2019-09-07 - There Are No Angels

It's quite early in the morning, only a little after dawn, when Alexander makes his way along the docks, through the steady rain. He still doesn't have (or at least doesn't USE) an umbrella, and the walk is long enough that his hair is plastered flat to his skull, and his t-shirt and jeans are sodden and sticking close to his skin. He has, however, taken the time to protect the bundle in his hands from the moisture - a plastic bag has been carefully wrapped around a tray holding hot coffee and a paper bag that holds hot breakfast sandwiches. He ignores the looks he receives from the early morning dockworkers - since a CERTAIN ANNOUNCEMENT, he's gotten a large number of odd looks whenever he makes his way down to the docks.

He keeps his eyes focused on the houseboat, instead, and his work boots make solid clump clump clump sounds as he uses the ramp and shifts things around so that he can knock on the door. Three sharp raps, a pause, then three more. And, for good measure, a quiet, "Isabella?" which may not be heard over the background noise of the rain.

His timing is, as always, impeccable - or when it comes to good things, at least.

The early morning rain soaks up the docks and the inclement weather leaves enough wake washing up against their foundations that whatever few vessels are left anchored there adopt a buoyant sway, the scrape of fiberglass and steel adding to the otherwise quiet cacophony produced by other noises; the lone squawking of seagulls picking at detritus on the beach, the passing rush of distant traffic and the faraway clamor of church bells - morning service had just finished. But by and large, the area he is in is sparsely populated and the early morning sun rises slow and heavy over the Pacific's horizon, promising a morning awash in sweltering heat in spite of the moisture cascading from the clouds. There are indeed looks cast his way, indicative of what Isabella herself probably experiences every time she returns to her houseboat, but considering the fact that he hasn't heard of anyone getting shoved into the water, or otherwise eating her footwear, chances are good that nobody has elected to confront her about her questionable life choices.

She's already awake - he can hear music in the houseboat's interior, loud enough to be heard, but low enough to be conducive to conversation just the way she likes. Not Jazz, at least not today, he would find that her preferences in music run across a wide range of genres, though the former will always be her favorite. This hour typically finds her having just finished her morning swim and by the way the vessel hums underneath his feet, he's managed to catch The Surprise a few minutes after its return from more open ocean so its mistress can tread water even in the rain. Activity, too, he can hear footsteps padding around.

"Just a second!"

There's a thump, and an indecipherable curse, but it isn't long until the door swings open and there she is, Miss Reede, eyes lit with the emerald rush of blood-pumping exercise and her wet hair twisted in a loose knot at the nape. She hasn't even changed out of her swimsuit yet, but its telltale straps can be seen from underneath the tanktop she wears - a deep crimson red, its lines vanishing in the neckline and rendered all the more complicated still by the moonstone swinging from around her neck. There's a pair of shorts in her hand - she hasn't put them on yet, her sunkissed complexion pebbled by drops of seawater.

She blinks, surprise coloring her features, but he comes bearing gifts and her recovery is swift and immediate; she leans out from her threshold, her mouth slanting against his, hunger set alight by physical exertion - intent, for around at least a few seconds, to set him on fire.

Too brief, though - at least for her. And when she disentangles herself, she smiles at him with half-lid eyes.

"You need a towel," she says, somewhat breathless, stepping aside to let him in, the earlier kiss clearly the price of entry. "I'll get you one, I was just about to bury myself in my thesis." Mischief curls with her smile. "Good morning, by the way."

The rain is forgotten when Isabella opens the door. Alexander's gaze is appreciative and assessing, sweeping down her body, lingering on the length of her legs revealed, before coming back up to her face as she steps forward. He shifts his burden to one hand and one side so that he can wrap the other arm around her body and return the kiss without hesitation, and with a great deal of enthusiasm. "You taste like the ocean," he murmurs against her lips in satisfaction, before she disentangles herself. He licks his lips, still watching her unwaveringly, like he can relive the kiss just by the lingering taste of her.

Then he shakes himself, and offers her the plastic bag. "Good morning, Isabella. I'm glad I caught you before you started to work for the day." His voice isn't quite calm, there's a husky undertone to it. "I would very much like a towel," he adds, sliding inside past her, then stepping aside to sort of stand - awkward and dripping - out of the way of anything that looks too expensive to drip on. So...anything. "And coffee too. I know you have your own beans, but I was picking up the sandwiches and thought it might be nice." A pause. "Are you okay? I received Thorne's voice mail."

He can obliterate every thought in her head by just wrapping himself around her, and it's a guarantee every time he kisses her - thorough and with nothing of him held back. She could kiss him for hours and she's certain that in the very few times they've been together, she has tried. Ultimately though, this is one of her favorite parts, this brief window after a kiss when he simply looks at her with his fathomless dark eyes, head bent and keeping her enshrouded in his taller, broader shadow. It puts that ache somewhere within her ribs, electrifies her with his breath, felt so warmly and so closely the longer he lingers.

He'd find it in her, too, darkened emerald embers reflecting the shape of him, wholly encompassing each iris under long lashes, lips parted and still tingling with his enthusiastic response; the vague shape of the passions that threaten to immolate her, the razored edge of her infatuation - so intense, and runs so deeply it permeates right into her bones and marrow.

"I'd hope so," Isabella murmurs, about tasting like the ocean. "I might be on a mission to get you to love it as much as I do."

Allowed in, she tosses her shorts aside to deal with later, to pick up the plastic bag so she can set that and the coffees on the counter. They can wait, despite the fact that she is starving after her swim. A slight tremor runs down her spine - he has that voice again - but she shakes herself out of it also so she can quickly vanish at the back of the boat and return with a few items; a towel, and a plain black t-shirt. Captain Reede was tall, and solidly built, while it's guaranteed to be slightly too big for Alexander's leaner, whipcord musculature, it would have to do.

She hands him the shirt, and reaches up with both hands so she can towel off his hair and his face, if he allows her. For someone who is reluctant to show her more sentimental angles to anyone, she can be surprisingly gentle when she wants to be. Her touch is light.

"I'm alright. Had a rough evening with Easton, but we can talk about that later," she murmurs, contralto pitched low by their proximity. "I did get Byron's message but I wasn't allowed to see her when I stopped by the hospital late last night. I intended to come again today. Were you thinking of doing the same? Maybe we can see her together." Her eyes sweep over his features. "How are you recovering?" Her fingers brush over the fading bruises on one side of his face.

Alexander's head tilts slightly to one side, and there's a spark of humor deep in his eyes. "You're on the right track, then. I certainly approve of you wet and tasting like that. I thank the ocean for making it possible." Oh so solemn, but then there's a sneaky little smile, playful and teasing, that sparks, then dies, as fleeting as most of his smiles are. His eyes follow her as she moves through the living area, lingering when she disappears, ready to find her again when she returns. A chuckle at the shirt. "Ah. Luxury unexpected. Thank you."

He holds the shirt off to one side, allowing her to towel off his hair and his face. More than allow; he leans into the gentle friction, his eyes closing as the soft towel wicks away the rain and warms his skin. Once she's done, he pulls his own shirt - which is, itself, two sizes too big for him - off, revealing his chest with its subtle network of old scars, and takes the towel to quick dry himself from the waist up before donning the new shirt. He hands the towel back, then slips away to ring out his old shirt in the kitchen sink. "A rough evening? I assume you and he tried the finding experiment?" A look back at her, for injury or distress this time, rather than sheer enjoyment.

"And I'm well. Mostly." A pause. "I can't say I'm coping up here," a tap of his fingers to his forehead, "as well as my body is recovering. But that'll pass. It always does. And yes, I want to see how she's doing. And ask some questions."

"One day," Isabella says with a laugh. "I'll manage to be around you not wet and not grubby. Somehow." It's self-deprecating to be sure, but indicative as to how persistently her active lifestyle dogs her steps.

She gives him the room to work, though when he starts pulling at his shirt and divests it off himself, it's her turn to look - and it's almost a mistake immediately. She's joked about it constantly since their foray into whatever it is that they have together, but now that he's actually shirtless in the middle of her houseboat, it's as if she's never seen him naked. It's different, when one is in the heat of the moment versus not - it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever but it is and her expression as she watches the planes and cords of him shift under taut skin, scars coming alive with every efficient movement, is poised somewhere between appreciation and incredulity, her heart pushing up somewhere from the back of her throat, racing for miles.

She's left staring at the empty space he's left behind when he goes to the sink, unable to move, fingers forgetting the towel in her hand once he deposits it back there. I really need to see a doctor about this ridiculous condition, she grouses internally.

She animates with a vengeance, though, pivoting on her heel so she could march with purpose towards the granite counter and starts unpacking the breakfast he had brought. "Well," she tells him, nonplussed as she fishes for the sandwiches. "I had to be sufficiently plied with alcohol before I was of any use in that specific endeavour." To her credit, her words carry a good-humored edge. "But his skill in that regard is greater than mine, so I let him do the heavy lifting - he's practiced plenty with his abilities, but I don't think he's ever actually been guided to find lost objects before. Did you know he was..." Like me, though she doesn't say it out loud, feeling every part of her recoil and twist. "...a mover?"

She finally looks up at him and the tap of his forehead, and concern bleeds over her features. "I know it'll pass." That is said with her usual decisive confidence. "But I don't want you imploding until then, also. Do you want to talk about it?" She bobs her head regarding Erin, but at the moment her attention is fixed on him.

"I like when you're wet, and I don't ever find you grubby," Alexander says, with perfect sincerity. "Although I'm kinda fond when you're grabby." And then he waggles his eyebrows at her, the movement exaggerated and playful. He clears his throat in the next moment, damp shirt in his hands. "I don't suppose I could put this on your shower rod for a bit? Let it air out?"

The sandwiches are a variety, although the ones that have the little jalapeno flag stuck in the top of the croissant might have been chosen specially for her: they have a spicy pepper blend as a condiment, added to egg, cheese, and ham. There's also a couple of vegetarian sandwiches, and a couple of croissants that are just stuffed with cheese. One of those, Alexander snags for himself as soon as it's revealed, as he leans over her counter, propped up on his elbows, his gaze unwavering on her. "I wasn't aware, no. I know he has some of my abilities, but I don't have any moving abilities at all, so it doesn't...resonate? In me, the way the empathic abilities do. Psychokinesis does sound fairly interesting, though." Curiosity and caution in equal measure, he studies her response and turns her words over in his mind. "I'm sorry that it was difficult for you, Isabella. I didn't want to put any strain on you."

At the offer, he hesitates. The initial responds he wants to make is "no" - that much is clear by the way his face twists. But he struggles with it, keeps it from coming out, and really thinks about it as he takes a couple of slow bites of the warm croissant. Finally, he says, "I don't know that there's much to talk about. I almost died. Against something that I wasn't able to strike back at, and still really don't have a good idea how to fight. That scares me. So - nightmares, panic attacks, the usual urge to hide in my bedroom with the music at full volume for a couple of weeks." He takes a breath. "But I can't. So I won't. And I won't implode. Easton suggested that hitting things might help, so...I went to the Kelly place. It's close."

He frowns, then. Remembering where he saw her last. "I know I can't tell you not to go back there, Isabella. But you're a townie. You know the sort of shit the Kellys get mixed up in, and Joey's...not good people. Just be careful. All right?"

She takes care of the shirt, first, reaching over to take it from him. "I'll toss it in the dryer. Do you want me to throw your jeans in, also? I can grab a pair of my father's sweatpants from his drawer." She's already moving, regardless, long legs making quick work of the floor, disappearing into the back end of the vessel to do just that, to place his shirt in the machine, though she doesn't start it up yet. If he takes her up on the pants, she'll go get that as well, but until then, she lingers in the corridor that connects the main living area to the further underbellies of The Surprise, shoulder leaning against the wall and her arms crossing loosely over her chest.

"Don't tempt me," Isabella says, after letting loose a peal of laughter at his remarks about being grabby, waggling her eyebrows back at him. Glancing away and suddenly looking very interested in the other side of the room (though this ends with her stare falling right on the couch, triggering memories of all the depravities they've inflicted upon it, before tearing her eyes off that pretty quickly with a quiet noise), her voice drops in a murmur: "It's already taking a considerable amount of effort not to and if I indulged every whim, we'll never get anything done." Her eyes slide to the corners, glittering slits of emerald and gold, her smile lifting up in the corners. "Unless you're very confident about your ability to multi-task."

With the conversation moving back to Easton, she exhales a breath. "Well, he is one. A mover," she tells him. "And from what I gathered while on the bridge with him, an extremely well-practiced one. Normally, when it comes to finding objects, especially one in which you're relying on your memories for, or another person's, there's a range. His is quite significant - much more than my own atrophied one." There's a conflicted expression there, briefly. "He seemed a better candidate to perform the experiment than I am, so I just simply functioned as a guide." Though in spite of the visible conflict, there's relief there also.

His apologies earn him a shake of her head. "It had to be done, Alexander," she tells him quietly. "Besides, like I said - I made him do most of the work. That particular skill in a mover's arsenal is innate, so not many people know that they can do it deliberately. I only know that it's possible because of Sid. The longer I stay here, the more I remember."

She lets that hang in the air, her tone absent and almost dreamy, stepping out of her body again as if it is the only way to cope with the knowledge, but she exhales a breath and wanders towards the counter, selecting the spicy croissant, clearly marked, and smiles down at it as she tears off a piece. She must be hungry, though, because it's gone in seconds, left to wipe the crumbs off her fingers and her mouth. "Oh, god, that was good," she groans, tilting her head back to savor the afterburn of chilis in her tongue.

The memory of him almost dying has her glancing down at her hands, retrieving her coffee from the egg crate container. "There was so much blood," she murmurs. "I had to tape your throat shut and...I had to..." Her voice trails off when she remembers, reaching for it, immersing herself in it, engulfed in the maelstrom of her own potential and tasting how it feels again. But she takes a deep breath, her more determined look fixing into his eyes. "The important thing is that he failed," she says firmly. "And we might not have an idea now but we will. I am...sorry though, that you're having difficulty sleeping. It can't be easy, but this is going to end. One way or another."

There's a pause when the subject drifts to the Kellys. "...actually...I don't," she says slowly, in gentle reminder. "I've been gone for over a decade, Alexander. When it comes to the local color, I'm still trying to catch up. Is that why you were so irritated when you saw me there?"

"All right," Alexander says, in offer to tossing the jeans in there as well. Wet jeans are a misery, after all. Without a remote sense of shame, he unbuttons the fly and peels (literally has to peel) himself out of them, standing only in the white briefs he's wearing today. It's not deliberately provocative; the little hoppy dance he has to do is very practical for shaking the clinging denim from his thighs and ankles so that he can step out and hand over the pants. "Thank you, Isabella. It's wet out there." A flicker of a smile as he watches her look away and try to find a place to put her eyes that isn't too tempting. "I prefer to concentrate. On my tasks," he says, quietly, his eyes resting meaningfully on hers, for a moment.

Once the pants are in her keeping, he goes back to leaning on the counter, uncaring of his bare legs; they're muscular and lean - walking everywhere has its benefits - and just as marked with scars as the rest of his body. He listens to the rundown and studies her reactions. But doesn't press on the sensitive issue of her abilities. Just asks, "Were you successful in finding anything?"

When he's got sweatpants and Isabella's had a chance to eat, he looks away from the discussion of his almost death. "I'm sorry. To have put you through that. Don't worry about me - I rarely sleep, anyway." A teasing light returns to his eyes. "As you know." And then it's the Kellys. He grunts. "Joey Kelly is a legbreaker for our homegrown local criminal association. I gather he's good at it. His reputation, with that in mind, isn't terrible. But just be careful. I don't think he'd just hurt you to hurt you, but if you got in his way, I don't think he'd hesitate."

Wet jeans are misery, which is why she offers, and once they're loaded in the dryer, she ducks back into the back of the vessel to retrieve a pair of sweatpants - with the elastic band, that will fit him at least, though the fact that he can simply strip himself down in the middle of her living quarters without shame has its appeal also - less from the lack of provocation and more out of the obvious comfort he displays in her presence, at any state. She sets the folded pair on the counter next to him, though there's a slight headtilt whenever he turns around, because walking does have its benefits - and not just on the legs. Should he catch her looking though, there's a shameless smile and a suggestive lift of her eyebrows; she doesn't have to say anything, it's evident on her face that she likes what she sees and will have absolutely no complaints seeing more of it.

I prefer to concentrate. On my tasks.

Their eyes meet there and Isabella has no doubt that perhaps some of this is deliberate; she's a tactile creature, perpetually bound to the whims of her senses - the look of him, the words he speaks, the way his dark irises lock into her piercing own and his quiet baritone, all fold together in an irresistible cocktail that is signature to the overall experience of him and she can't help but wonder whether he knows, or at least can detect the way an electric thrill runs down her spine and how her heart beats faster again. Her own lashes lid, her expressive mouth parting to form the words: "So do I." And then, lower, her syllables soft, intimate and threaded with heat - that unique inflection and expression that nobody else ever gets from her. "You make it easy."

Tension winds up, as tight as a spring, and for a few long moments she does nothing but look at him, the sense of it very much alive, though she's the one who loosens her hold on the end of that wire, when she takes a sip of her coffee. "Unfortunately, no. Not the box, at least. But Easton did manage to find a doorway in the Murray House." There's apprehension on the line of her mouth. "And it's open. I haven't checked it out yet." Bold words, from someone who isn't even sure she can go through without feeling nauseated.

That apology, at least, is one she can accept - mostly, but her hand finally stretches out to thread her fingers gently through his hair, luxuriating in those half-curls, closer to the left side of his face in an effort to try and get him to look at her. "You know it's useless to tell me not to worry," she tells him, ever decisive. "And I'm glad I was there." Hints of agony curl over her features. "I just wish I could have been more effective." She doesn't address the Kelly issue yet, clearly delineating her priorities today.

Alexander smiles a crooked sort of smile as he takes the sweatpants from the counter, and slides back into them. "Delighted to know that I make something easy, at least." A flash of a grin there.

But the teasing mood seems to pass from him as they continue to talk. He reaches for another of the croissants, eating his way through it. An eyebrow goes up at the mention of the Murray House, although after swallowing he muses, "It would make sense that there's a door there, I suppose. Good thing no one's burned it down yet, I guess." He says that like it's a non-theoretical possibility. "Isolde, Easton, and some others were looking into Murray House - I wouldn't go there without them, myself. They've got experience with the place. So does Dr...Minerva." He's bled all over her floor. Surely that means that they're on a first name basis.

"I will still tell you not to worry, and be sorry when you do," he says, with serene stubbornness. "Just as you will ignore me. And...Isabella, there's not much anyone can do, if a healer decides to attack you. If you can't resist the power on your own, I don't know that there's a lot that can shield you from that." A shrug. "I'm just glad you were there. I would likely have died otherwise." He tries to say that as matter-of-factly as possible. "You saved my life. And there's nothing more I could ever ask from you, or anyone else."

"I don't think I'm familiar, or if I ever was, I've forgotten. What's the story with the Murray House?" Isabella wonders, her body half-folded over the counter, shoulders hunched as she tends to her own coffee. Despite her attentions split in different avenues of inquiry, the young woman keeps pace easily. But that is not surprising; she tends to think in webs, and not in a linear fashion.

She finds another croissant as well, tearing it into pieces before consuming them quietly as she listens. "We've got something more urgent to deal with before I even indulge my curiosity there," she murmurs. "Outside of my actual work, it isn't as if I've got the room to expend my energies on something else that's weird." There's a hint of an apology there, teasing her smile. She knows this is his work - the overall scope of it, but there's a reason why she is an academic and he is the investigator, though their disciplines on occasion overlap. His switch over to a more familiar form of Minerva's name has her lifting her brows. "These days, you've a bigger social circle than I do," she tells him, something approving implied in her tone. "Maybe you'll find your belonging yet, after all."

His stubbornness has her groaning softly, her head tilting back. "Mhhm, as you do," she mutters. Though the idea of resistance against a healer gives her pause. "There isn't much by way of shielding there," she tells him, turning her hand over and looking at it. "Though I know there are ways to mitigate the damage, at least. I've always been on some degree able to resist physical injury - it's as innate as my spatial awareness."

You saved my life.

Her smile turns rueful, looking up at him, sideswept bangs falling across her eyes in the doing. "Then we're even," she tells him simply. "Though I feel on some level that while I might have done so, I've only served to complicate it with my presence."

Alexander shrugs. "Haunted. Eats children. I believe Minerva's research on it is fairly extensive, and Easton, Isolde, and Itzhak have been inside it. I don't know much about it other than the town rumors - like you, while my curiosity is boundless, I only have so many hours in a day, and haven't spent much time on that particular mystery." His expression turns rueful - perhaps remembering for a moment how much of his 'work' of late is not the sort one gets paid for. He rubs at the back of the neck, shifts that worry to the back burner for a bit. "I don't know if it's a social circle. Or just a collection of people who need each other for the moment."

He nods as she continues. "Resistance seems to be innate, in some respects. Like some people's minds are just harder to access than others. I'm fairly good at protecting my mind. Less so at protecting my flesh." Another shrug. "I'm sure there are reasons." He leans forward and brushes the wayward bangs out of her eyes with two gentle fingers. "I like the complications you've brought, Isabella. If I didn't, you'd know." His voice is dry.

"Eats what?" Isabella says, horror plain on her face when he tells her about it. "Jesus Christ, this town." After a moment, she exhales a breath. "At the very least, it isn't just our small network that's looking into what's going on over here," she murmurs. "Gray Harbor can use as many of its Good Samaritans as it could possibly accumulate, when it comes to such things." The rueful expression does capture her attention, though, and the way he rubs his fingers at his nape. "What is it?" Because she has never held back on him there, either - this ability of hers to ask questions so straightforwardly.

"Even professionals socialize with one another," she points out, lips quirking faintly. "It's how networking happens. I think to some degree you're just going to have to accept the fact that you're not as isolated as you used to be. That's a good thing, isn't it?" From what he's managed to tell her of his life, he had always been missing that sense of belonging, filling the hole in his life that nothing seems to be able to. There's a hint of sympathy there, because she knows quite well how that feels.

His fingers reach for her, and her serious expression gentles into a warmer, softer note, watching his eyes for a moment - there's desire, there, but nothing carnal. Rather, the sense of internal tumult, bursting at the seams in a wholehearted effort in an attempt to reach him. To really do so, in the way that she knows she is capable of.

Or at least, what she was once capable of.

"It'd make me feel better if I could show you how," she murmurs. "I'm too out of practice, but being a guide is another issue entirely." She does know that, and some part of her wants to ask - the hows and most importantly, the whys. But as always, the words stick to the back of her throat, unable to be moved. Instead: "I hope you remember that in the next few weeks," she tells him softly, turning her face into her hand and closing her eyes, her mouth pressing warmly against his palm.

"Welcome back to Gray Harbor, Ms. Reede," Alexander quips, although there's an underlying edge of bitterness there. Because really, what kind of place is this? And a nod of agreement at her comment about Good Samaritans. "It's odd. A little. For so long, people have been so willing to ignore all the strangeness. It's strange to have so many people willing, and capable, of getting involved with things." It worries him, as much as it intrigues him, and that's plain on his face. As is his reluctance to engage with her question. He just smiles, shakes his head a little.

"A good thing? I suppose. It's easier to be isolated. But perhaps not better." It's still a question that hasn't entirely been resolved in his mind. He has too many issues regarding desperately wanting a place to belong, but never quite trusting the motivations of those who might offer it, or his own ability to fulfill what he sees as his obligations to 'his' people without losing himself entirely. So, that wariness is still there. That reluctance to just embrace the idea that he has friends.

As her expression gentles, he leans forward even more, to press a kiss in the center of her forehead. "Take your time, Isabella. Don't force yourself to do something that you're not ready for; you have a brilliant mind, and are fiercely competent. Your abilities are a part of you, but they are not the best or most useful part of you, by any means."

"That's a good thing, though, isn't it?" Isabella wonders as she props her chin on one hand, watching him in the short distance in which he's situated himself at the counter - not at all unlike the position they've found themselves, the night of their first real conversation. She savors these parallels internally, fortifies her memories of him - especially now that she knows just how important repetition is, having traversed in the landscape of Easton's mind and how defined everything is inside there. "It keeps the pressure off you, even if they're not working with you on something, you can at least marginally count on the fact that someone out there is trying to fix things, same as you." She chuckles softly. "Would help to have a Friendzone for this sort of thing, though. Just...a loose network of Gray Harbor watchmen and women solving its array of very unique problems."

Watching his features for a moment, her bare shoulders lift in a shrug. "No man's an island, Alexander," she murmurs. "And I've watched enough movies and read enough historical accounts of persons marooned on their own, out there. It takes a toll. Have you ever considered the possibility that your isolation fed into your doubts on..." Reality. What's real or not.

"Anyway, from a pragmatic perspective, if you're going to keep fighting what you are, it can't help to have a few bodies to call on for assistance. And even if you are reluctant to acknowledge it, some of us like you enough to come running if you call."

His shadow eclipses her face; her lashes press against her cheeks when his mouth finds her forehead. It's her turn to be hesitant now, and the comment hangs in the air like a loaded and weighted thing. Fingers disengage from her cup of coffee, her skin warmed by it, the pads of them skating gently in between his hard, defined knuckles, before she cups his hand against the side of her face. She doesn't look at him, keeping her gaze shuttered.

"I don't know if I have them, anymore," she confesses, eyes lifting, half-lid, to look at him, fields of green and gold glinting from the silhouette he casts over her skin. "The best parts. But something tells me you'd say the same thing about yourself, and yet here we are."

There's a look. "I'm not trying to fix things, Isabella. Gray Harbor is fucked. And I'm no hero. I just have things I want to do - like survive - and the current state of affairs makes that more difficult." His eyebrows go up. "I'm not sure how turning loose a bunch of amateurs who occasionally think that the solution to any given problem is 'more magic' on a town full of things which seem to feed on the use of magic is really going to make me feel better about life." It's very dry, although not without some honest exasperation, even irritation, in the undertones. His eyes are worried, though, more than angry - like the thought of those eager young folk going out and getting themselves messily killed bothers him.

About isolation, Alexander can only sigh. "I don't know, Isabella. I'm not saying I'm going to cut off all contact with everyone and hide under my bed. No matter how good that sounds, sometimes. But it's hard. To have to deal with people and their emotions and their needs and their expectations. When you didn't have to worry about anyone but yourself for a while. There's loneliness. But there's freedom in that, too." He kisses her again, though, because that was definitely a benefit of not being all loner hermit.

When the kiss is broken, he studies her for a long moment. Several things to say come to mind - she can watch them play across his features, each one considered and discarded. Finally, he settles on a smile. "If this is the worst part of you, my dear, then I'm selfishly thankful. You could do so much better than me, it's already a crime. If you were any better, it'd be a cardinal sin to even think about doing what I'm thinking about doing right now."

She stares at Alexander's look, before she bursts out laughing. It isn't at him, but there's a certain sense of incredulity there when she looks at him, her evergreen stare bright with mirth. "Joseph Campbell's The Hero With A Thousand Faces," she tells him, citing the most famous work of the American comparative mythologist. "Believe me, I'm not the sort to subscribe into that sort of thing either, but if history from all over is anything to be believed, one would think that the thing you just said is precisely the stepping stone that creates one." Levity soon fades, however, and she does note his worry, but at the same time... "People still live here," she points out gently. "Born here, die here, inured of its strangeness. Believe me, I hate that this place is how it is...if I could scrub what we have off the face of the earth, I would." Her face tightens there; she is incredibly serious when she says this. "But it's not as if we can change anything, like you said. This place will remain indefinitely, more people will suffer, and more people will die. If there's anything this entire affair is making me realize extremely reluctantly, it's the fact that Gray Harbor's children are uniquely equipped to not just survive it, but combat it also."

There's a glance down at her coffee. "It may also be the very reason why this place has demonstrated a distressing ability to be unable to let any one of us go," she appends, quietly. "Minerva pointed out in my first conversation with her that not everything here is dark, that there are forces here that are benign, too. Maybe we just need to find them."

Her eyes lift at the remarks about people and their emotions, looking somewhat startled. "Can you not control that?" she asks, and for a moment, she actually looks alarmed. "Alexander, I had no ide-- but what about...my output, I'm-- " Tempestuous. Temperamental. Was she too much?

His kiss silences her and for a moment, she sinks herself into him, unable to focus on anything when he claims her attention so completely. Her face tilts back, her hand reaching out, the warmth of her palm sliding under the hem of his borrowed shirt, to splay light, cool fingertips against his lower back. Eyes fall slowly closed.

Her lips disengage from his, and his silent scrutiny is returned in kind in the moments following. Her gaze drops, her other hand moving to rest it lightly over the center of his chest. She wants to ask, so badly that she can taste it at the back of her throat. What if you can't find me? Would he truly be fine with it, when the one thing he seems to want, in the end, is something that she can't deliver - perhaps permanently?

"You," she begins, quietly, fiercely. "Are extremely intelligent." Always the first thing that attracted her to him. "Determined. Articulate. You fight, and you win, and on top of it all, you've managed to save what's left of me. If anything, I'm the one who's..."

There's a soft, gurgling noise - frustrated and brimming with smothered fury; not at him, but at herself, and all the things she deems herself incapable of telling him. Her face turns, her mouth finding his - hot, restless, open, and cascading with the sudden and breathless need to lose herself in him and bury her own inadequacies. Her hand lifts from his chest, to push her fingers into his hair.

Brief, also, though it always seems so, nevermind the actual passage of long minutes before she breaks away and looks up at him, letting his dark eyes swallow her whole.

"...I think you should tell me what you're thinking about doing right now," she murmurs.

A flash of anger from Alexander. "Why should we have to? What the fuck did we do to deserve this? Is it purgatory? A curse? Just God's last little laugh on the poor miserable bastards he kicked out of the garden?" His hands drop to the counter with a bang. It's not a deliberate slam, but it definitely makes a noise. "I never signed up for trying to save the blind in this town, or with having horrible things hurt me over, and over, and over again!" At the idea of benevolent forces, he lets out a sharp, painful laugh. "No angel wants us, Isabella. And God's an asshole. Don't look for help outside yourself."

He has feelings on the matter, clearly.

But in the next moment, like a lot of his temper tantrums, it drains away, leaving sadness behind. "Sorry. I shouldn't. It's okay to have hope." A shake of his head. "And I can control my abilities. Things leak through, sometimes, but not like when I was younger. But I don't lack the usual kind of empathy, Isabella. I can tell when people I care for are hurting. Or scared. Or drinking themselves to death. I don't know what to do about it, but I have eyes. It hurts."

The rest? It's all kisses. He slides his arms around her, pulls her close and when she tries to talk about how she's lesser, or incomplete, he just kisses her again. And again. The fury is met with his own frustration, an almost desperate sort of passion that makes it clear that he'd rather show her what he's thinking about, and not talk at all, anymore. At least, not until they both end up needing showers and possibly pulling a muscle or two.

His anger has those eyes widening, and while Isabella knows it isn't directed at her, her responses can't be denied. The slam of his hands on the counter triggers that adrenaline switch, shrinking her pupils and driving that hummingbird tic at the side of her throat, staring at him from where she stands so close to him. There's no fear, he hasn't lifted a hand in her direction and the physical space around them doesn't contract or move in an effort to protect her, as instinct has often done. But her lips are parted, jaw slightly agape. The question remains, bubbling somewhere within her chest, absolutely dying to get out.

She says nothing more about the matter, about the angels and demons in Gray Harbor, and how its children are cursed. Her expression tightens at viewing the roadmap of his unvoiced hurts unfurl over his face and fill the darkness of his eyes, and she tries. She tries so hard not to ask, but the question continues to burn.

There are words, he can see it in her, pooling behind her eyes, within a hair's breadth of spilling out. But he relieves her of the obligation to speak her decisive opinions when he matches her frustration with his own, mirroring his expended anger in the furious storms of her. She doesn't resist when he pulls her closer, when her fingers blindly grip at his borrowed shirt, pulling at it, tugging on it, her own passionate ferocity inspiring every movement as hungry lips and shortened breaths consume the seconds and shadows between their faces. Her own desperation is apparent, to reach his skin, breathless in the breaks in between.

"Alexander..." Just his name, syllables to take up what little room she has left between her teeth, so little of it in the end with how he fills it over and over again with the broken shards of his past and the need to show her, remind her, what happens when they drive each other to this, when a match is tossed in the chemicals between them. "Alexander..."

He'd see it in those evergreen depths, whenever he looks down, the question.

What hurt you?

Three words that will have to remain unanswered, when her arms tighten around him, when all other physical boundaries are stripped away without a thought or care, his name whispered, gasped and cried out in the ensuing hour. As if in prayer. As if the only word she knows anymore.

And that would have to do, for now.