2019-09-13 - The Most Pleasant Mystery

"So remind me again how you managed to do this before?"

It is a remarkably beautiful day in Gray Harbor; there are clear skies for miles, and the day is warm rather than hot - optimal temperatures, really, to indulge in a bit of boating and swimming. While the bay is peppered by the telltale spots of visiting vessels, there are clearly not as many as they were during the height of tourist season, but there are still some, and with their surroundings' overall cloudlessness, they are easily glimpsed in spite of Isabella's maneuvering of the boat to the boundary line where these waters meet the rest of the Pacific. Sea birds occasionally block the early afternoon sun, their angled silhouettes cutting over dark blue water and the pale wood on The Surprise's outside deck, where she has managed to situate her guest on one of the rattan chairs, the rest of the furniture pushed aside to give her room to work.

She had rinsed his hair before she situated him outside, though, leaving Alexander's half-curls wet and plastered on his head. There is a long sheet wrapped around his neck, dwarfing the rest of him from view, the hems pulled down by the whims of gravity. There is a breeze, rustling fabric now and then, but light in comparison to the stormy gales that have inundated the city for the entirety of the last week. She's somewhere behind him, and he can hear her bustling, her instruments laid out on the nearby prepping table usually meant for grilling, now taken up by a fine-tooth comb and some sharp scissors meant for cutting hair. She is dressed for a day on the beach and ocean, never one to waste optimal climes for doing so; a pale blue bikini is paired with a pair of black yoga shorts, its straps pulled around her back and neck, and her smooth, lightly-tanned complexion shimmers faintly with biodegradable sunscreen, ever one mindful of marine conservation. Her lengthy, dark brown tresses are pulled in a looping knot at the back of her head, secured by a pair of chopsticks that are...well, just actual chopsticks from one of the various Chinese takeaway places in town. They are nothing fancy, and they find an alternative use this way than just languishing in a drawer somewhere in her kitchen.

"Do you just do it yourself, or do you have a trusted barber in town?" Her green-and-gold stare slides along her bare shoulder at him, mischief dancing within its depths. "Or do you close your eyes and think of England?"

She steps close there, gentle fingertips pushing through his damp, too-long locks, watching them curl against those elegant appendages with a fond smile. Her head dips to press her mouth against the top of his head.

For Alexander, Isabella is on the extremely short list of people for whom his aversion to touch no longer signals even a flutter of distress. Even so, having her behind him where he can't see her has him on edge - not because she might hurt him, but because he can't see her. Which means she might disappear.

It is a fear which has been preying on him with a gnawing intensity of late, although he strives to hide it by staring out at the beautiful waters. His voice is low, a little rough as he admits, "I usually do it myself. It's not hard; I have a steady hand with scissors." Or knives. But he's probably learning something like tact, because he doesn't say that part.

He's dressed...like he usually is. Except that he showed up in an old army surplus jacket two sizes too big for him, covering the tatty old t-shirt. It's no doubt folded somewhere inside, and his hands are beating out a steady rhythm on his thighs. He relaxes back into her touch with a soft sound of pleasure. A smile at the kiss. "I feel like I'm forgiven now. Or this is all just a ploy so you can have a blade and my back."

"You can thank my old friend, Scotchy," Isabella muses against his scalp, rolling her thumbs gently against the base of his skull and massaging slowly, gently - it is nothing deliberately sensual, and more meant for comfort than even an excuse to touch him (though there are always elements of that there) though ever perceptive, she hardly misses that - the way his baritone pitches low, and rough, in a manner in which he can smother his own unaddressed hurts. It isn't simply because she is observant by nature, and hawkishly attentive when it comes to his state and moods, but largely because it is also a tactic that she uses on a regular basis, and she knows what it sounds like.

She's quick to anger, but perhaps she's also quick to forgive. "Besides, I believe you when you said you weren't really mad at me - you wouldn't lie about that, and I think I've expended my own fires there." She can rage perpetually in the middle of the hurricanes of her own temper, but once they've managed to abate, they tend to leave her exhausted.

Long digits reach for the scissors and comb, and she starts getting to work. She is no professional, but she tries and really, how hard can it be? She watched a Youtube video before she stopped by, and her plans for this specific endeavor are hardly complicated - simple is best, and she starts at the back.

"So I tend to receive messages from you while I'm mired in my thesis," she begins casually. "But normally you just let them lie until I'm finished - but you called me to follow up today." Quick, too, to home in on deviations in an established pattern. "Is it because of the Friday the Thirteenth murders? Tilt your head down a little." She gives him a delicate nudge.

"So, the next time I anger you, I should send scotch? I'll remember that," Alexander murmurs. He only half sounds like he's joking. His eyes go half-lidded as she continues to massage him; one of the downsides of being usually touch adverse is that he rarely gets to enjoy the simple comfort of it, and now he is luxuriating in it, even as his fingers continue to play nervously along the denim of his jeans.

He doesn't show any apprehension about her ability with scissors; after all, surely she'd never offer to do this unless she felt confident about her skills! So he doesn't even twitch as he feels the cool metal of the blades brush against his neck and scalp. "I did. You should answer your text messages." He's willing to admit that much, at least. The rest takes longer.

When he finally speaks, it's toneless. "Miss Whitehouse is missing. I lost touch with her, and now she's gone. Her Alejandro, as well."

"Well, considering how you are and considering how I am, perhaps that's not the best way to make it up to me. I can see that going two ways - turning into an alcoholic, which I'm not convinced isn't in my future, or dying of alcohol poisoning." Isabella's remarks are dry, along with the very self-aware prediction that their last tiff is only the beginning. Still, considering the fact that he's in her presence, and she in his, they can at least get past certain misunderstandings. The quiet, snipping sounds of her scissors fill the space between them, her touch as light and gentle as always. He may have managed to get accustomed to her physicality, but there are parts of her, still, that are hesitant to push it.

Black curls start to fall in haphazard patterns on the deck, stirred by the gentle winds. She works quickly at least, fingers occasionally pausing to tousle his hair at the back to watch it fall before proceeding again.

His toneless words earn him a pause. "The woman whose twin sister you're looking for? In the asylum?" It's brief, and then she proceeds on her work. Part of her almost asks whether there could be a mundane explanation, but she knows him and if he's serious about it, he's probably attempted to get to the heart of it already. She still remembers how quickly he had looked into Penelope Faust's death the moment the announcement had hit the papers.

"Connected?" she murmurs. "Oh, Alexander...I'm so sorry. I know she was your friend."

"I would rather neither of those things happen, Isabella." Alexander falls silent for a moment, then adds, "Far too many of the people I care about at the moment seem to have some sort of substance use issues. Which is their choice, but still concerning." And he is concerned. Look at his frown! Although the frown probably can't be seen from her angle, she might be able to follow the change in his tone, and the subtle shift in the tension of his muscles.

At least he's a good 'client'; he remains very still, putting his trust in her entirely as the scissors snip away. Although he does ask, curiously, "Why do you want to cut my hair?" Then, "Yes." A longer pause. "She was the first person, you know. The first person in a very long time who said she thought we could be friends. Who wanted to be friends. With me. And the town treated her badly. Her father treated her badly. I wanted to help her. But I couldn't." He sighs. "I never really help, in the end."

Snip. Snip. Her scissors continue their work, though Isabella does curl her fingers underneath his jaw to guide him into straightening his head out again. The teeth of her comb slide to the side of his head, where she starts to move. He'll at least be able to find her in his periphery now, curling his hair between her fingers so she could work the blades in a short distance from his scalp. Her hands, too, are steady - accustomed, also, in handling fragile, antiquated things very, very carefully.

"If it makes you feel any better, I was never in any danger of that regarding alcohol, or sugar, or nicotine. That isn't to say my family doesn't have a history of addiction." There's a minute pause there, perhaps too short to catch, before she continues. "I was a bit of a smoker in high school, but once my father warned me as to how it might affect my performance under the water, I stopped. It's a mark of pride for most divers not to go past a certain level on the gauges of an oxygen tank in a regular dive and you know how I get when I'm posed with a challenge."

Why do you want to cut my hair?

"Because you're starting to need it," she tells him unabashedly, as if it isn't obvious, though amusement curls in with those low syllables. "And I thought this would be easier than cutting it yourself."

She says very little else while she's doing that, however, finishing one side before moving towards the other, standing on his opposite periphery now, her touch drawing his curls outward with her comb. Her moonstone pendant swings with the subtle sway of the vessel underneath their feet. "I'm not familiar with the Whitehouses' history in Gray Harbor." An open invitation for him to provide her with the proper edification - she had left the city at sixteen years of age, in a time when she was more interested in other things than bloodlines and families. But her air gentles palpably when he confesses that bit of his history with Violet. "You do help," she tells him, firmly. "But you can't help everyone, no matter how much we would like to as decent human beings who share this world with others. I know, though...it hurts more, when you know someone."

She does.

"Do you intend to continue?" she asks after a long pause. "Looking into the asylum? If it's connected, she might..." Have been brought there. She knows next to nothing about the place except for its possible connection with the Addingtons and Them, and thinking about it makes her skin crawl, and pebble it visibly with goosebumps.

Alexander relaxes further when he can see her out of the corner of his eyes. His closest hand moves to lightly brush her leg with the back of his knuckles, but he doesn't risk disturbing her concentration any further than that. He does smile, mostly with his eyes, as he looks up at her. "Don't give me a mohawk. I don't have the skull for it," he teases, gently.

He listens to the rest, and makes an agreeable noise at the note that he was beginning to look like a shaggy beast. "It's good to be aware of what one might be drawn to. This is a stressful place. And a stressful time."

"The Whitehouses have - had - a reputation. Just one of those small town things. Witchcraft and creepiness." His lips twist, a bit sad, a bit mocking. "The good people of Gray Harbor, despite working hard to deny themselves knowledge of what's really going on around them, have never been able to resist the lure of a good, creepy scapegoat. Miss Whitehouse had a twin. Has. Has a twin. Who was committed as a teenager, I believe. But the rema--but Violet still suffered the slings and arrows of petty town gossip." A long pause. "I think, like me, she was alone for a long time. I should have reached out to her sooner."

The rest of her attempt to defend him is allowed to pass through without either argument or agreement. He says, "Yes. I will continue, as long as the trail doesn't grow cold."

Don't give me a mohawk.

"Well, now I'm just tempted," Isabella teases back, ever contrary, though the razor-sharp grin fades at the brush of his knuckles against her thigh. Unable to resist, she lowers her head to press her mouth warmly on his forehead. "I wouldn't dream of it," she murmurs in a reassuring fashion, before she straightens up. "I happen to like your hair, especially when it's slightly long enough to curl a little bit in the ends. But I think I already told you this before." Byron may think she's incredibly biased, when it comes to the man and his appeal - as with all things having to do with Alexander Clayton - but considering how popular he seems to be in that department, she's in line to believe that her opinions in that regard are more objective than subjective.

She is aware, better than most and she keeps her eyes on his hair as she cuts it, and once that side is done, she ruffles it gently with her fingertips. "Alright, now time for the hard part," she says as she moves on to the top. Her fingers wind into the locks there, though she is careful not to pull.

"May I ask why she was committed?" she asks - the story is familiar, but different. There are plenty of twins in Gray Harbor; when Sid had been around, she was familiar with some of them. But they all seem to come into one tragedy or another, though she believes this is less due to genetics, and more due to the fact that the city tends to mercilessly consume its children. "So like the Webers, then...only that Violet didn't have the kind of support structure they did." The Webers were a close-knit clan. She furrows her brows faintly, wondering whether the Baxters and the Addingtons have a history of witchcraft attached to their names, also.

She massages his scalp gently at the mildly-communicated strains of a deeper sort of self-castigation. "You couldn't have known this was going to happen," she reminds him gently. "Though I know how the guilt feels, it behooves me to remind you, regardless. After a moment's hesitation, she speaks. "I'll help, however I can." However she's able, at least.

"You are the one with the scissors," Alexander points out, complacently. No real fear of it in the lazy smile that lights up his face when she bends over to kiss his forehead. The bruises there have healed quickly - he has a hard head. "I'll wear it however you prefer it."

His eyes close again as she ruffles his hair. At this point, he's relaxed enough that even his hands have stopped their nervous movements on his thighs, and the only disturbance in his body comes from the teasing fingers of the ocean wind playing through his hair. "I believe she attempted - or was believed to have attempted - suicide. I don't know many of the details beyond that. I gather Violet's family life was a bit difficult." A grimace. "Which isn't exactly unusual in this town."

There's another wordless sound of acknowledgement for her reminder. Quietly, he says, "If you can, I'll let you know, Isabella. When people disappear in Gray Harbor, they don't usually..." a long pause, as he clearly remembers that she knows how he's going to end that sentence. They don't usually come back.

His lazy, masculine expressions are some of her prevailing favorites; they suit his face, and she's constantly enamored by the idea that she's usually the only person who gets to see them - to be able to hoard them into the vault of her long memories at the exclusion of all others. It almost makes her reach for his mouth, but as she's presently busy with other things, she doesn't.

Isabella does frown in a moment, though he'd more sense it than see it when she takes upon the more challenging task of cutting the hair at the top of his head, carefully measuring with her fingers since the last thing she wants is to cut them too close to his scalp - the aim was to keep it longer on the top than the sides and back. "Not really, no," she tells him. "Troubled youth has always been an epidemic, even when I was growing up here. I remember that Tobin Gilford's mother tried to do something about it - help children from troubled homes. But she disappeared also, around the same time as my brother did." It's easier, somehow, with Alexander - much like how he has gradually become comfortable with her touch and presence, she can at least manage to mention that difficult part of her life without becoming too avoidant about it.

Though he reminds her as to what happens to the disappeared and there's a palpable pause - it's brief, though, and more curls start to fall as she snips away. On the back first, then the sides. She's slowly circling him until she eventually has to stand in front of him, slipping between his legs so she could find the center part of his hair, combing it just so in order to measure the length of his bangs, leaning over him so she could squint at where his browline is. It gives her something to focus on.

"If you do decide to brave the other side to do any excursions there, at least take Easton and the Captain," she murmurs contemplatively, pinching his bangs between index and middle fingers so she can start snipping evenly. "You'd need a mover to find doorways for necessary escapes and it sounds like Easton's familiar with the place already, and the Captain owes me."

"I remember her," Alexander admits, quietly. "Not in a...I don't think I ever really met her, and I certainly wasn't one of the kids who fetched up there on the regular," his voice is dry, as he's reminded once again that he's a good decade and change older than the woman cutting his hair and her cohort. "But I remember that she had a reputation as a warm, welcoming person. Especially towards children. And I remember her disappearance, of course."

When she circles around in front of him, he smiles up at her through his bangs. There's mischief in the expression, which is probably why - despite the fact that he's been so good until now - she may not be surprised when his hands reach out and trace the outline of her hips and her waist. It's all the movement he makes, just looking up at her as he teases. "I will," he promises. "If going over there is necessary, I will not go alone, and both of those will have right of first refusal." A flicker of curiosity. "Why does the Captain owe you?"

His smile is one that she returns, though those green-gold eyes lid faintly when his hands trace up the flare of her hips, and the narrow taper of her waist. She rewards him with another press of her lips on his forehead, though they skate lower to his nosebridge when he tilts his head back. "Ronnie never told me the specifics," she tells him quietly. "Not that I would have been all that focused, I was too mired in my own grief to care about whatever else was happening in the city at the time. I did feel sad after, once I was able to see past it. She was a lovely woman." Lips quirk upwards faintly. "She threw excellent birthday parties."

Isabella seems satisfied when he promises her that he won't go alone through the Doors, and after snipping his bangs and making sure that they align with her comb, she lowers both of her hands, letting them slide over the line of his shoulders under the sheet and finding newfound definition there. "I know you hate it, but conflict agrees with you physically," she says with a lift of her brows, a teasing bent to her mouth.

It tempers, though, when he asks her about the Captain. "....he lost his temper," she tells him, her chin tilting in that stubborn, defiant, familiar angle. "And I wasn't having it. He asked me what he could do to make up for it so I said if a dangerous excursion was ever necessary, he would go and ensure that people will come back from it safely." After a moment, she flashes him a reassuring smile. "It's settled, between us."

Alexander makes a low, pleased sound when her lips brush the bridge of his nose, despite the content of the conversation. "Mister Gilford still believes she can be found," he says, quietly. "It is one of the...many things I would like to help with, one day, if it is possible. Although I don't hold out much hope, myself. I admire that he continues to have it."

He closes his eyes when she starts snipping his hair, holding very still, even when her hands slide over his shoulders. "Things are escalating. I should try to make sure I'm ready for it."

But all hint of amusement or pride or that lazy pleasure drops away as she continues. His eyes come back open and he tilts his head back to stare steadily at her. "He lost his temper. What does that mean, exactly, Isabella?" Good point: his voice is very even, even gentle, and his hands are not knotted into fists on his thighs. Bad point: His eyes are very dark, and there's the perceptible crackle of static electricity around him, setting off little sparks and a rising scent of ozone.

Mister Gilford still believes she can be found.

"If she disappeared through the Veil, anything is possible," Isabella says quietly after a few moments, foggy pictures at the back of her mind slowly sharpening to crystal-clear clarity, of running through the woods hand-in-hand with the brother she lost, their laughter echoing between the trees. The things they found there, the creatures they spoke to. "It might just as easily have been that she wandered through a Door, with no ability to get out. Admittedly, it's been over ten years - even if she is alive, I don't doubt it for a moment that she would have been changed. The rules are different there. Though..." She smiles down at him there. "I don't think I need to tell you that."

His remarks about things escalating has her nodding in agreement. "There's been a foreboding feeling following me almost ever since I returned," she tells him with a quiet frown. "Like waiting for the other shoe to drop. I don't know if it's the same for you, but it's persisted throughout the summer."

She sets the scissors and comb away, brushing stray hairs off his shoulders; she senses the static and scents the crackle of ozone first before she manages to look down his near-black eyes. Brows quirk upwards, her frown visible, though she threads her arms around him, fingers playing with his newly-cut locks from where her hand cups the back of his head. "It means," she tells him firmly. "That he was angry and I got angry back, and it's settled. And while I would never take your protectiveness for granted, my darling, you must know that I'm perfectly capable of resolving my own conflicts between myself and our friends, despite my lack of recent fistfights."

The endearment slips out, without any struggle on her part and she blinks. She suddenly looks very interested in a spot past his shoulder.

Every stress of those syllables seems to warp the electricity crackling around him, and she doesn't seem to be conscious about it, herself - how electricity just seems to bend away from her and hold it at bay in a fizzing, sparking stalemate.

Alexander does not exactly settle when she threads her arms around him, remaining tense and rigid under the embrace. He breathes in, and out, deep and slow. And watches her, silently. Time passes. The endearment seems to have gone unnoticed while he wrestles with the urge to simply go find Ruiz and fry him from the inside out, a quiet but intense internal struggle.

It's perhaps a mark of his growth in the area of self-control that in the end, the urge to violence doesn't win. The static crackles die away, and he relaxes, fractionally. He doesn't smile, but he does lift his hands to cup her face and say, "I know that you are capable. I just don't like the thought of you hurt, and the Captain can sometimes play rough." He caresses both sides of her face with rough hands made gentle by the care of the touch. "But if you're okay, then I'll let it drop."

His struggle is intense enough that she can practically taste it at the back of her throat, Isabella watching him with lifted eyebrows - and, possibly, gird herself for another disagreement with the man she's with. Her ability to do so, to engage in conflict wherever she finds it and deems necessary to address, is nigh-near inexhaustible. While that urge would normally be sharp, however, its razor edges are softened by the fact that it is for her sake, though there is an open war on her face about it - it's endearing, and she is touched, and considering her fiery and independent nature, she is not accustomed to anyone taking up arms for her. But those come with their own ghosts also, and they pass over those striking emerald-and-gold irises.

She mirrors the uncabling of his tension coils, he'd feel her grow slack underneath his grip, exhaling a breath that she was not fully conscious of holding.

I just don't like the thought of you hurt.

Words fill her expression, though they remain trapped behind her teeth, softening the look of her even as they light up her eyes with a burning, ferocious adoration that nearly drives all the breath from her lungs. Her lashes half-lid, turning her face into one of his caressing hands to kiss the heel of that palm gently. "You're dangerous," she murmurs, feeling her heart race quickly through her ribs. "But I don't think the Captain would actually hurt me." Not unless he has to, there were always exceptions, especially in this town where mind control is a real thing. "I believe that wholly, and you should also." Searching his face underneath the shadow it casts over her own, her smile returns, however faint. "I don't like the thought of you hurt, also, so try not to get in too many fights outside of training, hm?"

"I'm glad that you believe that," Alexander says, quietly. He, perhaps notably, does not agree, and not even the kiss on his hand can bring back the smile, or the easy relaxation of a few scant minutes ago. He just studies her for a long moment, gaze flat.

Then, it warms. "I'll try." Which is as far as he's willing to go, it seems, because he pulls his hands away, although not without a long and lingering caress, and says, "So. What have you wrought upon my helpless hair, Miss Reede? Will you show me, or do I have to go into public and be surprised." This is almost playful, some of his good humor returning even if he can't quite muster a smile.

His flat stare is returned by an expression that is by and large growing increasingly exasperated, though he manages to curb whatever disasters are waiting for him there when he thankfully lets it go. "You promised," Isabella says, pointing her index at him lightly. "That you would drop it."

Though when he eases away, she does, also, stepping away from him and undoes the sheet from around his neck, folding it up and depositing it on the nearby chair. Reaching out to pluck a handheld mirror from the nearby table, she hands it to him with an open laugh, visible merriment colluding with the mischief in her eyes as she looks at him. "Your helpless hair is shorter now than it was this morning," she informs him gamely. "I clipped it close to the sides and back, I didn't try to do anything fancy with it, though I left it longer on the top. Or at least, long enough for you to be able to comb it back if you have to, and whenever I have the inclination to run my hands through it, but at the very least you're less likely to look wild come the onset of the rainier months. I'm actually quite surprised Summer is clinging so persistently."

She takes a small broom and dustpan to start sweeping up the curls on the deck, and deposits the collection in the nearby wastebin. As he's probably observed already, she hates it when people litter in the beach and the water - she's not about to do it herself.

"So it was exciting around here this morning, apparently one of the Friday the Thirteenth murders occurred just around the bend from here. A few police were knocking on doors trying to see if anyone witnessed anything." Though the word exciting doesn't leave her lips in the tone it's supposed to - it's dry, and with an audible air of resignation.

Alexander reaches up to playfully swat at her finger. "I did. And I will. If I were going to kill him, I'd tell you." Okay, that's not playful. But hey, at least it's honest.

He reaches out for the mirror, curious but not apprehensive. It really does seem like he'd be okay with whatever hair style she chose to put him in - although perhaps he'd protest testing that with going bald or dreadlocked or something. He turns the mirror this way and that, examining his hair and the way it changes the way he looks. "This looks nice." He does sound a little surprised, perhaps, but he finally finds a smile again, and tosses it upwards to her, bright and brief. "You are an artist," he claims, then stands to put the mirror away, careful not to disturb the fallen hair. He kneels down, offering to help hold either the broom or the dustpan to collect the leavings. "Now we have to burn these. Clippings have power." He sounds serious.

"Did you see anything?" he asks, quick with curiosity, as always.

And by the expression on her face, it's apparent that Isabella believes him - not just because he's honest to a fault, but he'd probably want someone to stop him.

His compliment earns him a laugh. "Not bad for a morning watching Youtube videos about it," she says. "I mean, I'm sure there's going to be a few uneven pieces here and there, but what's important is that you're not about to go full Jesus Christ, Superstar on me the further we head into the Fall. Besides...." And it seems that someone either remembers or has reviewed their drunken text conversation, because she angle's him the devil's own look along her shoulder. "It takes a certain kind of face to be able to pull off long hair and a suit, and I adore you, so I have to be unfailingly honest in that regard - I don't think you're one of them. So short hair it is."

She catches the mirror neatly, and puts away her things, and lets him hold the dustpan while she sweeps his discarded curls in. "Well, you can throw them in the trash and we can take it down to the incinerator," she tells him, nonplussed. It has been a weird several weeks, what with cursed rings and seances, and Enochian protections that actually work. She's not about to laugh at Alexander about that now. "They believe that too, in some parts of New Orleans." Where her Aunt Mary now lives.

As for whether she saw anything, she sighs. "Well, I saw the body, but it's nobody I recognized," she tells him. "He was heavyset, and I can't determine the age. I did see Andi Johnson come in a little later, though, so chances are if we wanted to know more, we can probably approach her. His throat was slit from ear to ear. And while I was heading downtown, I passed by the other site, also. It's one of the nicer houses, but I don't know who owns it. Byron would probably know, though. It's his area."

There's a moment where Alexander stops, and stares at her, and for the first time since this all began, apprehension flits across his features. "You trusted my hair to YouTube?" There's an eyenarrowing that's only half-playful. "I'm starting to have concerns about allowing you any further influence on my image, Isabella." Although, really. How could it get worse? She's too young to try and bring back the 80s on him.

A nod regarding the clippings. "That will work fine. And yes. It's a very old principle of traditional magic systems. With a part of a thing, you can affect the whole. I just," a pause. "I just don't like having it out there, if I don't have to." Another reason to hate hospitals, with all their bloodtaking. He holds the dustpan steady, shakes the tiny clinging hairs into the bag when she's done. "Hm. I'm actually looking into one of the other murders. For a client, even. Actually getting paid." He doesn't quite say for once, but it does sort of hang there in his expression.

You trusted my hair to YouTube?

Isabella flashes him a look, putting away the broom once his hair is bagged and plants a hand on the curve of her right hip. That exasperation is back, but it is blunted by her visible amusement. "You trusted your limbs to YouTube," she points out, reminding him unfailingly of the time he tried to do Yoga on the beach and complained to her about it in the first few days of their acquaintance. "I thought trusting it with something like hair would be fine. And unlike finger, toes and ligaments, your curls will easily grow back. And you weren't complaining earlier!" That is when her laugh finally comes loose, padding barefoot towards the nearby cooler so she can fish out a chilled bottle of cider, wiggling it at him in silent offerance, should he want one. Either way, she has one for herself, twisting the cap off and leaning against the railing, long legs crossing at the ankles.

His expression has her smiling faintly. "Whatever protects you," is all she says about his explanation - to her it's easy to break down whether a specific quirk is extraneous or necessary. Lips press against her bottle to take a thirsty swig.

Brows do lift at the idea of a client. "Well that's good, isn't it?" She inclines her head at him. "Did you ever think about consulting formally with the police here, too? It's not as if you don't know people within the ranks, and it would probably make it easier for the Captain and Detective Johnson and similar to justify sharing information about ongoing cases with you. And if they're worried about the public image..." She isn't blind there - optics are important and Alexander has a reputation. "You can always agree not to publicize your cooperation."

Alexander can't actually argue with her, so he doesn't. Although he does point out, "Maybe that's why the yoga thing didn't work out. YouTube." He slips up close to take the offered cider. When she turns around to grab her own, though, he lays the cold bottle for juuuuust a moment on the back of her neck, then dances back, hopefully out of reach of the retaliation he as justly earned. "And yes, a client is very good. Two hospital stays without insurance are not ideal." At the mention of being a formal consultant, though, some of his pleasure drains away, and he shrugs. "That has never been offered to me, Isabella. Most of the department would prefer that I go away all together, not that I am given any sort of encouragement. And certainly not pay." He only sounds a little bitter; this is a long-standing reality of his work, or 'work', after all.

The sensation of the cold bottle of cider at the back of her neck has her jolting upwards with a barely suppressed shriek, Isabella turning around, her green-gold eyes wide as saucers as she stares at him. He isn't prone to too much practical mischief so this absolutely derails her. And with a laugh, she plunges her hand into the cooler and tosses a couple of ice cubes at him as he dances away. "If giving you a haircut makes you more prone to boyishness, I should've done it sooner," she says, eyes practically luminous with mirth. "I should have gone a step further and gave you frosted tips!"

With his pleasure fading, her expression turns more serious. "I'm not trying to convince you either way," she tells him, mildly. "I'm just asking. It's just that - chasing the things you do, you invite challenge, Alexander. With your intelligence and with your ability. You said you were trying to prepare yourself for what's about to come, so...I just thought that if there's a hurdle you can knock out of your way, it'd make getting the answers you need to easier. Things have changed...are changing. I think with things shifting a little, maybe you should take advantage while it's open to you."

Her shoulders lift in a shrug, and she flashes him a smile. "You don't even need to think about it really. I'm just talking."

Alexander laughs, low and hearty, at her response. He doesn't bother to dodge the ice cubes - he deserves it, and lets them bounce off his t-shirt with stoic acceptance. "What can I say? I do enjoy the way you shriek." That he's not talking about from cold is clear in the smoky heat of his eyes as he watches her mirthful expression. "And I'm going grey. I don't need any further frosting, thanks." He opens the bottle and takes a pull from it.

There's an easy shrug. "I wouldn't turn it down if it were offered, Isabella. But it won't be. Not in this town, for sure. I don't mind." He does. But there's more resignation to it than anything - this is just the way things are, and he doesn't really have any ability to break out of that, or so he thinks. He steps forward and tries to slip an arm around her waist and give her a light, cider-flavored kiss. "But I have a client. That's a start."

The heat in his eyes has her pausing for a moment - it certainly stops her from throwing more ice cubes in his direction, but rather the small chip in her grasp redirects to her mouth instead, her teeth clipping delicately into the end in response. "Just the way I shriek?" she wonders, with such a tone of exaggerated innocence they can expect the coast guard to come swinging by at any moment - not that isn't a very real possibility, either, with a manhunt and a police investigation underway at the docks they've just left behind. She tilts her head back, that playfully challenging look apparent with how she looks so sensual and defiant, with her lowered lashes and expressive mouth that's just on the verge of a smile. "I don't think you've managed to collect all the sounds I'm capable of making yet. So between you and me, Mister Clayton, I think you should keep trying. Often, and repeatedly."

He is going gray, and her hand reaches out to admire her handiwork, fingers slipping through the longer strands on the top of his head. "I hope you never dye it" she murmurs, with utter seriousness. He'd probably look younger if he did. Her lashes lower further, until the striking color of her eyes are reduced to mere, glittering slits. "I'll take you as you are."

Her hand lowers. "Anyway, I think that might be the actual hurdle. You're waiting for it to be offered." She tilts her head at him. "Why not make the suggestion? At least to the people who would listen." Like Ruiz, or Andi.

But he does have a client, and she tilts her head back, returning his kiss. "Mm. You do. Have you started on that yet?" she wonders, it sounds absent, with how her mouth moves slowly against his. But she thinks in webs, he knows she can split her attention - and there's no rule that says she can't indulge herself physically and intellectually.

Alexander's gaze goes half-lidded, thoughtful. "Mm. Well, I do try to be thorough about the mysteries I explore, Isabella. And you're the most pleasant one in my life." He supports her back with his hand as he nuzzles her in between slow kisses. "I don't think I'm going to give up on it anytime soon," he says into her ear. Then makes a noise that's almost like purr as her fingers wind through his hair. A low laugh. "Do I seem like I'm vain enough to dye my hair?"

But as the conversation lingers on his work, he steps back, unentangling himself with some reluctance. "No," he says, gently. "I don't want charity. If they want me, that's one thing. But I don't a friend to just offer to pay me because they...feel sorry for me." His voice is firm, with a proud and unyielding edge on that. "But, as you bring up...I should go. I'm actually due to meet my client for the first time, and I don't want to be late, especially since I'm walking. But," he lifts a hand to run through his hair. "Thank you. This is very nice. I like it."

"I hope I'm not the only pleasant mystery," the young archaeologist murmurs in the midst of his nuzzling, turning her face when his mouth finds her ear and lets her eyes slip shut. Electricity thrums over the high arch, his baritone dripping within the inner shell and leaving her somewhat weak at the knees - things that she would never admit to, not in good conscience, and helpfully subverted with how his hand braces and supports her, the breadth of it spanning her back. "But I can handle being the most." Her mouth hunts for his again, and she says nothing else for a while.

Vain enough to dye his hair? "Definitely not, and it requires maintenance anyway," Isabella murmurs. "Considering the sorts of things you get up to. Just let time run its course and if it doesn't work, we can deal with it then."

She doesn't resist when he pulls away, though there's something about the look of her that's petulant. But what follows is that flashfire smile, the one that lights up her entire face, liable to banish the shadows of the day and remind one of stars colliding. "At least I've managed to prepare you somewhat for it," she says with a laugh. "But if you're a fan, at least I'll have a back up career in handy in case this entire archaeologist thing fails for me."

Something flickers there in her expression, but her smile lingers, and she turns around. "Let's sail this thing back into the docks," she tells him over her shoulder. "I wouldn't want you to be late, after all."