2019-09-25 - The Mistakes Worth Making

Isabella's number is most probably a familiar sight by now; it lights up his phone, but unlike the woman in the other line, the man is at least blessed with the one thing she is not in a few particularly trying weeks - he has managed to retain his ability to be a (mostly) functioning, literate person.

When he accepts the notification, he'd find the familiar confines of her bedroom in the background, with its large, one-sided windows that do nothing to obscure the view past her shoulder - of cloudy skies, light pollution from the city's heart leaving no semblance of natural beauty to be glimpsed, the night so dark that it is impossible to find the demarcation between sky and sea without the light of the obscured stars, or the silhouette of distant mountains. Raindrops sprinkle against the panes in small, glistening drops, tracing damp patterns down the smooth surface. The room is dimly lit - perhaps a folly in Gray Harbor, whose children have long since learned to fear the dark, but the archaeologist seems comfortable, or as comfortable as she can be, bundled up like a miserable burrito with a face and hazy green-gold eyes, her hair in tangled whorls, the dark chocolate color splashed over pale linens. It's difficult to determine what she's wearing, though it's discernible enough that she's using her laptop instead of her phone, using the sight of familiar icons to do this. She uses her videconferencing applications often enough, with her daily calls to the United Kingdom.

"Alexander," she greets, her voice hoarse, rendered threadbare by all of her coughing. Her nose is raw and her bloodshot irises water on occasion. While she looks pale, at the very least she hasn't lost weight, and has managed to keep her appetite, judging by a plate he can find peeking on the side of the camera; the leftover crumbs of cookies. Chocolate chip, maybe?

"Oh god, I think mistakes were made."

Alexander has been trying to stay out of August's way; all too aware that this is not His Place, and also wanting to avoid any more...unfortunate incidents, he's been lurking outside in between bouts of exhausted sleeping (or throwing up), or compulsive chore-doing when there's anything August will let him do. Those floors are clean. Right now, he's sitting outside, his back against the cabin's outer walls, hoping the autumn chill will manage to cool his raging fever. It's not helping much, but it's quiet out here on every level, with the only nearby minds the simple ones of animals, and August's calming presence.

When Isabella calls, he answers immediately, propping the phone between his knees. His hair is disheveled, his eyes glassy, and he clearly looks as good as Isabella feels. "Hey, Isabella," he croaks, then clears his throat. He tries again, his voice raspy and low. "Were they? What mistakes were those?" He catches sight of the edge of the plate. "Not sharing whatever that was with me?"

"Mistakes. Mistakes were made."

Isabella watches him for a moment, finding it in her to extricate - and with some effort, until she finally rolls around and flails at her blanket until she's able to dislodge enough of the sheets that she's able to do this - a hand and reaches out to draw along the shape of his cheek with a fingertip....and keeps stroking it, her stare just as glassy as his. Perhaps even moreso, but an explanation as to why that is is forthcoming.

She finds it in her to look sheepish even in her bedraggled state. "I found my father's cookies," she tells him. "Chocolate chip. My favorite. But I think they were special. Because after two, the world started going like this..." She twirls that stroking finger in a series of lazy loops in the air. "I thought it was just the fever at first, it wasn't as if I could taste them very well, but then the patterns in the couch afghan just started doing...something. So I'm relatively certain they're special."

She pauses.

"But then I remembered what you said last night and I figured, hey, I never actually met an angry pot smoker, so I just kept eating them. Mistakes, Mister Clayton." She fuzzily pokes her index at where his cheek would be. "Mistakes were definitely made. Though if I knew you wanted one, I would've saved you a couple." Her expression gentles. "How are you feeling?"

Alexander smiles at the stroke on the cheek, and reaches out to lightly tap his finger against the glass where her fingers are. "You know the phone doesn't work like that," he teases, gently. And then, as she explains what those mistakes REALLY were? He can't help it. He laughs.

And then he immediately falls into a harsh coughing fit that turns his face into a plummy shape of red. The phone is put down for a moment while he regains his breath. But, when he comes back, he's still smiling. "Isabella. You ate your father's pot stash. That's adorable." He rubs at his face. "I wonder if it's sativa or indica? I'm told that matters. Would you say you feel more perky and energized, or relaxed and indolent?"

At her questions in return, he waves a hand. "Like shit. But, like shit that hasn't tried to murder anyone in several hours. So I'm counting it as a win."

"I don't care if we haven't reached the required level of cyberpunk dystopia to allow touching through screens," Isabella declares with both her usual ridiculous confidence and the youthful petulance of a woman a decade and change younger than he is. She even demonstrates this defiance by leaning in and pressing her lips against the screen....

...only to list on the side and miss the mark completely, so her cheek smooshes into the camera instead, the sound of discarded utensils clattering in the unseen floor. And then she just finishes the helpless slide off the computer to land on her mattress, face unseen.

"...pretend I did that sexier," she groans from somewhere on the side.

She manages to put herself back to rights, though that takes some struggling also. "I'd suggest you ask August if he also has a stash but I think I remember what you told me before about your feelings on mind-altering substances," she tells him, if not just to offer some evidence that her formidable brain is still working in spite of its descent into illiteracy. "....wait when did you learn about pot? Your gentle harassment of the drug dealer?"

His hand wave earns him a grin. "Aw, that is a win. I'm glad to hear it." She is. And were she sober, she would be giving that its due gravitas. And she must realize it because she appends that with, "I am. Apparently Joey Kelly covered for you when the police showed up. Did you buy a lottery ticket before the Captain spirited you away?"

"It was incredibly sexy. I mean, just knowing you can look at me right now and want to kiss me? Sexiest thing," Alexander says, indulgently but also with sincerity. This doesn't stop him from snickering at the sight she made, though. He rubs at his reddened nose. "And you are so stoned right now. Just promise me you won't go boating or anything."

He leans his head back against the cabin, his eyes closing. "Stoned sounds pretty good right now, gotta be honest. Every single part of my body hurts. Having my throat cut was less miserable." There's just the faintest hint of a whine to his voice. "But, yeah. Mister Sumpter. Whatever else he might be selling on the side, the kid knows his legal weed. It's an interesting thing. With ridiculous names. Rainbow Kush Purple Bumpers or something. Weird."

One eye opens when she says the last. "...what? I told him to tell the cops that I tried to kill him. Which I did. And set his gym on fire. Why would he cover for me?"

She rewards his indulgence with a look of both mischief and unmitigated affection. Isabella's long fingers press against her heart, feigning a swoon that looks more convincing than even she intends when it makes her flop like a dead fish against her covers. "My germs are your germs," she vows, and even manages to sound solemn about it. "Empires crumble and fall, but bacteria is forever." She does laugh, croaking the sound through a tired throat. "And no boating, I promise. In retrospect I'm glad the houseboat is always so well stocked. I don't have to risk ruining my reputation with the delivery people in my area by flying off the handle unexpectedly."

With his confession about grass and its many colorful varieties, Isabella's lips lift higher in a faint smile. "Ask August. He grows things," she repeats. "But I'm sorry you're hurting. A good soak helps, some food. On top of his many fine qualities, maybe August knows how to microwave an excellent bowl of chicken soup. You know I might need to send that man a gift basket eventually, don't you? He's basically doing what I ought to be doing."

Though that isn't to say that his statement and confusion isn't understandable. "I don't know, Alexander, but that's what Byron told me, and according to him, Joey Kelly wouldn't lie to him," she murmurs. "I say definitely take this win."

"Bacteria actually dies very quickly, you know. Very tiny lifespan," Alexander says, pinching his fingers veeeeeeeery close together. At the mention of August, he chuckles, quietly. "Yeah. I'm not sure August even has a microwave. He's like the anti-me - I think everything here is homemade. He has goats!" There's an almost childlike pleasure in this declaration, and he turns the camera around so that Isabella can see a fuzzy picture of a goat pen not far away. "They're sweet."

He turns it back to his face. "And I could as easily say that I should be there, taking care of you. Just...get through this Isabella, hmm? Rest, recover, try not to worry about anything you don't have to." And in the spirit of that, he doesn't share his own theories on why a professional legbreaker might not want to tell the cops who the guy was who tried to kill him and set his business on fire. "But if you run across another stash of those cookies, I mean, you could definitely have them sent this way..."

"Well, first of all, Mister Clayton," Isabella begins, leaning forward in an exaggerated fashion and squinting one eye at him. "I more meant it in the sense that you can never get rid of bacteria, because it's everywhere and returns no matter how many times you clean something. Even clean rooms need to be cleaned periodically, and second of all, I'm hiiiiiiiigh." The last is drawn out and done in a sing-song voice. "Though I definitely am choosing to take this as a compliment that you still somehow expect me to make complete sense despite my present state of hot messiness. And by hot I mean my raging temperature."

He likes goats. The way his wan face simply lights up has her propping her chin on one hand, lashes hanging low. Though it could also be the fact that she is sick, or inebriated, it does complete the look of an arrested young female whose attention is taken up utterly by the object of her (intense, terrifying) affections. "I thought you only made an exception for birds but it seems I was wrong. You're very sweet," she murmurs. "Anyway I had no idea August kept livestock also. He's a really salt of the earth kind of guy isn't he? Kind of far away from us city folk."

He does try to turn it back on her, and those glazed eyes blink at him, before she laughs. She falls back sideways on her mattress, fingers splayed loosely over her throat, because it hurts to laugh. It doesn't stop her, always one to lean hard into mirth, no matter her present state. Eyes brightened by fever and humor look towards him, the brilliance of her smile undiminished by her illness - the kind of personality who would do so, even while dying. "Alexander, you made me breakfast," she points out. "And delivered it to me in bed shirtless. Add on the fact that you couldn't keep your hands off me the night before and after, trust me, I think you're covered for at least ten years!"

"You are, indeed, high. I like it. And all right, all right. I'll stop trying to be pedantic at your mighty, stoned wisdom. You're right. Bacteria is persistent in the aggregate, even if it might be fleeting in the individual." Alexander hunches over, his face coming close to the phone as he watches her. It's his turn to put out a couple of finger tips and stroke the screen, tenderly.

"I like animals. They're uncomplicated. Not...good. Or evil. But uncomplicated. Even the smarter ones like Luigi don't spend a lot of time with worries, or fears, or existential musings. They just feel things, purely." Alexander shrugs. "It's soothing. But, yeah. He's terrifyingly competent. When the apocalypse comes, I'm definitely going to see if he'll let us chop wood or something in exchange for food."

As she laughs, he does as well - although as before, it costs him in ragged coughing. But it's totally worth it. "It was just breakfast, Isabella. If I could give you more than that, I would."

"'Bacteria is persistent in the aggregate'," Isabella quotes, deepening her voice in an effort to match his, and makes a passable Alexander impression. There's a smile, open and winsome, watching as his face gets closer and basking in that small bit of indirect affection from his fingers, pupils shrinking as if she could actually feel it. "Yes. Continue, please. Talk nerdy to me." Complete with a playful waggling of her eyebrows. "If you start quoting history at me, I don't care what August or the local laws on impaired driving say, I'm heading over there with every intention of scandalizing that goat."

Poor Nellie. What did you ever do to her?!

She listens to his next words with interest, having never had the ability or thought to explore the mind of an animal at all, though she can recall, vaguely, certain experiments back when she was a child. "What's it like?" she asks him, her inquisitive nature somehow managing to push through the pleasant haze of the drug in her system. "When you read animals? You said that they just feel things purely. Is it all just emotion and instinct? Or can the actually communicate with you? It's just that I always thought that whenever one of us does....that....it's much like how they encounter alphas in the wild. They just know and do whatever it takes to survive the encounter."

It's all assumption, but as always, she never discards any opportunity to learn from her betters, and Alexander was one of the most powerful readers she has ever come across, and the only one who can even boast access, these days, to the fiery outer layer of her mental landscape, where most of her more passionate and volatile self resides.

Another peal of laughter escapes her, the more they talk about August. "I honestly don't know how he'll take that," she tells him. "On one hand, I can see him being very flattered about it. On the other hand I can see him looking at us wondering if we've watched too much...uh...what was it. That show about people who build apocalypse bunkers attached to their homes."

His laughter, though, the sound of it - the fact that he still can, and that she can drive him to it, softens her bright, humored expression palpably. She leans in then, this time she connects, her lips pressing lightly on his image. "Honestly," she wonders. "Do I strike you as the kind of woman who's got complicated desires? I love the little things, Alexander. Unequivocally."

"Oh, see. I was gonna do that next, Isabella. But I don't want to be responsible for unleashing you on the roads, or abusing August's hospitality by scandalizing his goats." Alexander grins, though, brief and sunny. Then he coughs, and admits, "Not that I think I have the energy for doing more than just flopping vaguely beside you, at the moment. You're younger and stronger than I if you feel otherwise." But he seems to enjoy it.

Her question turns him thoughtful. He slumps sideways, laying on the ground on his side, letting his face rest against the cool earth, the phone propped up sideways before him, now. "It's a bit alien, but also clearer. With humans, there's always an awareness that you're not seeing everything. You can feel things, but the way a person processes their feelings? That happens somewhere I can't touch, and it's not always clear. People will lie about what they feel, or will reject things that will make them feel better, even when they know it would help if they accepted it. There's layers and layers of complexity and mystery that are...fascinating but exhausting. Animals just feel. They can have complex feelings, nuanced feelings, depending on the animal. But you won't find an animal act against its emotions. They just don't know how. It's soothing, like I said. Even when they're violent or angry, you sort of understand what's going on with them." He shrugs into the dirt. "It's hard to put into words."

"I think August would be very polite, and kind, and quietly hope we find somewhere to build an apocalypse cabin that gives him back his space," Alexander says, with amusement. "Not because I don't think he likes people. I think he does. But look at this place," never mind that she can't see it, "it's a place made by a man who is accustomed to being self-sufficient, and values being able to be. Not rejecting others, maybe, but...I don't know. Staking out his own space."

"And you call yourself an irresponsible adult," Isabella ribs him - for all that she has stressed her present state of high, when it comes to her memories of him, her mind seems to have an even more of a viselike quality than her usual attention for facts and details, recalling their conversation on her doorstep the night he gave her a copy of the preacher's picture. "You've grown considerably in the three months I've known you, Mister Clayton." She hesitates, but only briefly, before adding, and quietly, "That would be more than fine for me, also, right now." It's somewhat awkward, always whenever she's forced to convey these softer, inner parts of her without the influence of heightened emotion. "I'll take you as you are, in any state."

He moves to rest on his side, and given that she is also situated the same, at the very least, it feels like he's only following her wish, or indulging in his own. It leaves her with the impression that they are lying next to one another, both in their respective states of misery, but otherwise together. And this would have to do, though the realization that she might not be able to connect with him in the way he loves, the way that most matters to him, continues to chafe. She has yet to introduce him to the true state of her mind, and some part of her dreads it. Not that she can't sense in him that the feeling is mutual, when she has yet to know the real shape of his pain.

His small dissertation about the difference between animal and human hearts only shifts her expression further towards a half-dreamy one that injects a look upon her that is so tender, it is almost heartbreakingly so. And after a few minutes of quiet just watching him, the smile that returns is a more reassuring one. "I think you put it into words just fine," she tells him, though after a moment, she ventures, hesitantly. "Have you tried diving deeply before? In a person? And I don't mean...within the boundaries of the bridge. But there's a point where those layers fall away, at least in my experience. When the complexity and the trials that you endure to get there don't matter anymore."

Unlike the other times, she doesn't look away, her eyes directly meeting his through the screen in their side-by-side positions. It could be the drugs. She will probably blame the drugs, once she remembers this conversation.

Though her good humor sparks again when she thinks of poor, long-suffering August. "I think you can be a social person without needing to be around people all the time," she opines. "Like you said to me, yourself - people can be exhausting. Though I don't know how we'd fare in an apocalypse cabin together. We might last a week, or less, before we venture out in some desperate attempt to bring the Internet back to life again. Could you imagine life without Youtube? Or..." And her eyes widen, the look of her intensely horrified. "Without online research? It's almost my worst nightmare." Laughter returns on her features. "We'd drive off, and we'll find August in the rearview, shaking his head and releasing one of those drawn out sighs of his."

"I've been working out. Thank you for noticing," Alexander returns, lifting his eyebrow at her. Yes, he knows what she means, but it's more fun and less emotionally vulnerable to make a joke about it, so he does. "We've gotta talk about your taste in men, Miss Reede. Some day. It could be improved. Not that I'm complaining."

He chuckles a bit at the shift in her expression, but the question she asks makes him close his eyes, avoiding that direct and unhesitating gaze in his own way. "Not...in a long time. A very long time. And only really with one person." His voice is soft, hesitant. When he opens his eyes again, he says, "People don't usually like that. It's intimate, overwhelming. I haven't had a lot of...people in my life who had any interest in anything like that. Even among other people who stand out, my abilities are often considered," he grimaces, "creepy and invasive."

"I would miss the internet," he admits, in a lighter voice. "But I think what would really kill us is lack of fast food places. My fledgling cooking skills are not prepared for the apocalypse. As soon as the preserved food runs out, I'm probably going to be reduced to gnawing on trees for sustenance."

I've been working out.

And how. Isabella's grin cuts through the half-light of her room like a scythe, just as sudden as it is blinding. "Is that a hint?" she exclaims, pointing towards the screen of her laptop. "That I should notice more? I'm all ears, Mister Clayton. You should tell me what else I can do to make you feel more....appreciated." And this time, the waggling of her eyebrows is most definitely lascivious. "I wasn't sure whether you were joking about showing you ribbon yoga before, but now I'm starting to wonder."

There's confusion there, also, when he closes his eyes, and when he speaks of the one time that he has - it doesn't surprise her, but he had told her before that he had never connected with anyone mind-to-mind during moments of sexual intimacy, and it is easy to assume that he's speaking of a past lover. She is not exempt from that typical trap. What is clear, however, is that he's not all too comfortable discussing it.

"I won't press," she tells him quietly, her fingers reaching out to touch the screen. "But I know." She does. "It is intimate, and overwhelming. Terrifying, to the uninitiated. But I lived with it for over half my life. Constantly, consistently. I shared everything...I didn't hold back anything. As strange and horrifying as that sounds to others, for most of my life, that was normal." And after watching his dark eyes for a heartbeat, she continues, the words lubricated by the drugs in her system, the reality of their own mortality pressing against their bones and aching muscles and joints. "I miss it. But I don't know if I'm capable, anymore." Her smile tilts upwards, ruefully. "I'm constantly jealous of the ones who are able to do that with you so effortlessly, if they let themselves."

She tilts her head back, and he could see it on her face - this visible effort to visualize a world where cheap, quick eats are the norm. "....oh god," she groans, comically. "We're going to need to ask August to teach us how to make cheese. You told me you would never give up bacon for any man or woman. I'm the same, but for cheese."

"Yoga?" Alexander groans, melodramatically. "Must I?" Although his grin is lazy as he considers her in the screen. "Can I maybe just watch you? Maybe help you with some warm up exercises?" A waggle of his eyebrows in return, although he adds, more sincerely, "You appreciate me more than I could ever hope for."

Silence at her quiet understanding, mixed even as it is with her curiosity. "When we have that talk," he says. It's not quite a promise, more of an explanation. Before he lapses into contemplation of her description of it. "I don't think I've even done that. Sharing everything. And you don't have to be jealous, Isabella. I do...I want that connection with you. I won't lie. But I want you to be happy and comfortable more. And if you never get there, that's fine." A pause. "I think you're physically capable, though. Or psychically capable, as the case may be."

Then he laughs out loud, although it turns to coughs and wheezes and a pained groan. "So noted. When apocalypse comes, make sure we take over a dairy as our kingdom."

There's appreciative laughter, there. "Well, Yoga requires a tremendous amount of flexibility," she says, his lazy grin drawing out her languid own - deceptive, that, when her heart attempts to stage its very own, bloody, messy jailbreak every time he levies one of those easy masculine expressions towards her. "...you're so unfair," she groans, instead, pushing her face into the covers. "I don't think you're even conscious of it when you....no. No, nevermind. I shouldn't weaponize you any further, I'm already in danger."

A single green eye peeks out from her sheets, Isabella's smile hinted at the visible corners of her mouth. "I try. To appreciate. Sometimes I wonder if I can't do that more." The pearly edges of her teeth clip faintly on her lower lip, nibbling on it delicately. "I'll always like how you can engage me in all eight thousand cylinders without even trying. I never really knew you, when I was growing up here. Just your reputation, until I met you in Byron's office that night and we flew off on that historical tangent together." She doesn't quite manage to suppress a smile, tilting it towards him. "I wondered about you right after you left."

His confession is taken with easy stride; the fact that he wants it has her smile broadening, though he'd be able to glimpse her apprehension there, too. "I miss it," she stresses, in case he hadn't parsed her meaning from earlier. "I want it more than anything, and with you more than anyone, or at least want it as bad as I want the things that matter the most to me. It's just...I don't know. I know the only way of knowing for certain is to try, but...I have to struggle with the thought of disappointing you also, if I can't." There's something faintly resigned in the line of her smile there. "It might kill me."

She sighs. "But...no guts, no glory, hm?"

His laughter does inspire her own, and his groan is also matched. "Oh god, if we take over a dairy, we really will need August. I think you're right. He'll never be rid of us! The poor man!"

Alexander's smile was crooked. "There was absolutely no reason for you to know me, Isabella. There are words for twenty-something year old men who try to make the acquaintance of teenaged girls, and I like to think none of them apply to me. I wouldn't even know Thorne if I hadn't sort of stalked his father for a while." A pause. "And it's really weird, sometimes. I remember him, for the most part, as a six year old. When I came back, he was in high school, and I kept a bit of an ear out, on the gossip, but I never tried to approach. Because the words for creepy twenty-something men who try to make the acquaintance of teenaged boys aren't any kinder." His voice is very, very dry. "You didn't miss anything, anyway. I was a fucking mess for years. I'd only have scared you."

He sighs, and stretches, seeming only now realize that he's been laying in the cool dirt. With a groan, he leverages himself to a sitting position. "You won't disappoint me, Isabella. I don't have any expectations, where that's concerned. I really, truly don't." He smiles at her. "We'll give it a shot, when you want. And I won't let it kill you." A quiet promise, there, whether he can keep it or not.

There's a low chuckle. "I suspect he'll just suggest we trade with him. He's got hens and ducks here. Eggs and things, I bet." Then he runs his fingers through his hair, combing out clumps of dirt. "Isabella, I should go lay down for a bit. I feel like I'm about to fall over. Or did fall over. Which I guess I did. But this was nice. You make being sick much less suffering."

"There wasn't, then." Isabella pauses, her expression shifting to a more contemplative bent. "It's funny how lives turn full circle, sometimes. How missed opportunities become second chances, and what was possible before isn't possible now." She thinks of Byron, and the prom night that never happened. But she does let out a small laugh, that irrepressible smile levied in his direction again. "When we finally go on that date, I have so many stories to tell you."

She watches him straighten up, before she slowly follows, though this is reluctant and she groans at the effort, and ends up sprawling on top of her pillows instead. "I think the point I'm trying to make is that I'm very happy I didn't miss you completely. But I'm sure that while anyone in my position would be tempted to gloss over those opinions as mere exaggerations, I'm inclined to believe you. You're very intimate with your flaws, Alexander. If you tell me these things, you're telling me for a reason." She meets his eyes then. "When we have that talk."

After another moment of simply watching him, she continues. "And we will, give it a shot - though after we have that talk, I think." There's a slight clouding over her sickly face then. "I don't doubt your courage, but I'm not about to send you into me without preparing you the best I can. And once you hear what I have to say, maybe you'll change your mind. Though it's already a good sign, if you feel the same way."

She would be the last person to begrudge him of sleep, and she leans further into her screen. "Take care of yourself," she murmurs, pressing her mouth against his image. "Call me tomorrow, let me know how you are. Okay?"

She doesn't reiterate what she had told him in a fit of passionate pique a few days ago and it may take a hundred years until she says it again. But the way her eyes look when she captures his image in her long memories, uncaring of the state of his hair and how depleted of color and strength he appears, it's likely that she knows that she doesn't have to.

Alexander's eyebrow rises. "Oh, really? Well, I can't resist a good story or two, Miss Reede, and I'm most eager to learn more about you, and what I'm sure were your many exploits. You got the chance to terrorize multiple populations with your fearlessness, after all." He sounds proud of that.

The rest is more serious, and although he doesn't reply extensively in words, his expressions - as always - are pretty easy to read. His gnawing curiosity, and equally strong apprehension - a sort of bleakness at the concept, as if he doesn't really expect the talk to go well for him. But he presses his two fingers against his lips, and transfers the kiss to the screen. "I will. And if I don't, you call me. And keep trying to get a hold of Javier, yeah? He might open up to you where he won't for me." And Alexander is worried, although he doesn't say it.

"Don't die," is all he says, warm and fond, before hanging up.