn't blush at her feline smile and the compliment, but neither does he flinch at the touch of her toe against the flap of his jeans. He meets her eyes without guile or shame. "You have very strange tastes, Isabella Reede. But," his voice drops a little, "in this case, I am glad of them."

The rest, though? That draws his attention more than the flirtatious back and forth, if only because of her last statement. His eyebrows go up. "I said that, actually." A pause. "Several nights ago. With, ironically, August and Itzhak. We were testing the hypothesis that I floated on the boat, with the Thorne and Miss Addington?" A pause, before he continues, "The idea that one could use my aspect of ability to target someone with other powers from a distance. We stayed inside the house, but August fed me images from the bathroom, I gave them to Itzhak, and he made things move in the bathroom without being able to see them." There's a bright grin - for all his clear caution when he talks about what he calls the Shadows, he does enjoy stretching the limits of his abilities, and the successful experiment clearly delights him. "It works. I think that we could do it from miles away, if everyone involved were strong enough. And if you had both types of abilities yourself, at equal strength, you could probably do it alone."

His expression turns puzzled as he tears the croissant into little pieces. "But I have no idea why Byron would have heard me speak that phrase. I wasn't projecting, and we hadn't even linked up yet."

Strange? Isabella grins faintly. "I just know what I like." And she's unrepentantly decisive about it, despite the lack of clarification - they've not revisited the 'type' conversation at all.

His enjoyment is plain to see, but there is a part of her that is looking past him and while the smile lingers, there is a sense of apprehension from her, and a deep, incalculable sorrow. The root of it is puzzling, there is nothing to suggest that the young woman is unhappy being in his company. Memories, however, are double-edged things and for a moment, however brief, she glimpses another person's face superimposed over his, the wall behind him bleeding away, nautical decor and clean lines shifting into more antiquated details of an older home, the scent of pine logs tugging at her senses.

Leela, look!

She swallows and turns away to reach out for her cup of coffee, cradling it between her fingers before it gets cold. "So it's probably likely that the Ghoul's equally strong in two or more abilities?" she wonders. "That's worrisome, but what you just did...it's complicated. It sounds complicated, anyway." She manages to flash him a smile. "I know you have a certain reputation for chasing the strange, but your methods are reflective of forensics that you've probably studied. Just translated to..." She gestures vaguely. "The uniqueness of your situation." She pauses and ventures, quietly. "You're extremely talented in what you do." There's admiration there, underscored by concern.

But I have no idea why Byron would have heard me speak that phrase.

"It's not his term," she tells him at last after a long silence. "My brother referred to it similarly. So every time I have to reach someone's mind, I visualize a bridge, and I wait for the door on the other side to open."

Her little tricks.

And as it turns out, not so little ones.

It's not that he misses the sorrow on her face, the melancholy remembrance. Alexander sees it, takes a note of it, files it away in whatever mental archives he has. But he doesn't pry, at least not yet. He's sitting back, expression thoughtful. "I don't know. There seems to be a living person involved, doesn't there? Perhaps that person and the Ghoul are linking up. I don't know. There's too little data for me to be sure of anything, except that I can understand the mechanisms by which someone might commit murders like this." A shrug. "But a ghost? Who knows if they have to use the same methodology."

There's a flash of a smile at her compliment and admiration. "I know." Sometimes a tendency towards blunt honesty is not charming; much like with the powers of his abilities, one place Alexander has no modesty (false or otherwise), is about his investigative skills. One of the many reasons he's not the GHPD's favorite person. But after a moment, he adds, "Thank you," as if realizing something needed to be added to make it sound less breathtakingly arrogant. Then he shakes his head. "No. What I meant is that I don't know why Thorne would have heard me say that. About the house being a rental, et cetera. I wasn't projecting. And for him to get words, I'd usually have to be - and he'd have to be receptive to picking it up. Which, thus far, he's never been. Your bridge metaphor is an apt one for the method of communication. Both parties have to agree to raise the gates. I can impose on someone's mind, but I did not attempt to do so in this case. And if I was randomly projecting, I have no idea why it would go to Byron Thorne."

I know.

It may be breathtakingly arrogant to him, but Isabella ends up laughing again, suddenly; her mirth tends to scour away whatever darknesses she may be harboring, reducing them to ash in its unfettered, incandescent wake. There's something pleased in her expression, and the devil is in there too, dancing in those evergreen depths. "Well," she quips. "Confidence is sexy, too."

Her laughter loosens the bands of tension around her ribcage, and her fingers fold onto it as she leans back. "And I would be the last person in the world to begrudge you of that, speaking as someone who projects an outrageous amount of bravado in almost every circumstance. Looking back on it, I'm not quite sure what you're even doing around me. You're so humble about everything else, I think some part of me is bracing myself wondering when you're going to get sick of..." She gestures to herself. "All of this. I'm impossible."

She expects lines of communication to cross, now and then, especially with them - two stubborn people who would rather break than yield. So when the right amount of comprehension actually sinks in to what he's saying, Isabella stares at him mutely, wide-eyed, her fingers frozen around her cup. "Wait...you...what? That was you?" Her voice rises in astonishment. "I don't...what?"

Alexander's head tilts to one side, and he gives her a puzzled look. Like he can't even imagine why she's saying what she's saying. "You're interesting." He starts to eat some of the torn pieces of croissants. "You're intelligent, driven, strong-willed. Competent. I like those things in people. Always have. And you're not impossible, Isabella. You're interesting. I like to watch you. To interact with you. And you haven't told me to go away, yet." That last could be teasing, but there's nothing in his voice or his expression that suggests it's a joke; rather, he sounds like he's just expecting it's a matter of time before she does, in fact, tell him to go away. It may also, in some regard, explain the other people he seems drawn to, whether it's a grumpy police captain or an up-and-coming businessman who clearly doesn't like him very much.

Then there's a flicker of that arrogance, again, a quirk of his eyebrow upward. "That's what I said, yes. The thing about the house being a rental? I said it. Before that experiment. But, again, I don't know why or how Thorne heard it. It's an interesting question."

And you haven't told me to go away, yet.

The look on Isabella's face is almost comical as she regards him, before she huffs quietly. And while she's clearly satisfied with his reasons, she's trying not to look too happy about it - never the sort, in the end, to default to softer, more vulnerable emotions that Alexander doesn't seem to fear. "That was actually the main reason why I was so incensed with you when I thought you didn't want anything else to do with me," she says, pushing another piece of the croissant in her mouth. "Because you didn't just look me in the eye and said it." Not that it matters, in the end; he had already explained his reasons for acting the way he did, and after the beach and everything else after that, it is water under the bridge for her. There is no heat when she says these things, just a quiet, good-humored grousing, more exasperated with herself than anyone else.

After a moment, she speaks up, though she has difficulty meeting his eyes when she does, concentrating on her pieces of pastry. "I'm definitely not the kind to hold back," she tells him. It's another promise and another warning. But she does finally lift her eyes to smile faintly at him. "But I fight for what I want to keep, also."

Emerald and gold sweep over his features in silence, studying his profile, before she picks up her cup and rises from the seat, draining it as she moves for the sink, her back to him.

"That's an interesting question, but exploring it is going to be somewhat complicated," she remarks, setting the mug down and turning on the faucet. "He wasn't happy about your invasion during the night on the bridge." She doesn't say the rest, but she trusts him and his intelligence to fill in the rest - that said up-and-coming businessman who clearly doesn't like him very much might think he's doing it deliberately. "And he's particularly sensitive when it comes to the contents of his mind. I know how honest you are and I'm not advising you to lie or anything like that." She looks over her shoulder. "I'm just telling you that if you do intend to explore said question that you ought to be prepared for the possibility of an adverse reaction."

There's a hint of a smile. "It's just another thing to figure out, I think."

"It wasn't that I didn't want anything to do with you. I just wanted you to go away," Alexander says, like those two things don't sound an awful lot like one another. And he seems to realize it, after a moment, and huffs out a breath of his own. "I'm not good with talking with people, a lot of the time. Before...actually, before I met Thorne in the cemetery on his father's death's anniversary, I'd only rarely spoken to people if I didn't have to. For," he thinks, "about the previous thirteen years. I've only had Luigi for a year or so, and before that...I'd talk to my parents about once a week. Nothing else outside of work." A shrug. "I'm bad at all of this."

Then he snorts. "He wasn't supposed to be happy. He was supposed to be pissed off, pick up his damned phone, then come try and stop me from finding the ring before he did, so I could dose him and stash him somewhere safe while I found Miss Winslow. Unfortunately," a dry note, "only the 'pissed off' half worked. And I know he's guarded. It's why I've been...very careful, Isabella. I've never tried to read him, I've never shared anything with him without his permission." He looks away. "And the one time I shared something with his permission, he told me to never do it again. And, aside from that moment before the stone bridge, I haven't. And I won't. I didn't project to him. I swear it."

The mug rinsed, Isabella turns at that, the arch of her brow climbing up her hairline so deliberately slow, one can't be blamed for thinking it's a customized trigger for the epiphany that sinks in into him a few moments after he says the words. She manages to refrain from saying anything else, though, when she leans against the rim of the sink, crossing her arms loosely over her torso as she watches him on the island, silently listening to these bits and pieces of his history with her childhood friend. Her interest is clear, but the shrug and the helplessness within it softens her sun-touched visage.

And it does, further, when he looks away.

Her breath leaves her quietly, before reaching for a towel, drying her fingers and leaving it folded. When she returns to the island, she doesn't sit down. She remains standing, but she folds her arms on the cold surface, leaning forward so she could look at his face directly and while she doesn't touch him, the shadow she casts fall on his face.

"That last one isn't your fault, I don't think, if you were only following what he asked you to do," she tells him. "And it sounds like he changed his mind the moment you did. I guess this is the part where I tell you something that hasn't changed about humankind, in its entire multi-million year history. People are complicated, and fickle, and fallible, and those in no small part contribute to the inherent messiness of relationships among them. Of all kinds. Between you and me, I don't think there's anyone out there who's actually good at them. Human connections are like the ocean floor, to me - it changes in the blink of an eye, and sometimes violently. The best we can all hope for is to develop some kind of working competence when it comes to that kind of thing, and that doesn't happen in stasis. Like everything else, if you want to be capable at something at the very least, you have to practice."

She cants her head slightly, searching for his eyes. "I believe you," she says softly. "About Ronnie. And I'm happy to know that in spite of everything, you continue to try."

"It's not about fault," Alexander says, with another shrug. "I'm aware that what I do is offputting, even creepy. I don't blame him in any way for not wanting me in his head. But, after this Ghoul thing is resolved...I suspect we won't have much interaction with each other, so it's not a big deal. We move in very different circles, and I don't expect that to change." Even if there's a frustration there, a leashed tension that he clearly doesn't want to elaborate on.

When she leans in close, his head tilts back just a little. He meets her eyes without hesitation. A flicker of a smile. "I'm glad. That you believe me." He studies her for another moment or two, then leans forward. As attempted kisses go, it's not the most graceful. Half because he's clearly bracing himself for whatever emotional feedback he inflicts on himself when he touches others, and half because...well, it was a moment of impulse, so it's a quick movement without much warning, his lips warmed from the coffee, tasting faintly of it, along with with dark chocolate and butter from the croissants as they seek out hers.

"I wouldn't count on that, of the two of you never interacting again after this." Isabella's smile is a cryptic one. "I know you...or at least, I know some aspects of you, and I would like to know more if you'll let me, and despite our estrangement, I'd like to think I still know him."

The return of his own broadens the curve of her pliant mouth. "You're so painfully honest, how could I not believe you?" she wonders, her voice simmering with the undercurrents of a burgeoning laugh. "I-- "

To say that he catches her by surprise might very well be the understatement of the century and for a second or two, the young woman doesn't move, her eyes open and wide when his mouth finds hers, her breath caught somewhere within her lungs. To say that he has stunned her senses to short out and leave her frozen would be a lie, however, her reaction more akin to someone who has just realized that she has walked right into a trap. And, as always, that doesn't last long either when she's always so quick to recover.

He tastes like coffee and dark chocolate, smells like paper, ink and saltwater, interspersed with traces of an undefined quality that is both masculine and uniquely his, and uncaring of the awkward angle of his approach, her body slides around the edge of the counter slowly, blindly. Instinct spurs her to lift light fingertips to brush over the outer curve of his nearest cheek, and underneath his impulsive onslaught, her soft, expressive mouth parts underneath the exploratory pressure inflicted by his own, the touch of her tongue against the curve of his lower lip a fleeting thing, but carries with it an unspoken invitation.

To enter. To take, if he wants.

There's no hesitation in giving it and he'd feel her shiver - desire is there, yes, completely, but also the wild sweep of youthful enthusiasm that she is trying to hold at bay, because she doesn't want to overwhelm him with herself. Tiny aftershocks run over those fingers - her touch is light, but he can certainly feel them, and those emotional strings snapping taut across his senses like electrified wires; how the world fades away, discarded with extreme prejudice, every ounce of her being keyed to the way his mouth moves over hers and how much she needs it.

A bump and slide of noses in the awkwardness of that impulsive action. A hesitation as she freezes, his eyes still open, dark and searching for rejection. When the opposite of rejection happens, she can feel his lips curl up against hers in a relieved smile. When she slips around the counter, closing the distance between them, Alexander turns to meet her, his legs parting, then reaching out to hook around her own and urge her closer. His hands reach for her waist, sliding under the hem of her tanktop. Then just say there for a while, fingertips warm and rough on her skin, while he attends to the kiss, gets used to the warmth of her, the taste of her, and tries to quiet his rattling nerves.

He kisses her with a slow, thorough intensity, exploring the lower curve of her mouth with his lips, the tip of his tongue, and even the barest brush of teeth, before deepening the kiss and accepting that invitation with a gutteral groan that never leaves the back of his throat, just vibrates a little across their shared connection.

Oh, god, Isabella thinks, feeling him reach for her.

Oh, no, she thinks, when her smaller, more slender frame presses against the breadth of his chest, skin finding summer air and the warmth of coarser skin spanning the small of her back. Adrenaline, the unmistakable, white-hot spools of it twists down her spine, passion pooling hot and liquid somewhere at the cradle of her hips. He'd feel her breath hitch when he makes her close the distance, and he'd feel those tremors intensify. Her blood rushes hard, a roar deafening her ears, the lurch of her heart banging against her bones and her hand shifts to press further against his cheek, cupping it in full.

He would find her responsive to his every whim; a quiet breath washes over his skin when his mouth familiarizes itself with the shape of her own, the tip of his tongue causing more of those tiny quakes - because oh god, she's trying, she's trying - and his teeth nearly unravel her altogether, her knees locking as she stands between his legs, feeling them fill with water, or jelly - something cumbersome and preventing her from exhibiting any manner of a proud stance.

...and then, he groans.

Any pretensions she might harbor about keeping some semblance of control when he's tasting her so thoroughly simply snap. Her hand leaves his cheek, but only in favor of banding those slender limbs around his shoulders, the gentle pressure of her fingernails pushing through his dark hair. Underneath the line of his mouth, he'd feel her open for him, feel the way her soft, stubborn mouth slants hungrily against his - slow, still, but humid, wanting and implacably restless, introducing him to the sweep of a deft and desirous tongue; in the end, arguably her most dangerous weapon, and she does not hesitate when she wields it against him....or ignite his imagination as to what else she could do with it, if given the chance.

She answers his groan with a sound of her own, breathless, feminine and throaty with need, and as her embrace tightens, he'd catch those stray, agonized fragmented thoughts.

I'm sorry.

The angle of her kiss changes, deepening it further.

I can't help it.

Fingers slide gently over the back of his neck, with just the light rake of her nails.

"You drive me crazy," she whispers feverishly against his mouth.

Alexander leans into the touch of her hand on his cheek, his eyes finally closing as he commits himself to the kiss entirely. The tremble of her body has his hands moving, flattening themselves on her back. Maybe it was meant to be reassuring, but it quickly becomes a sensual caress. And as she snaps, and lets herself return the kiss completely, his fingers curl, nails scraping lightly against her skin.

And more, too, almost entirely by instinct, does he indulge another desire. His mind opens, reaches out for hers, slides and teases around her formidable defenses until he can slide into the smallest cracks. Just enough to be able to feel her reactions to his touch, his kiss, his every movement. He adapts without hesitation to the sparks and spikes of desire, pleasure, want that he finds, more aggressive or gentle by turns, as if he really has very few preferences except whatever brings her pleasure, and is happy to lose himself in the guidance of her mind to direct his hands, his mouth.

And he really should have asked first. But her whisper causes a soft laugh. "Then we'll be mad together, Isabella."

Her back arches when his shorter fingernails bite delicately into her skin, and what passes between them is a quiet, ragged moan, buried in his mouth and lost within it. Her teeth dig, hard enough to be felt, but not hard enough to hurt, against his lower lip before her lips part for him again and allows him to take what he wants, seize all that he can carry.

Isabella's mental defenses are no joke, but she is not impregnable; his explorations in an area in which he holds primacy over her would find the subtle yielding of those gauges, locks and tumblers, to reach in to ride the wave of sensations his body is inflicting on her own, forming an endless feedback loop of impulses - dangerous, by itself, because how could it be not? Passions run as red as her blood and what he inspires and ignites within her threatens to burn him from within, white heat and volcanic, molten desire bleeding from her end of the link and into his. Is this what it is like to be her, all the time? To feel so much, to throw herself in the pyres of her own making over and over again, but in the end suppressing most of them until it's time to unleash them? This volatile landscape inside of herself rages like uncontrollable hurricanes...and all because of him.

She drinks in every touch, savors every twist of his tongue against her own - the way he grips her tightly, to prevent her from escaping, and she likes it when he traps her against his chest, so close that it's difficult to determine where her body ends and his begins. She likes the way he sups on her breath, kisses her so deeply that it leaves her panting and lightheaded, and the way he tastes - the coffee, the chocolate, and the others in between....and the wicked, jagged shards of her own imagination as she wonders what he tastes like elsewhere.

She likes it all. She wants it all.

So long as it comes from him.

"You're cheating." She sounds like she's run a mile, like he's taking her already. Her mouth disengages from him to capture the high arch of his ear between her lips, and exacts due revenge - images of pushing him backwards, her fingers on his belt buckle, her mouth scoring tender, damp rings on his skin as she slowly sinks on her knees...

"I like it," she murmurs, ever so decisive, lips parting as they press against the hinge of his jaw. He'd feel her smile. "I don't fight fair, either."

"It's not cheating," Alexander murmurs against her mouth, even as he slides off the stool, bringing their bodies achingly close together. He basks in the volatile passions that swirl around and through him, dips his mental hands in them and entwines his pleasure with her own. He's not a volcano, although there are peaks and flashes of terrible intensity in his mental landscape. Instead, he's shadow and sharpness and bright light, like mirrored stars floating and clashing in a dark abyss, reflecting the brightest light and the darkest shadow both. And, right now, reflecting her: her passion, those maddening images she's sending him, her wondering and wicked imagination. And adding his own - brief but painfully clear images of her body nude and arched, of his mouth and hands learning every inch of her skin, running over her scars.

"It's not cheating," he repeats, his lips straying from hers to kiss his way down her throat. "But I'll accept whatever vengeance you consider worthy for my imposition," he murmurs against her skin, then bites gently at the pulse point just under her jaw. His teeth scrape teasingly across her skin, before he looks up at her with dark eyes. "Bed?" A murmured question that means more than just the location, clearly. His hands still in their restless exploration, and he holds himself rigid and waiting. Just in case the answer is no.

"Ah..."

It's a gasp, wrung from her throat, forcing her to detach from his jaw and tilt her head back, the damp, loose tendrils of her hair curling between her exposed shoulderblades. It is not, however, drawn by something he does physically. She's been with other men, but never one like Alexander, whose mind is his greatest weapon and one that he is presently wielding to obtain a delicious, carnal advantage over her. Green eyes fix on the ceiling, glassy with lust, the stars in his inner field reflected within them. How fitting is that, really? That she's all fire, storms and cataclysmic eruption, and he is darkness and distant turbulence, with bolts of lightning screaming from vague but inevitable dimensions, the difference between night and day, almost exact opposites. She can almost smell and taste the ozone he can wield.

She's barely conscious of him standing until he's nudging her backwards, until the small of her back bites into the edge of the island, the cold granite both a shock and relief on her heated skin. It leaves her breathless, the curve of her spine following the exploration of his hands. The heat of his mouth pressing against her throat leaves her crying out softly, fingernails raking in bracing desperation over the defined line of his shoulders, and he'd sense her pleasure ratcheting upwards along with the frenetic beating of her beleaguered, shattered heart; he's so lean, so hard everywhere.

He's so close, there's a spike of fear there, too - that he would hear just how fast her heart is beating, that whatever remains of it might break even further. Her eyes lower at the shift of his head, finds herself falling into endless pools of living night, and feels her mouth go dry at the expression she finds there.

Her hands cup both sides of his face, her mouth finding his again; she kisses him like she's starved, like the area past his lips contains the secret to the universe, finding those heated confines and new places within him in which to bury her agony while immolating herself in this unexpected ecstasy. "Bed," she whispers in between increasingly frantic breaths, passion intensifying at every hungry movement, every press of his body and every pass of his restless fingers on her skin until they stop. "Desk. Floor. Wall."

She tilts her body, rolls her hips against his. Her mouth parts against his own, but doesn't disengage. "Anywhere," she murmurs between their heated exchange of increasingly ragged exhalations. "Anything."

Her arms lock him tighter against her.

"Just don't stop."

~ * ~

...as most people say. The mind may be willing, but the flesh is weak.

The door opens. Two bodies fall on the bed, followed by a sudden, sharp, feminine cry that's genuinely pained and has absolutely nothing to do with what she actually wants to be doing right this moment.

"OW!"

In which Alexander Clayton and Isabella Reede realize that the final end boss of this entire affair is not his phobia, but a human body that is still recovering from major physical trauma.

The ensuing silence is heavy, and endless, but eventually broken up by splinters of mutual and incredibly frustrated laughter.