2019-09-22 - Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

-- Robert Frost, 1923

---

Like barnacles adhered to a vessel's hull, Summer clings persistently in the air; the fact that they are by the water is the only reason why it isn't as humid as it could be, warm rather than uncomfortably hot. But the skies are clear, though it is raining, crystal-blue expanses stretching towards forever for miles, threaded occasionally by cotton spools of celestial fluff and cut through, now and then, by the gliding bodies of sea birds that occasionally dip into the water in an effort to fish. Ever since the discovery of the body around the bend, the normally vibrant community life along the docks has been relatively subdued - houseboats remain tightly shut and there aren't many residents that linger on their decks after dark. Not that it has stopped a few from engaging in their every day lives; Isabella Reede is one of these exceptions, though by and large, she would be the first to tell Alexander - and has - that it discomfits her also. The lack of its usual activity, the silence.

The night before had come and gone in a passionate blur. The first thing she had done was throw her arms around Alexander the moment he walked through her threshold, clutching onto him like a lifeline, mired in the horrifying prospect of spending the rest of her years being unable to do one of the few things in which she has based her identity and purpose around. The words remained trapped behind her throat, as always unwilling to articulate much whenever she feels vulnerable. She had only managed to tell him that paying for the work didn't have to happen if he didn't want it, before the two of them started fulfilling those fleeting promises made over the phone - no thinking about it until tomorrow.

She was still in bed when he's started to prepare breakfast. That was unusual enough, often up at the crack of dawn to take the houseboat out into the water and dive into the crisp, cold Pacific from the very top deck, as always the first to throw herself off the edge and uncaring as to what was waiting for her below. Today, though, finds her slim, bare form still tangled in the sheets, dark brown hair leaving careless, almost artistic patterns against pale linens, a few parts of her finding the open air and out of the comfort the blanket provides; the line of her left shoulder, the flaring curve of a hip, the slender shape of a calf and thigh hooked around a pillow.

It is past ten when she finally wakes, heavy lids lifting and eyes hazy and clotted with sleep, bones languid and liquid, still, from last night's exertions. Her gaze eventually find the red digits of her alarm clock - she can read those still, at least.

She groans, when she realizes that she's slept later than she intended, rolling over to Alexander's side of the bed. It is empty, already, but her arms lift to gather up the pillow he's rested his head against for at least a few hours the night before, burying her nose into it and closing her eyes. These days, he smells more like coffee, newsprint and rain, the traces of lightning that he always seems to carry with him, exemplifying all the best traits of a stormy, Sunday morning. It almost lulls her back to sleep.

It's not just Alexander who smells like coffee at the moment. The smell of a fresh brew seeps through the air to the bedroom, along with sharper, more savory scents. He's been practicing! Which means he's got his phone propped up on an appliance and is carefully going through the motions of making cheese and onion omelets, along with some bacon and toast. It's not exactly anything complicated, but he's remembered to sautee the onions so they aren't all raw, and he's managed to not overcook the eggs. The bacon is a bit on the crispy side, but coffee covers for a lot sins, and he's arranging it on plates on two trays. He's humming to himself, although his eyes are half-lidded and heavy, suggesting that he, too, briefly thought about going back to bed.

He's half undressed, with just his sweatpants hung low on his hips, his upper body bare and his chin and cheeks gone all scruffy, since he hasn't showered yet, and didn't exactly bring toiletries in the first place. As soon as he gets the first tray ready, he picks it up and takes it into the bedroom, pausing to lean against the doorframe and admire the sight of her. "Good morning, Isabella."

She could be dreaming, in the end, but she'll take these visions over what normally plagues the rest of her friends in the darkest hours. His voice is always good for that - low, lazy and masculine in the ways that effortlessly capture her attention, no matter what state she's in. It could be an objective opinion - he used to sing, after all - but it could be fueled by her relentless infatuation, also. She doesn't know.

And as her green-gold eyes flicker open to look at him from where she's busy nuzzling his ghost, whatever traces of him remain on her sheets, she really doesn't care. It's nearly enough to drive her to a state of full wakefulness, at his easy lean, how broad shoulders frame and fill her doorway, the subtle network of scars that runs over his skin and the new haircut she had given him out of a whim. And armed with breakfast, presumably for her or the both of them. There's a playful groan, sinking her face further into the pillow he had left. "If you wanted to kill me this morning, there are kinder ways," Isabella murmurs, her voice low and smoky, mischief cutting though the hazy look in her emerald irises as she peers at him from the pillow's top. She shifts, to press her hand over her heart, and feigns a dramatic swoon. "Like a bullet, right here."

Her eyes find his again, and she's unable to suppress a drowsy little smile. "Good morning, Alexander."

There's a low, husky, and almost bashful sort of laugh at her dramatic swoon. Playfully, Alexander says, "I may just be learning this cooking stuff, but I'm reasonably sure not even I can make bacon and eggs fatal." He pushes off of the door frame and ambles over to sit on her side of the bed and moves to sit beside her on the bed, to put the tray over her lap. His dark eyes, warmer than they are at almost any other time, meet her emerald ones. "No flower, I'm afraid. It's raining out." His eyes drop down to the body outlined under the sheets, caressing it with his gaze. "I thought you might like to be lazy, for once. Day of rest, and all of that." He lifts his gaze back to her face. "How are you feeling?"

She's already moving when he does, to move further up in a seated position, though she keeps herself relatively modest, still, with the sheets banded around her chest - just her shoulders and the sunkissed line of that one leg that had made it out from under the covers in the absent throes of a deep night's sleep, bent slightly at the knee. Her hair falls in chaotic tangles now that she's upright, naturally wavy when she's not treated it with heat, leaving those half-curls to cloud around her face as she fixes him with that low-hanging stare. It could be the bacon and eggs, but her clear admiration of him is open and shameless, drinking in what she could see of his lean, rangy musculature and feeling her heart kick up a few notches.

Mention of the lack of a blossom to complete the tray earns him a return laugh, and a sleepy grin, but no less brilliant for it. "So murder was on your agenda today," Isabella teases him as the mattress depresses under his weight. Her response is immediate, once he's in range, her head dipping to press her devoted mouth against the nearest edge of his collarbone when he settles next to her. "I'm feeling impossibly lazy," she tells him, her hands keeping the tray steady, a set of fingers picking up the fork to cut into the omelette. "I think if you hadn't made me breakfast, I would've easily gone back to sleep with the smell of you in my pillows." She takes a bite, and groans again, but out of a different kind of pleasure. Her head drops against his shoulder.

"Oh, god," she murmurs. "I love eggs and bacon." She cuts another piece with the edge of her fork and offers him a bite of it. Eyes roving over his profile, her sleepy expression gentles even further. "Thank you, for last night." The devil in her is as always irrepressible; it dances along the line of her mouth. "...for driving me crazy to keep me sane."

"Murder is always on my agenda, one way or another," Alexander says, raising a hand to stifle a yawn, himself. He stands up once she's got the tray steady, but doesn't go far. Instead, he just goes around to the other side and crawls back into bed, stretching out with a languid ease that borders on uncharacteristic. He watches her eat with a sleepy smile. "I'm glad you're not an unexpected vegetarian or something. I can forgive a lot, but I don't know if I could give up bacon for any man or woman." He sits up just long enough to take the bite off the fork, eat it, and then flop back down. Once he's swallowed, he says, "Believe me when I say that it's my great pleasure, Isabella. Even though you might kill me. I don't know the last time I felt this," he groans and stretches, "...tired. In a good way. But. Tired."

She laughs, and that is sleepy, too. "If I was a vegetarian, you could eat however much meat you want and I'll cope," Isabella says, unwilling and absolutely not of the disposition to demand a shared diet under the umbrella of their status. "But considering the fact that life is way too short for that nonsense, I'm actually quite the unrepentant carnivore. I don't know if we could ever go to a Brazilian churrascaria together, it'll be so embarrassing. You'll never be able to take me anywhere after seeing the kind of carnage I can manage in those places." She may forget to eat more than once a day, most of the week, but she does enjoy food once she's got it in hand, and that is evident, too, by the way she just demolishes the breakfast Alexander has made for her, though she is not a monster, for once he's settled back into bed next to her, she leans over and feeds him the last strip of crispy bacon on her plate.

Even though you might kill me.

She sets her tray aside after a few sips of coffee - because the idea of just going back to sleep with him in a rainy Sunday morning is tempting, also, and shifts so she could lie on her side next to him, worming her way under an arm and resting her cheek against the side of his chest. "You could always tell me to take it easier," she tells him, stifling another yawn. "And it could just be the weather," she murmurs. "On top of our nocturnal activities. You seem more well-rested these days, also." She absently nuzzles underneath his chin. "Slightly."

You know, there is an entire other tray of breakfast in the other room, cooling rapidly. But Alexander is now comfortable and just can't be bothered to stand up and get it, especially since a beautiful woman is feeding him bacon. He eats the offering with his eyes half-closed, and deliberately nibbles at her fingertips once the bacon is gone, before lying back down. There's no objection to a return to cuddling - in itself a little odd, since he usually has too much nervous energy to cuddle for long. This time, though, he relaxes into it. "That's true. The summer is fading and the rain is drowning everything. I do have to walk into town in a while, but," a sigh, "I can put that off for a bit. I'm sure." He strokes her sleep curled hair with long, strong fingers. "And I try not to tell people to do things that they're gonna ignore, Isabella. You will do exactly what you feel you need to do." It's fond more than chiding. "And I suppose. Maybe. What about you?" His fingers slip into her hair to find the back of her neck and draw a fingertip down her spine. "Thorne and Miss Winslow seem to be getting lost a lot, of late. Easton, too. Have you had any unusual encounters? Nightmares?"

That is unusual, but considering how rare it is for him to fall in this state, Isabella takes shameless advantage, ever opportunistic whenever he indulges in taking the time to simply be with her. She isn't much of a cuddler, either, when all things are said and done - too restless, in the end, to stay in one place for too long. But she is perpetually starved for affection, also - an affliction that would take wild horses to drag out of her if ever forced to admit it, and rarely ever seeks it out on her own. With Alexander, she is gradually becoming more free in pursuing it, especially when he would simply give it without her asking - as if sensing some inherent need in her.

"Do you have to?" she murmurs, at the prospect of him walking around town. "Well, far be it for me to stop you. Are you returning later this evening?" All valid questions, though for the first time in perhaps a long while, she isn't thinking about work, or research, though the latter is a defense mechanism more than anything else. The idea of reaching for her books and being unable to read them would only aggravate her into doing something potentially reckless.

Her arm curls over him, bent at the elbow to splay light fingers over the center of his sternum, sinking herself in the rhythmic beats of his heart, stroking absent patterns over coarser skin and her touch lingering on his scars. "Mm..." It's a quiet noise, pleased and indulgent, the sleek line of her back shifting and following the trace of that single fingertip he drags down her spine. "Save for yesterday's encounter at the Veil? The Archivist seemed a lot more agitated this time around, I've never heard him raise his voice until yesterday. Loud enough to blow out candles. But other than that, no. I have a theory as to why that is, though." Her eyes lift to regard his profile. "Did something else happen?"

"I have to buy toys for the animals, to apologize for the fact they have to coexist. And I want to check in on Isolde, and harass a drug dealer." Those things are all said with equal relaxation. "So, yes, I suppose I do. But I'll come back. I can pick up dinner on the way, if you'd like. Anything in particular tickle your fancy?" And Alexander's fingers slip down to her waist and tickle it lightly. "I'm not surprised he was agitated. I'm not much for fairy tales, I admit. I find them too close to reality. But one thing I do know, Isabella, is that when you make a bargain with things from other worlds, you do not attempt to renegotiate or rescind your terms. It was a bad idea, but I'm glad that neither you nor Thorne seem substantially harmed." There's a bit of sternness there; he disapproves that it happened at all, that's clear, even if he didn't try to stop it.

He'd feel her grin against him at the mention of buying toys for the animals, though this fades when he mentions that he intends to harass a drug dealer. "You already know my feelings about the matter," Isabella tells him with a quiet sigh, a spike of aggravation there, but he has already given his word that he'll try not to be reckless. It must be her mood, that she isn't pressing, but he'd be able to detect her small huff, being situated so close to him. She does squirm when he tickles her waist, and turns her face to bite playfully, gently, at his shoulder. "Don't make me kick you," she says with a quiet laugh.

"So the introduction didn't go so well? With Luigi and Blue Bell?" she wonders, though at his opinions regarding bargains, she does fall silent, her thumb following the center line of him - growing in impressive definition out of whatever physical punishments he has endured in training - before it finds the shape of the long, old scar of his abdomen. "Hopefully they'll get accustomed to one another, eventually. How is the cat adjusting to her new environs?"

She asks that first, and only then does she touch on re-negotiating with the Archivist. "I told him all of that," she murmurs to Alexander "But he was determined to try something, so I came with him if I couldn't dissuade him. Nobody should go alone through the doorways. He doesn't want anyone else to sacrifice more than they already have...he was just thinking about the rest of us." She remembers the way Byron had looked at her pendant. "What about you? Any new nightmares?"

"Gently. Gently harass," Alexander says, putting his hand over his heart and giving her a soulful sort of look. "Please don't kick me. I'm tender and easily bruised." Then he leans in and nuzzles her with his scratchy stubbly chin as revenge.

"Mmm. It went better than it could have; they're both still alive. Luigi is epically unhappy, though. He hasn't really enjoyed the fact that I have visitors sometimes, and the idea of sharing his home with a predator has caused him some distress. I'm doing what I can to soothe him," Alexander says, although he sounds sad and a little regretful for the distress he's caused the bird. "Blue Bell seems fine. She'd like to eat him, but I'm able to keep her focused elsewhere, and she has warmth, food, and safety, and seems pretty happy with all of that."

His arms come around her and he holds her close. "No. Not really. Frustrations, but mostly mundane ones. I haven't gotten lost since getting into that circus dream with Thorne, and I've been trying to lay low with my abilities. Unlike some people," he adds, in a grumble. "I'd say 'they'll learn' but I worry that they'll die in the process. But that's worry. Not anything supernatural."

"Tender?" Isabella's exclamation is humored and audible, incredulity stitched over every line of that expressive face. She shifts upwards, so she could look down on him, those incisive eyes moving from his dark-haired crown, over his broad shoulders, his chest and down to the planes of his abdomen. Lean, and hard in all the places she can reach. "Where?" But with his dramatic gesture and flashing her those fathomless, near-black eyes she can't help but laugh, which devolves into a quiet, feminine shriek when he pulls her back down, the coarse beginnings of a more substantial beard tickling her face, the sensitive underline of her throat. She flails playfully, feigning helplessness that would never be genuine from the likes of her, her head tilted back, laughter imbued in her everything.

"Help! Help! I'm being attacked! NoooooOOoooooOoooo..." It doesn't sound convincing at all, every syllable mirroring enjoyment.

But she stops, if not just to listen, sympathy crawling over her features as she regards him from where she's situated - too close, really, to appreciate the finer details of his own expressions and the warmth within eyes that remind her forever of midnight embers, but she presses her lips against the hollow of his cheek after. "They'll become accustomed to one another, eventually," she murmurs in assurance. "Sometimes all that takes is time, and a gentle hand."

A long leg shifts, entangling in between his own, impossibly soft skin finding the rougher weave of his sweatpants and her toes curling against a set of his when he gathers her closer. "I believe that's the reason why I hardly ever Dream," she tells him quietly. "I don't use. Not unless I have to, and I haven't done a deep dive into my abilities since..." Her voice trails off, her fingers finding the fading line on his throat. He had been spared the sight of it, the feel of it - that burning, all-consuming star core of her own potential. "And I haven't had a Dream since I was in the hospital."

Alexander's laughter is muffled by her skin, felt more than heard in the shaking of his body as he nuzzles her unmercifully, although somewhere along the way they turn into kisses, until he pulls back and grins at her. "I'm not going to tell you where, Isabella. You're ruthless. If you want my weak spots, you'll have to find them on your own," he claims, mock-haughty, before flopping lazily back down beside her, and watching her with eyes that affection turns a lighter shade of brown. "They will. It'll be an adjustment, but they'll manage."

He squeezes her leg with both of his own, trapping it handily. Or thighily, as the case might be. His eyes close a little as she reaches out for the scar he doesn't have. "I'm lucky you were there, Isabella, but I'm glad that you're not overly enthusiastic about using your abilities. I wish," a pause, a grimace, "well, we'll talk about that later, I believe we agreed. But I'm content with the idea that you're not attracting supernatural dangers to yourself because you can't resist juggling eggs with your mind, or something."

Eyes half-lid when nuzzling turns into kisses, Isabella reaching for him to thread her fingers through his hair, nails lightly raking over the shorter strands at the back, before luxuriating in the longest strands on top. "Oh, I will, Mister Clayton. I'm an explorer by trade, you know. Professional, even. If you think you're getting away with me not excavating your secrets in that regard very thoroughly, you're very much mistaken." She pulls back when he does, finds the affection there - but the color is one that she hasn't seen before, not yet. It sparks her curiosity and she moves, to roll over further so she could press that sandwiched knee against the mattress for leverage. Her hands slip upwards to frame his face.

If he lets her, she'll gently tilt his head back, to let indirect sunlight find those irises, her own evergreen stare falling right into his. "They look like dark honey, like this," she murmurs, her thumbs tracing the shape of his cheekbones. "Like tiger's eyes." The stones, not the animal. Lips fashion a pleased, pliant curve. "I love that I can look at you and discover something new."

There's that last, reminded of the conversation they've yet to have. "Yes. You promised." She did, also, but she manages to curb her apprehension by admiring his eyes, saying nothing for a long moment. "...ideas are my first and last bastion, though that isn't to say I'm not punished for that, also. Lilith took me to task, recently, about what I knew about how powerful readers can affect memories. Byron was looking for a worthy sacrifice, and..." She pauses, her eyes closing.

"I should have remembered what you told me," she begins. "About not changing anything about your past. I'm not without pride. Perhaps I could use less of it, but..." She hesitates, but continues, bulling forward in her usual, tenacious way. "....I was raw that night, also. After you stormed out. I didn't think of who my knowledge could hurt. And then I think about the night I almost lost you, and how Byron almost lost Lilith - of being erased, just like that. I can't blame her for being angry, really. I'd be angry with me, also."

"Excavating," Alexander murmurs, rolling the word on his tongue playfully. "I do enjoy having a girlfriend who uses the big words, even as I'm desperately hoping that said excavation doesn't involve any heavy industrial equipment." He grins as she moves and doesn't protest the trapping of his face between her softer hands. He relaxes into her touch, and is easily guided to tilt his head back and meet her eyes. "Do they? I suppose that's good. And I love that I can continue to reward your curiosity with something interesting. I love your curiosity, and your boldness in pursuing it."

As she continues, the affection shades into something more complicated. His hands skim the outline of her body until they can find her shoulders and arms, caressing lightly. "You were trying to help, Isabella. I know that. I'm sure Miss Winslow knows that, too. But some things - just because we could doesn't mean we should, you know? At least, we shouldn't leap into it. There are enough of us that no one has to give up their identity in order to seal Gohl away. The dramatic answer isn't always the good one." He reaches up and plays with the chain around her neck.

"Mm. No worries there, some excavations require more delicate and painstaking methods methods." Isabella leans in demonstratively, her mouth finding the center of his forehead, and a few inches lower, to press warmly, but softly, at where his nosebridge begins, the slow peppering of damp, but ultimately small tokens feathering his brow. "Besides, I like the way you say my name when I take my time." The last murmured, and not without heat.

"My father would tell you I was born bold from the womb." There's a quiet chuckle. "I was the first out, and once I was, I let everyone else know it. I suppose there are just traits one is simply born with. But I'm forever grateful that you don't find it offputting." She toys with his hair absently, her smile returning. "I think you'll always be interesting, however. It might take years, you know. Studying you." She puts on her best academic's face there. "Documenting your every behavior, cataloging your likes and dislikes..."

What he says about leaping, though, puts a more sheepish thread on her otherwise adoring expression, her lips quirking a mirroring grin. "Yes. That. Because as you know, I'm never reckless. You are right, of course. It's-- " There are more words, and the intent to use them, but they are ultimately truncated with how his fingers find the chain around her neck. There's a glance down at the moonstone dangling free, enslaved by the whims of gravity.

"...I ought to be grateful, really," she says at last. "That you and Byron care enough about me that you'd dissuade me from parting with this." They are also the only two people who know, who would have an inkling as to what she would be giving up, if she casts it into the casket. She leans in then, to find her mouth with his, and she doesn't speak for a while.

Eventually, it breaks, her thumb absently tracing the shape of his lower lip. "May I ask what you intend to do? You don't have to tell me. Though between you and I, some part of me is hoping the eulogy is enough."

"Oh good," Alexander murmurs, with a throaty little chuckle of pleasure as his forehead is peppered with kisses. "As long as you're thorough and professional about things. I'd hate to think I'd make you sloppy."

The playfulness sort of drains out of him as she continues. It starts to leave when she says 'years', and by the time she finish speaking, it's entirely gone, replaced by something that has the weight of sorrow to it. He lowers his hands to her thighs, tapping out one of his nervous rhythms on her skin rather than his own, for once. "You know the eulogy isn't enough," he says, addressing that first. "And I don't mind. I was actually...you know I spoke of Violet Whitehouse? The first person to make friends with me in a while. She allowed me to purchase a book from her. It's a one of a kind volume, the thing that got me started on all this Baxter research." He sighs. "A mixed blessing that. But, she made me promise to sell it back to her when I was done. I agreed, but I was going to try to talk her out of it, so I could keep it."

"And now she's gone, and I don't think she'll ever be back. It's the only thing of hers I really have. That she gave me. Blue Bell doesn't really count. And I'll never find another volume of it. So I've deleted all my scans of it, and I'll put it to sleep with Gohl. He's a part of the Baxter legacy, and Gray Harbor's bloody history. I think it's fitting to lay it to rest with him."

Then, his eyes rise to meet hers. "And you know you won't be here in years, Isabella." It's gentle. "You're going to go and see the world, and dive in all the oceans, and find things that time has forgotten, and bring them to light. You're going to be bold and adventurous, and you're going put this shitty, haunted little town in your rear-view mirror, just as it should be."

She listens, now - in fact, her surprise can't be contained, when she watches his eyes and he speaks of his lost friend. The book he mentions is one that yields her curiosity - but considering the fact that he intends to destroy it, she refrains from asking about it. What is the point, when it is bound to be lost forever. And yet, she can't help but feel relieved - it might not be too visible on her face, but he can probably sense it, that he has adopted a more pragmatic approach to his sacrifice. Admittedly, it would still hurt - she can see it in his eyes, unable to help but look at their changed color with the marvel she often saves for a new discovery.

"Oh, my darling, I'm sorry," Isabella says at last after that, her jaw setting. She is not without her own empathy and he would find it in those fields of sunlit evergreen - sorrow and fury, white-hot and burning brightly, at the idea of giving up more when he has already endured so much in the last three decades. The fact that it would be for someone utterly irredeemable, on top of it. "It isn't fair and if I could spare you of it, I would." And she might, still. Her lips press in a tight line, the stubborn look of her lingering - always, forever driven to action, when words are inadequate. Somewhere in her mental rolodex, she hunts for Doctor Tillie Harlow's number.

But when his eyes lift to meet hers, what he utters next drives the air from her lungs. For a moment, she is silent and still, watching his face.

"....I nearly gave that up," she confesses, her voice so soft it was barely audible. "The night of our argument. After everything I suggested, I thought I should put my money where my mouth is. I went to Minerva and asked her if there was a way to curse me - to bind me here forever. It was all that I wanted, ever since I was a child. To leave Gray Harbor forever, to see the world and do things while out there. I didn't end up doing it..." The last, she appends, and hurriedly. "Honestly, Minerva and Easton embarrassed me out of it. That wouldn't be me, either, to clip my wings for the sake of the bastard we want gone. And...if I ever decided to do that, it would...I would want it to be on my own free will, and for my own reasons."

She knows what he is getting at, in the end, and her expression twists. "There are so many things I could say. About how life is short, and fleeting, and nothing ever lasts. That even empires fall and crumble to dust eventually. That it's that inevitability that should inspire us to not worry about it, because what's the use? But I can't. I don't want to. Because I've never done anything by the halves in my entire life and you're..." She swallows. "I know I'll never find anyone else like you, never find anyone else who makes me feel the way you do. You might not think so, you'll probably be the first to tell me to go and leave, and forget you and this cursed place, but I..."

She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling the blast doors slam tightly closed. But she pushes. She braces her shoulder against them, feeling it burn and shoves with all of her might. "You're worth fighting for." The words are low, wreathed with pain and heat and that reckless, unyielding ferocity. "Worth fighting to live with and to keep. You're so important to me I can barely breathe whenever I think about it. And I know you probably think you don't deserve it, but it's true. It's true. And...and...I don't know what I'm trying to say, but...it's....I'll find a way."

Like a single dandelion would be enough.

"You can't," Alexander says, quiet, but firm. "Spare me. Any one of us, Isabella, could have decided not to go through with this. We could have chosen to let Thomas be carted off to the Asylum. God knows he's not made it easy to try and save his wrinkly old ass," he mutters, not quite under his breath. "But. We didn't. We decided to take the hard road, but we weren't forced; every one of us is here because we want to be here. For different reasons. Thorne doesn't care about Thomas a bit, and I suspect he'd be a lot happier if we just gave the guy up to Over There. But he's still here, willing to sacrifice. You can't spare people from something they willingly chose."

At the news of what she wanted to do, all that 'choose and let choose' stuff seems to be replaced with a sudden flare of alarm and irritation. "Don't you dare." It's sharp and quick, accompanied by his eyes boring into hers. He relaxes only fractionally when she admits that she chose otherwise. "Thank God for Minerva and Easton. But Isabella...don't ever give yourself up like that. You are better than this place. Your destiny isn't here. You're going to be amazing out there, and nothing should ever take that away from you."

Alexander relaxes as she continues, just a little bit more, and his arms come around her to hold her close and squeeze her tight, pressing his forehead against her hair. "It would kill me to see you give up your life to stay here, Isabella. And I wouldn't..." a soft laugh into her hair, "as precarious as my situation is here in this town, it's worse outside of it. Out there, I would be a middle-aged man who's never held down an honest job in his life, with a history of psychiatric holds, and who is likely to scream or punch someone at the first faculty cocktail party you try to take me to. I wouldn't shackle you with that. Let's," a deep breath, "let's enjoy this, Isabella. Okay? Just enjoy this, right now."

She already knew how he would react if she ever actually did make that happen, so the flare of irritation crossing his haggard, but handsome features isn't really a surprise. Isabella quirks a faint grin at him, despite the weight of the conversation. "Don't look at me like that," she chides, gently. "I just told you I didn't do it, did I? Besides, I was..." And here she is unable to hide a wince. "....really wasted the night I was making the decision. That makes any stupid conclusions on my part more understandable, right? They're easier to make when everything's so lubricated by alcohol."

And how. That string of drunken text messages is still in her phone, the problem is she can't even read them now to refresh herself as to what they've actually discussed.

Pulled further against him again, her own arms curl around him, tightening - iron bands made of flesh, and bone and warmth, her face buried somewhere against his shoulder and her head burdened by the welcome weight of him against her. He'd practically sense it, how she grows even more stubborn within the circle of his arms. It could be many things - she is a woman of extremes, leaning hard, always, one way or another, an ultimately decisive personality whose recalcitrance over every choice often takes armies of those who know her to push her off the path she is set on. It could be her youth. Maybe she has yet to develop the calluses he has, after close to forty years of roughshod living, of being scarred by the things that never hesitated to hurt him.

"...you don't understand," she tells him quietly, her whisper filling the inner shell of his ear. "I don't intend to give anything up."

Slowly, she pulls away, but just enough so she could meet his eyes, and playfully narrow her own. "And while you're correct in that nothing should ever take this away from me, it behooves me to correct you that I'm going to be amazing anywhere." After a moment, her expression softens. "Just watch me, Alexander Clayton."

There is a pause, and he'd be privy to the extremely rare sight of her confidence wavering, enough to be visible. "Uh...unless you don't want it," she begins, haltingly, her stare leaving his to focus somewhere past his head. "I mean, all the determination in the world would be ill-advised if...you know...and...honestly that should be something you should tell me right away if it isn't working for you anymore, and..."

Alexander's expression changes in a dozen different ways as he listens to her. It's the last of what she says that seems to break him out of that stare, and his mouth works, trying to find the words for what he wants to say. He falls back on his strengths, reaching out with his mind to try to show her exactly how well this relationship is working for him...but her mental defenses are too strong, and she can no doubt feel his mind sliding off of them with frustration and the glint of teeth. He makes a sound of complete frustration, and suddenly spins to try and roll over and pin her underneath him, his body over hers, his nose less than an inch from her as he stares into her eyes. "It's working," he says, at last. "Every moment with you is one I enjoy, Isabella. Every. Single. One. I just want you to have everything that is best in life, and one day, you'll need to grow past this town. I know that. I accept it. But I will take every moment until then, or until you get tired of me, and I will take those moments with joy."

He licks his lips, a bit tentative, himself. "Okay?"

Alexander Clayton might very well be one of the most powerful readers that she has ever come across, but Isidore Reede was one, also, and it is perhaps his influence or the profound way he has impacted her life that has resulted in Isabella's remarkable ability to beat back even the most benign attempts to slip messages into her mind, forcing the other to face the reality of the physical world. He'd find concern ripple over her expression at that frustrated sound, and she's about to allay his concerns - he'd feel it, the way she starts taking down the portcullis that barricades any and all comers from what hides within her skull and the seat of her soul, when he renders those attempts moot. There's a muffled sound, clearly surprised, when he rolls them both over on the bed such that his knee is pressed on the mattress somewhere between her own, looming above her and shading her with his leaner, broader, bigger form. She's left staring up at him, her heart in her throat.

Her pulse quickens, so rapidly and so hard that the life-giving vein at the side of her throat tics like a timer, counting down towards the inevitable. Her mouth goes dry, her eyes reflecting his expression back at him.

"...I want that, too," she affirms, quietly, her fingers slipping through the shorter strands at the back of his head. "I want everything."

All the things.

The seconds cascade in a rapid rush. Somewhere in the back of her mind, her back is pressed against the rocks, the cliff before her dangerous and endless, with nothing but the churning seas and the white froth of the waves below. He'd find her pupils shrink, those beautiful eyes bright and wild with it - the urge to take a leap. To push herself off the craggy wall and fall, uncaring whether she hits the rocks or the water.

"I love you."

She doesn't give him the chance to respond, an opportunist and a cheat in the best of times - any rejection is one that she decides she'll have to deal with later. Instead, her mouth finds his, if he allows, hot and open and plunging deep.

Somewhere within herself, she spreads her arms out, and jumps.

Oh god.

Alexander's eyes widen at those three little words and his body tenses up, for a moment clearly strung between screaming and fleeing (possibly without bothering to put on a shirt), and staying and...well, enjoying the hell out of that kiss. The kiss wins, although it's a close thing, and his mouth is hard against hers at first, until he gives up, gives in, and returns it with all the passion that's in him.

And nothing's going to get done for quite a while. Although, once they've finished with the latest bout of passion, Alexander kisses her - a more gentle kiss, this time - and tells her that he'll be back in the evening, but really does need to get some things done. And then he flees before the question of using That Word back at her can be raised. Like a coward. Or a man who has to think about some things. Either way!