2019-10-17 - Sleepless In Seattle

THE DRIVE:

She had practically stolen him off the street.

The skies are clear; not a lick of rain in sight, and while Gray Harbor is at its most beautiful (and safest) over the Summer, the Autumn has its own charms, filled as it is with color even as trees slowly start to hibernate in preparation for the coming winter. The park is piled with leaves of red and gold, running the entire spectrum of all shades in between, and the morning is early enough to be chilly - there's a cold bite to the wind, but it's not so severe that it would leave anyone shivering. It is definitely the sort of weather that would inspire a person to dress in layers.

He may have been going out to get coffee, he may have been out on a run, he may have been on the way to the library to get some much needed research done, but when he rounds the bend of Addington Park, a familiar figure suddenly leaps out of the bushes with an exuberant whoop, and proceeds to attempt to tackle him into the nearest pile of fallen leaves. For someone as paranoid and alert as Alexander, this might've been a very dangerous prospect, but as always, Isabella is fearless of those risks, and reckless when it comes to her own mischief. Whatever struggles ensue will only leave her laughing in the grass. It doesn't matter if he manages to overpower her.

And she is utterly uncaring that a few passing joggers are gaping at them in surprise in this very early morning, because they do. "This is an ambush!" she gasps amidst her laughter. "I'm kidnapping you! Resistance is futile!"

As it happens, she happens to come across Alexander when he was walking back home after some interviews. His head is down, his dark eyes thoughtful; the stylish suit is nowhere to be seen and he's back in his tatty t-shirt under an old, green army jacket and jeans. But although his mind is elsewhere, he's still clever to pick up on a suspicious rustling in the bushes and he goes watchful - not still, but defensive. And when Isabella leaps out at him, there's a split second where he prepares to actually, seriously fight.

Luckily, he does recognize her in time, and his hands come up to catch her rather than stop her. Over they go into the pile of leaves, his shout startled and loud. He wrestles with her, playful rather than destructive, rolling them both through the pile until it can't really be CALLED a pile, and they're both stuck all over with wet leaves. He drops his head to give her kiss, tasting of coffee and cinnamon, for some reason. "You're what?" he asks, with a laugh. "Why am I being kidnapped by such a fierce and terrible captor?"

Said joggers shake their heads at the passing display, how judgmental, but Isabella doesn't seem to notice them when she's so busy attempting to establish dominance over her quarry. The pile of leaves scatter in their impish struggling, making more of a mess, but when it's finally over and her arms wind around him instead, she's crowned in scarlet and gold, eyes burning emerald, lit by the rush of the fight, no matter how un-serious it actually had been. She subjects him to the full brunt of her blazing grin, mercilessly white behind parted lips. She's dressed in her typical casual wear; fitted jeans tucked into knee-high boots with modest heels, a cashmere top and a reddish-brown leather jacket. Her hair has been looped into that loose arrangement she favors, though it's even more disheveled now.

She's about to say something else, but his lips find hers and she savors the taste of the morning on it, her mouth yielding to his affectionate onslaught, and when he questions her, those eyes look somewhat hazy, fingers luxuriating within the darkness of his hair. "Because I'm not about to let anything else get in the way," she tells him. "Thirty-five thousand words, Alexander. If I tell myself I need to reach forty thousand, or fifty thousand, I'll never see the light of day again. So I'm kidnapping you, and we're running away. I'm tossing you in my Jeep..." Nevermind that he's taller, bigger and heavier than her. "...we're going back to your place, we're stuffing what you need in a bag and we're leaving and coming back tomorrow."

Alexander is accustomed to ignoring the judgmental stares of most of the townsfolk - it isn't that it doesn't hurt, but not enough to stop doing what he's doing. And this time, with his attention on his enthusiastic lover, he barely notices that there are other people at all. He reaches up to tuck a couple of particularly brilliant gold and scarlet leaves into that loose arrangement of hair, and caress her face with his fingers. His hands are more calloused now than they were - the last several days at August's were spent doing as much manual labor as his body could stand, and it shows in the roughness of his hands, and a couple of blisters that have been treated and bandaged, and are well on their way to healing.

"I feel like thirty-five thousand words is worth a celebration," Alexander says, smiling at her. "So I suppose I will be your prize, dragged off into the sunset to entertain you." His eyes twinkle merrily. "I'll have to leave a note for Isolde, though. Luigi and Blue Bell require care." And are being ridiculously clingy, as Isabella would likely know - the cat had to be shut out of the bedroom, or else they never would have gotten any sleep. Or anything else, without having a cat sticking her nose in and offering loud commentary.

She wears them proudly, and in spite of the new roughness and calluses present in his fingers, Isabella doesn't recoil - in fact, the effect is the opposite. Long lashes drift partially shut, as always achingly responsive to the way he touches her, her face turning to press her mouth against the heel of his palm as he tucks in some leaves in her hair. But those brilliant green eyes remain watching him in the corners, her smile against his skin. Another token is deposited against one of his bandages.

"You're definitely my prize," she tells him, lifting her chin - that youthful, defiant angle. "But I don't intend to put you to work too much. As you know, I'm perfectly capable of entertaining myself, but a day out is just much more fun when in the company of someone else." She starts to shift, though this is with no small measure of reluctance, attempting to roll them both over, should he permit it, so she is the one on top, looming over him and leaning forward to press a brief, but hungry kiss on his mouth.

"Now let's go, Mister Clayton. We're burning daylight, and we have a drive ahead of us."

"Oh, but I don't really mind being worked. At least, when it's you putting me through my paces." Alexander doesn't resist being rolled over and returns the hungry kiss with one of his own, his hands skimming down the outline of her body, his eyes going thoughtful and half-lidded in a way that they probably shouldn't, in public. But when she metaphorically cracks the whip, he laughs, and lets her rise before doing likewise. Despite a rough few weeks, and his age, he rises to his feet without any difficulty and even with something approaching grace. "All right, all right. Off we go."

Getting back to his house is easily enough, as is writing the note, making sure the animals have food and water enough for a day, and packing a bag. In this case, an old duffel bag that looks like it's about to fall apart, but hey, at least it's not a garbage bag. Within less than an hour or so, it's loaded into the Jeep, and they are off on the road. "So. Do we have an itinerary, or is this more of an extemporaneous endeavor, Ms. Reede? Shake out the cobwebs from the thesis-brain, and all of that?"

When he tosses his bag into the Jeep, he'd find her own, though it's certainly nicer than his goodwill duffel - a small carry-on bag with wheels attached to it, though it, too, exhibits signs of significant wear and tear. Dust from far away lands still clings to its sturdy weave, and it is covered in patches and stickers. Places she has been to, or places that she wants to see, a few colorful bands in several languages that he can probably read, given his newfound abilities in that regard. There's also a medium-sized gift bag next to it.

Situated in the driver's seat, Isabella pulls the vehicle on drive, and soon, she's pushing down the gas pedal and the Jeep comes roaring to life, peeling away from Elm. It might just be his imagination, but she is either a huge fan of the Fast and Furious movies, or somewhere in her wild and crazy imagination, she's in the middle of a car chase. She burns rubber, she barely stops at Stop signs, and they practically leap into the highway when they finally reach it, burning a path towards Seattle - an hour and a half away.

She doesn't seem to be cognizant of the fact that she's a terror on the road, if she's in a hurry to get somewhere. But her exuberant expression turns towards Alexander for a moment. "I have a loose plan, I did say that if we were going to do this, we're going to do things that you like. I like museums, you like crime history, so there's a few exhibits in the city about just the very thing. There's also some poetry readings, but that's a dime a dozen in the city, and a retro arcade night somewhere downtown where I've not forgotten that I'm determined to duel you. Maybe dinner? Coffee? There's lots of things we can wing in between."

She reaches into the back, and deposits the gift bag on Alexander's lap. "I haven't forgotten the twenty questions thing, too." She winks at him. "My first question, because you cruelly denied me the first time I mentioned it, is what is your most favorite song to sing?"

Alexander studies the case with a fond smile for a moment, marking the stickers representing far away places, the languages that he's never heard spoken but now which speak to him in a way that he's reluctant to even examine too closely. Once he's in the passenger seat, he settles in with his seat belt on, clearly prepared for a leisurely drive.

He is so, so very wrong. When she looks over at him, he's rigid in his seat as yet another car is passed like it's standing still, and the speed limits are just barely a suggestion. "Um," he says, trying to concentrate on what she's saying rather than all the many, many ways they could die horribly before they even reach the city. "That sounds fun. All of it. I will definitely beat you at arcade games." So there. He throws her a smile, but it's a bit nervous.

And then there's a gift bag! It does, at least, distract him from their imminent demise. He peers inside of it. "What...is this?" A sideways glance to her. "My favorite? Um. 'Enter Sandman', by Metallica. I guess. I don't sing a lot, anymore. Although 'Heart-Shaped Box' is alright. There are a few others, if you don't count the hymns, that I know well enough to sing." Yup. Metal and hymns.

It's only when they're out of Gray Harbor that the speed demon in Isabella decides to relinquish its influence, and once the Jeep devolves into a cherry-red streak past the vibrant green sign that tells them that they've left their hometown behind, she eases off the gas pedal. The aura of relief emanating from her is palpable, those vibrant irises lifting to the rearview, watching the city limits marker getting smaller and smaller. "Whew. I know it probably sounds ridiculously paranoid, but I was half expecting the trees to suddenly move and block our path. I was ready to do some freewheeling maneuvers if they dared."

Oh god, please don't.

"But luckily, that didn't happen! Escape velocity achieved." Her good humor and exuberance take over her face once more, practically glowing next to him; the intensity and radiance of a star in the midst of a nuclear reaction. "I love Heart-Shaped Box," she murmurs. "I tend to like the classics - sometimes the older, the better, for me, but it's my favorite Nirvana song." As he peers into the paper bag, and should he take out the object to take a closer look, he'd find that it's something foreign - he might have seen pictures of it before on the Internet, however. It is a wooden receptacle, painted a deep red, with two Eastern dragons etched on the surface in green and gold ink, and several intricate characters lined up in a grid on the other side of it.

"That, Mister Clayton, is a bribe," she says with a laugh, merriment filling her gaze with warmth as she looks at him. "There's a story behind that, in exchange for hearing your serenade."

Alexander's eyes widen perilously at the idea of the trees blocking their escape. Or, let's be honest, maybe at the idea of what Isabella might consider 'freewheeling maneuvers'. "You are an adventurer," he tells, her dry and amused - and maybe still a little nervous - but he relaxes as they hit the road proper.

Then laughs at her reply. "Oh, my dear. You break my heart to call Nirvana 'the classics'," he teases her, although it does remind him of the difference in their ages. Still, he looks pleased that she likes it. "Well, I can give it a try, I suppose. I don't even have to be bribed," he starts to assure her, but stops as he pulls the object out of the bag. He turns it over in his hands, looking enchanted. "What is it?" A glance to her. "That seems like a trade I could make."

He lets his fingers play over the painted box as his eyes close. His fingers tap and he hums, bringing himself up to speed again on the lyrics and the melody. When he feels confident enough, he clears his throat and sings. He has...a surprisingly good voice, really. And clearly has had a little bit of either training or practice, enough that he doesn't embarrass himself singing acapella. He doesn't look at her as he sings, though, and there's a slight ruddiness to his cheeks, perhaps embarrassment.

His remark about breaking his heart before they even reach their destination causes another peal of laughter to escape, though she keeps her eyes on the road now that she's being more reasonable with her speed. "Listen, you knew what you signed up for when you decided to 'try being difficult together' with a millennial," Isabella banters lightly. "But this is me, crossing my fingers in hopes that isn't a deal breaker." She winks at him from along her shoulder.

The thing in his hand is less a box and more a cylinder, though it is made of wood and speaks of a certain age - there are cracks in the paint here and there, indicative of either Time, Travel or both. But should he work the top off, he would find an array of flat wooden sticks within it, and more characters etched painstakingly in black ink across the white surfaces of each. They speak to him, too, should he try to read one, a whisper of a land and culture far, far, far away from where they're situated, or closer than they know should they decide to cross oceans instead of continents - the benefit of living in coastal environs.

She doesn't explain her bribe just yet, however, stopping at a red light and listening to him sing. Something awed and content slips over her expressive face listening to him, and he is good. His low, husky baritone fills the covered confines of her Jeep, and she is unable to resist the temptation - of pulling over by the curb, under a thicket of pine trees and putting the vehicle on park to listen to him, to watch him as he does it, and the color that suffuses his tan when he does. Her lips move, too, to form the words silently with him.

She eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak
I've been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks
I've been drawn into your magnetar pit trap
I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black...

Whenever he finishes, she is still staring at him before she slowly sinks back against her seat, her heart hammering hard and fast against her ribcage. Fingers crawl upwards unconsciously, to press against where it beats, nearly lightheaded by the experience of it. It leaves her moonstone pendant tangling into the front of her shirt. She says nothing for a long, long moment.

Until her whisper leaves her, accompanied by a low laugh. "You're so unfair."

"I will try to forgive the fact that you were born too late to get the proper early exposure to the best music," Alexander claims, with a grin.

His hands, busy at always, slip and slide over the box even as he sings, and by the time the song is over, he's worked off the lid, and already begun exploring the contents with light and careful touches. He wraps the song up, not looking at her until she makes that whisper and laugh. Only then do his eyes slip in that direction, and he looks both sheepish and pleased all at once. "I guess that's one part of me that's gotten better with age," he admits. "I was not very good as a teenager."

A pause. "Actually, I was awful. But that came out okay." He pulls out one of the sticks from the box, studying it to distract himself from the expression on her face. "What is this? It's...fascinating."

"Mmm." Isabella closes her eyes, to remember and let his voice linger, to store it somewhere within the labyrinthine galleries of her long memories. There's another laugh, and a breath taken before she shifts on her seat to look at him as he plays with the wooden sticks in his fingers.

"Fortune telling sticks," she tells him. "One of my first forays out of the Western Hemisphere was a trip to Hong Kong for a conference with my mentor, Doctor Langston. My first journey to the Far East, so you could say that I was nervous. I wanted to explore, I knew I was going to try to get myself lost when I arrived, the better to soak in a different place, and I didn't speak a lick of Cantonese. But despite the British turnover to the Chinese in the late nineties, the bilingual signs were still there. It's very easy to get around the city. And being there was..." Her expression shifts, dreamy and faraway. "It was an incredible experience."

She reaches over to tap her finger against the cylinder. "There's a famous night market in Kowloon, attached to its major temple and there I was, this stupid gwai lo, paying for everything I wanted full price when..." And she flashes him a sheepish grin. "...it's custom to haggle down the prices of everything. An expat finally clued me in on what I should be doing and my first attempt at haggling netted me this I-Ching set. Traditionally, you keep the sticks in the cylinder, and you keep shaking and shaking it parallel to the table until one of them falls out, and you read your fortune. But the reason why I thought of you when I came across this again in my family home is because of the way the I-Ching reader told his fortunes to the crowd."

Her expression brightens. "He had his bird do it. This cute, tiny colorful thing, just hopping over the sticks and picking one out. Apparently it's a popular thing to do back East, to train birds as oracles."

Alexander listens to Isabella's story, turning in the seat so he can study her. It's more than just the words he's watching - he's taking in the way her face changes as she reaches for those memories, the warmth of her voice, the little flickers of memory and nostalgia. There's a hunger on his face, soaking it in with more than just a lover's intensity. He glances down at the cylinder when she identifies it. As she goes on, a smile blooms and grows wide on his face. "That...will be amazing. I'll teach Luigi, and then we can tell your fortune, perhaps." A playful look up at her. "But I suppose I'll have to learn what all the symbols mean. I recognize that they're characters, and the basic idea of them is...in my head? But I know there's more symbolism and meaning to them than that," he murmurs. He examines each one carefully, although he doesn't use his abilities to read them.

"This is...beautiful, Isabella. And amazing. And not at all a fair trade for a song."

His appreciation gentles her expression - all of it, not just for the object and this piece of her history attached to it, but whatever else he detects from her features. "My mother..." Isabella pauses - it's brief, but she continues on with a smile. "She used to tell me that a gift should be two things - given freely, and reflective of something of the recipient and the person giving it. Between the two of us, you're the one more well-versed in occultism, and I'm the traveler. But yes, please do." She laughs again. "Once you've learned what the symbols mean and Luigi's gotten accustomed to his new role in your household, I'll gladly be your first audience for his newfound oracular talents."

Though when he tells her that it's not a fair trade, she waves a hand, and reaches for the gear shift again. "It was really cheap," she tells him. "It's not exactly a valuable object to begin with, and I haggled it down even further. But I thought..." She hesitates. "You'd find more meaning in how I came across it, and the reasons why I thought of giving it to you."

"Yes. Those are the best sorts of gifts," Alexander says, softly. "Your mother was a wise woman." He offers her a smile, warm and sad at the same time, even as he places the stick in the cylinder and replaces the top. "It's beautiful and amazing, and worth more than I can easily explain, Isabella. Meaning, yes. And every time I touch it, I'll think of you. So," his voice lilts playful, "surely all the fortunes will be good ones." His eyes gleam with a new mischief. "I wonder if I could teach Blue Bell to do it, as well? She might enjoy being an oracular princess, rather than just the usual kind."

He continues to turn the container around in his hands as she reaches for the gear shift. "Thank you, Isabella. I mean it. Not just for the gift, but for...sharing. Part of your life with me. I love hearing about it. You." A wave of a hand. "You know."

"She was."

The gear shift pulled on drive, they get on the road again, Isabella's eyes on the highway while he continues to speak. She tends to think in webs, multitasks like nobody's business, so it probably isn't surprising that she's able to seem attentive to Alexander's opinions on the matter while ensuring that they don't die in a fiery car accident before they even reach Seattle. "Well, if all the fortunes are guaranteed to be good ones, I'll be set for life. I wonder if there's a stick that says that I'll manage to finish my thesis before the year is over." No such thing exists in the history of I-Ching. She knows it, but she jests about it anyway, her mirth returning.

Blue Bell learning how to tell fortunes, though. She pictures it in her head, and her joy palpably intensifies - not just because she's having a good time already, but because she has managed to become a recipient of other things that she's never known about him before. "That would be incredible, and adorable. You know, if you film these attempts and upload them on Youtube, she'll probably turn into the next Internet pet sensation. There's an opening, you know, after the death of the famous Grumpy Cat. Tell her that it's time to seize her moment!"

They continue onward to Seattle. "I love hearing about your life outside of all the strangeness, too," she confesses. "I know that it can't help but be intrinsically linked to it, but I think I told you before when we first just started to get to know one another that I didn't believe that was all you are. You're..." That dreamy cast returns to her smile, downright embarrassing to witness, perhaps, in its intense adoration. "...an incredible singer on top of it. You know how to train birds, you're possibly about to train a cat. You grow things, and you've had your own youthful follies - I mean, running away to join a rock band? I can't wait to get to the stories about your first kiss, or your first time...." Punctuated by a waggle of her brows. "Or whether you wanted to be an astronaut or a podiatrist or whatever when you were a child..."

There's a moment where Alexander considers the possibilities of Blue Bell: Viral Kitty Fortuneteller. His laugh is low and deep. "I'm not sure we could live with her if she was a success. She is already the prettiest princess. Make her an internet start on top of it, and she might require her own house." Still, the idea has a certain appeal, clearly. "I'll think about it."

His expression slants towards the sheepish, the reluctant, when she expresses interest in his life. The mundane details, the trials and travails. "I'm not really that interesting, Isabella," he says, with an uneasy sort of chuckle. "And there aren't a lot of," a long pause, "there aren't a lot of fun stories. There are a few, though. But your life is more interesting." And he believes that with every fiber of his being. Still, he reaches out for her non-driving hand when she's not using it for the gears, and brings it to his lips, kissing the knuckles. "But. If you want to know. Then I'll tell you. We'll exchange stories." A pause. "I wanted to be a rock start superhero when I was kid. Sort of like Jem? Except that I'd look like KISS and have a bitchin' soundtrack."

The sound of his laugh relaxes her further, and he'd feel it there, those waves of unfettered enjoyment in hearing it. There are many ways in which she contrasts sharply with him, and her constant enslavement by the wonders of the physical world is one of them, taking every opportunity to live outside of her perpetually busy mind whenever presented. "Well, that can't be right," Isabella says, forever confident in spite of the sound of that uneasy chuckle. "You're one of the most unique people I've ever come across. I find you interesting." And she means that also, conviction and determination playing over her contralto.

There's no resistance when he takes her hand, the pressure of her fingertips light. She's warm to the touch, galvanized by all of this, her skin impossibly soft compared to the recent toils that mark his own. "And I do, want to know. I don't expect them all to be fun stories, really...but..if I only concentrated on the brighter parts of you, the things the other townsfolk think are normal, I wouldn't really know you. I mean, I know about the night terrors since you were five, the other instances of psychiatric holds...

She falls quiet, and her captured fingers curl around his, though her silence doesn't last. "I'm not scared, Alexander. Not of you, anyway." The way he makes her feel is another story, but she isn't ready to admit that.

His childhood aspirations do have her laughing again. "So instead of...using a hologram earring, what would you use?" she teases. "A nose ring? Tongue piercing? And Jem did have a bitchin' soundtrack, by the way, how dare you."

As they continue, Alexander either becomes used to Isabella's enthusiastic driving, or his nerves just give up and die. Either way, he relaxes more into the Jeep's seat, and his gaze rests on her more often than on terrified contemplation of the roads. "You're biased, Ms. Reede," he tells her, light and teasing.

Even after the kiss, he stays in contact with her, squeezing her hand lightly until she needs it for driving, and only then retreating. The I-Ching set is placed carefully back in the bag, and the bag put back with the rest of the luggage where it will stay safe. "Isabella..." he stops. Visibly decides not to address the issue of whether she should be afraid of him, or not, and just smiles. After a moment, he says, "You're brave beyond measure, and I find it intensely sexy."

Then, as they move on to his aspirations, he laughs. "I don't think I even figured that out. I do remember I wanted a magical electric guitar that I could use to fight aliens and dark shadows, and blast away baddies with the power of ROCK!" When he gets to that last, he raises his fist and throws up some horns. Then waves in playful dismissal. "They were okay. I guess. But needed less synth and more rock."

At the very least, the moment they're out of Gray Harbor, Isabella's driving is much more normal and safe. She just really needed to blow the hell out of town, with her quarry, as fast and as directly as possible. The squeeze on her hand is returned by her own, and she leaves it there, unless she can't. Usually in turns, when she needs both hands to spin the wheel.

"Reckless, you mean," she corrects with a laugh. "Way too willing to dive headfirst into something without fully considering the consequences. But I think...if I stopped and contemplated every path, every option, I'd never get anything done. It's a too-easy trap, for me. Thinking too much, though..." And sheepishness colors her features. "...I can overcompensate on that end, also." She's confident in this, too. Enumerating her flaws to him, though she wouldn't be so open to anyone else in those - caveat emptor, and all.

"I do like rock," she tells him, though his horns has her grinning broadly, that evasive dimple manifesting on her left cheek. "I'm less of a metal girl in the end, but I love old Aerosmith, Rolling Stones, Guns and Roses and AC/DC, so I'm all for it, if you decide to quit this investigator gig and tell everyone else to 'LISTEN TO MY SONG!' as you shred said magical guitar and blast away the monster of the week. Deck you out in jeans, steel-toed boots, some leather motorcycle gloves, a matching jacket." She winks. "It'd be pretty hot."

Her hand extends, away from the steering wheel, to draw her index over his knuckles in absent patterns. "So what about college?" she wonders. "I mean, I know, the sex cult, which I've yet to really ask about, by the way. But I don't even know where, or what brought you there."

Alexander smiles. "I know. I sort of love that about you, though," he says, after a moment. "That you throw your whole heart into things, even if you might end up hurt in the end, or might not turn out the way you hoped. Maybe," he draws out the first syllable of that, "I might wish for a little more contemplation sometimes, occasionally, but you do make things terribly exciting."

"And those are all fun. I'm not a huge Stones fan - I realize that's blasphemy, but I guess I'm a heathen." He gives a careless sort of shrug. "And that would be a nice look. Maybe if I was twenty years younger, anyway. At my age, it just looks sorta sad." See, he's aware! Even if he doesn't dress to reflect that awareness. There's another of those warm smiles at the touch on his hand. "College? Getting the fuck out of Gray Harbor, mostly. I tried running away twice - another cult, then the rock band, both when I was seventeen." A pause. "Neither really worked out. When I got dragged back home after the band, I realized that the only way I was getting out was by using what I was good at." He reaches up and tapped his head. "I caught up on my work, took the SATs and ACTs, wrote some tear-jerking letters to colleges about my struggles with mental health, and got accepted to the University of Oregon, although only the Eugene branch campus." He shrugs. "It was away. That was enough. And being out of Gray Harbor was the best possible thing for me. I met people who didn't know me as 'Crazy Clayton', my abilities were weaker, there were fewer nightmares and I didn't get lost. And I got to study things I enjoyed and have lots of sex."

Her whole heart.

Isabella's smile takes a more melancholy bent at that, though she has the excuse of keeping her eyes on the road as she follows it to Seattle. "....after I lost Sid the way I did," she begins, though her voice is soft and tentative there. "I was never really close to anyone else outside of my father, and my mother...our relationship wasn't really the same after he vanished. I somehow got it in my head that there wouldn't be anyone else who'd accept it, not in the way he did, so I figured, there was no harm in throwing what was left of it into everything else that I wanted to do. I think..." Her brows scrunch together in thought. "...it helps. To do that whenever I can."

And then he mentions he's not a Stones fan and she gasps; her lips form an 'O' and her eyes grow wide, visible from her profile. "Blasphemer!" she cries. "Ohhhh, Mister Clayton, you really are lucky you're incredibly brilliant and devastatingly attractive."

He summarizes his twenties succinctly, and he'd find her focus sharpening there, attentive even as she negotiates the incoming traffic to Seattle - it's the weekday, after all, and early in the morning, a time in which people who work in the big city are winding their way through the roads. There are other cars, but she's able to do this and somehow manage to give the impression that she is listening to every word and inflection he uses to communicate these fragments of his life to her. But when he finishes, he'd sense the question in the air - if getting out had been the best possible thing for him, why did he come back?

But something alerts her to the fact that it might be connected to the things he has yet to tell her, those unnamed fears that seem to drive him. It could be intuition, it could be because she knows him, or how she spends every moment with him watching him, looking at him, sinking wholeheartedly into the experience of him that she can sense that now is not the time to ask. "Do you keep in touch with anyone else in your college days?" she wonders. "What was your favorite subject the entire time you were in University?"

If Isabella is fascinated by the scraps of his life, that fascination is returned in full when she speaks of hers, especially of her relationship with her family. He listens with an almost creepy focus for what she says, his eyes locked to her face, studying every little turn of emotion there. "Everyone has to find a way to cope with loss," he says, after a moment. He wants to ask questions, but just as she hesitates with the force of that conversation (Conversation) hanging over them, so does he. So the silence turns a bit awkward with all the things he wants to say, but doesn't.

He clears his throat, suddenly eager to move on when she finds out his deepest, darkest secret. "I just don't like them! I'm sorry!" He laughs, and throws his hands up in surrender, although the compliments make him duck his head and grin. The question she does ask is easily answered. First, "No. Aside from Isolde, I haven't talked to anyone from college since I left. They weren't really friends, aside from Isolde, just people I hung out with. And, um, my favorite class was probably one I took on document analysis. It was very detail-oriented and consuming. I enjoyed it, especially since we focused on lesser known historical artifacts - journals of ordinary people, local papers, meeting minutes for local organizations."

"If you were anyone else other than Hugh Jackman, that would be unforgivable!" Isabella exclaims as he laughs, just as eager to move on, if not just because she refuses to have any sort of pall hang over them while they're taking a day-long trip together. "I hope you know that you're treading a very dangerous line. But I suppose that's alright." She sneaks a mischievous glance sidelong at him. "When we were teenagers, Byron liked Coldplay, and honestly, that's even more severe of a musical felony."

She falls quiet again, though when she hears that he likes document analysis, she grins. "Speaking my language," she teases him. "That's not all that different from most of what Archaeology is, you know. Examining how people lived, what they left behind to give us the clues as to how. Except...well, sometimes said journals are in stone tablets than in actual documents. Though I don't know if you'll be appalled or fascinated to know that the 'dick pic' phenomenon has been going on for centuries and not just in the era of smartphones. So many penises, Alexander. I had to look at so many. Oh my god."

Green eyes turn back to him. "Might be appropriate that we're going to museums today. What was the most interesting artifact you ever had to examine?"

"Ms. Reede, you are unexpectedly judgy about other people's musical tastes," Alexander says, with a laugh. "I suppose I pity Thorne, just a little, for having his musical taste mocked when at such a vulnerable age." He clucks his tongue playfully.

He winks at her, then switches to Ancient Greek to say, "One of the many things I adore about you is that I do, in fact, speak some of the same languages as you." He laughs, then, and shifts back to English. "And archaeology is, in its way, a lot like investigation. More of the subjects are alive than in your area, but it's the same - examining the artifacts and stories of those who are left behind, in order to develop an understanding of what transpired and why." Then he barks laughter. "There are fewer penises, though. Well. Fewer images of penises. Penises actually tend to figure heavily in a lot of criminal investigations, one way or the other."

Her question has him leaning his dark head back on the seat, closing his eyes for a moment to think. "Um. Historical? Not counting the copy of the photo of the witch trial, which you've seen - I'd have to say it was the diary of a failed settler. She had been a seamstress in Boston, but she and her husband decided to take advantage of the land grants. She was an avid journaler, and kept a good account of their journey across the country - not just events or feelings, but details about wagon maintenance, supplies, commentary on fashion trends of the towns they passed through. She had a bright and curious mind." A pause. "They received their land grant in Oregon, and settled in, but the world was not kind. Over the next three years, she lost her child, her husband, the land, and eventually her life. She kept journaling until almost her last day, though. Afterwards, apparently all her journals were found and donated to the university archives some time later." His smile is wistful. "I would have liked to have met her, Isabella. I think she would have had a very interesting mind."

"In that case, he definitely deserves it. He was going to make me dance to the entire debut album if we ended up going to prom together," Isabella tells him with a grin. "And I can be that too, you know! Judgy." There, again, is that hint of sheepishness, simply unable to hide it - she may not be good with words, but does she really need it when her expressions tended to mirror what was inside of her head, anyway?

His enunciation of Ancient Greek makes her feign a swoon; her free-hand presses against her heart and she tilts her head sideways. "Ugh," she groans, emphatically. "You and your capable tongue." There's a very long pause after the words, sinking in gradually - enough to make her freeze for just a moment in realization as to what she just said, but relaxes visibly when she decides, in that split-second, to just lean into it. That smile, the feline, lidded, heated look she gets, this one expression that belongs to him at the exclusion of all others, manifests on her features, though she doesn't cast it his way directly. She has to pay attention to the road.

"You're going to have to eludicate me as to how that works," she tells him, on the subject of phalluses and their correlation with criminal investigations. "Or do you mean crimes of passion?"

Journals. Her interest intensifies at the details spun about a woman long dead, able to let her imagination run wild - of images toned in grays and sepia, the wild landscape of the western frontier. With the end of the account punctuated with an air of his thoughtful wistfulness, she's unable to help it but smile. "I suppose it's easier to pour one's feelings and emotions on paper than communicating them in real life. Sometimes it's the best confidant - it is always there, to listen without speaking, and hold your secrets until it's time to discover them. I wish you could. Meet her, I mean." After a moment's consideration, she makes a face. "I'd say we know very well that on some parts of the world, the prospect is more possible than anywhere, but the places we know of tend to twist those designs. At least this way, the integrity of her identity remains intact." Her lips curve upwards again, angling it his way. "I think most who don't know you well would think that you're not a big fan of people, but you're an investigator by trade. I think it's exactly the opposite. I love that about you, though...no matter how long gone someone is, you can't help but be interested, and wonder. You don't just think about death, but you think about life, too - and the hows and whys and whats of it."

~ * ~

THE MUSEUM

Their first stop, once they reach the city and find a place to park, is, unsurprisingly, a museum.

The Museum of History and Industry remains one of Seattle's most major institutions, as far as such subjects are concerned. It is a sprawling, white complex of varied collections and all connected with the history of not just the city, but the region itself, from the impact of Native American groups in its earliest years to the current age. It is a place that, ultimately, speaks of both his interest and hers - his due to a traveling, limited-time exhibit about the history of crime in the Western United States, and hers because it has a permanent exhibit on the maritime traditions that have directly impacted the State of Washington, celebrating its long relationship with the Pacific. There is minimal traffic considering both the time and the day, though it isn't to say that it isn't significant, especially to two people who come from a small and sleepy town. Still, it is sparsely populated compared to the rest of the week, perhaps why Isabella had chosen to go today.

"So they never managed to identify this person?"

The archaeologist's curious green-and-gold eyes are tilted down on the display case that houses accurate reproductions of the letters sent by the notorious Zodiac Killer, active at some point in Northern California during the 60's and 70's, to members of the press, taking in the rows of strange symbols that line the pages. She only has passing familiarity with the case's notoriety, and while there hadn't been much fascination with the methodologies as to how the faceless murderer had taken his victims on her part, she can't help it in this. She turns her attention to him from where she stands, gesturing to the sheet she has been trying to decrypt on her own (an impossibility, in the end, considering she's in no way an able mathematician to start). "Did they ever figure out what these say?"

"Make? I don't think that even Byron Thorne can make you do anything you don't want to do," Alexander teases, lightly. "Maybe there's a secret yearning in your heart for the dulcet strands of Viva La Vida after all?" There's a moment when he pauses after her next remark, staring at her for a long moment. "I'm glad you think so," he purrs in response to her smile and feline look - not making it easier on her to keep her attention on the road, perhaps.

"The latter, mostly. A lot of murder, particularly, is bound up in sexual or romantic conflict. But other crimes as well - a lot of theft is about having enough to impress someone, or tear down a rival. Sex is bound tightly to our passions, and passion is often at the root of crime." A light shrug. "And...I like people. I've always liked people. I try to understand them. I don't always know what to do with that understanding, but. I do try." He looks sad for a moment, but watching her, the shadow soon passes, and he settles in for the long trip.

~*~

While he may like people, Alexander doesn't particularly like crowds, so the scarce population is appreciated. He sticks close to Isabella, settling a hand at the small of her back when he can, his thumb lightly stroking her skin through the cloth as they wander. Although the crime exhibit is, of course, one of the things that brings utter delight to his features, he shows a lively interest in all the exhibits, acquiring new knowledge with a barely concealed hunger. When they reach the Zodiac section, he pores over the information presented with the shining eyes of a kid who's been turned loose in a candy story. "Only one. And even that one has some parts that remain untranslated." He purses his lips. "Honestly? It wasn't a very interesting message, aside from the encryption." He looks at the sheet, and offers her a sneaky grin. "You know, standing here right before this - it's tempting to try and read it, see if I can find the identity of the killer." He laughs. "But it wouldn't work. By now, that paper has been drowned in emotional residue. The chance of actually hitting on the original creator is low. But it's a fun idea."

When his hand finds the small of her back, Isabella looks up from her inquisitive perusal of the letters on display, though what she manages to find on his features gives her pause - the brightness of it and the passion he exudes for his area of expertise. Many would think it's morbid, and as intensely creepy as most of Gray Harbor's townfolk would say. But she has never shied away from information, no matter how ugly it is, and while she would be lying in that his attachment to the macabre and the darker side of human nature doesn't discomfit her a little, much of that is blunted by the knowledge of how he uses the information, and his overall awareness helps protect him out there, and think through possible angles.

She loves her work, is intensely hungry for its nuances and new findings - she's not about to begrudge someone of the same. And he looks so happy that for a few seconds, he'd find it on her face; unbridled (intense, terrifying) adoration at how brightly he burns while in the throes of discovery.

"That was largely why I'm interested," she says with a laugh, unable to help herself - she turns her head to press her lips against the hard curve of his shoulder while he lingers close to her. "The encryption. If I remember correctly, Julius Caesar was the first person ever documented using the cryptographic shifting scheme, though I think some other substitution ciphers came out earlier - but he was the first who did it in the way he did to protect his military correspondences."

That boyish, sneaky grin elicits a laugh, unfettered and bright, though she looks up and around, wincing before she lowers her voice. "If I wasn't what I was, we could get up to some mischief. I can unlock the case and you can put your fingers in it." But she doesn't like to use, and she's intensely serious about the careful handling of artifacts - unless she's running away with one, anyway. Her face tilts up further, her mouth tracing the ridge of his left cheekbone. "Does that help? Reading something in an investigation, or does it confuse matters more than clarifies them?"

"The Zodiac Killer was no Julius Caesar," Alexander says, a bit dryly. "Honestly? I suspect the other cyphers are nonsense. The reason he remains unidentified isn't because he was a mad genius, or even egregious incompetence on the parts of law enforcement. His killings were largely random, utilizing common methodologies, and - much like our buried friend - he didn't have an overarching drive, except the drive to kill. It's a difficult case to investigate, especially with the media involvement and the limitations of forensic technology at the time. I understand they are hoping to revive the investigation by getting DNA from old stamps sent to the papers." He smiles at the kiss, and returns it, turning so he can brush his lips across her forehead. "Caesar was a clever man. This guy was just random. But, I'm curious - do any of his old cyphers remain? Can you see his encrypted messages, or were they all destroyed?"

At her suggestion, he laughs low. "I wouldn't dream of damaging it, or your reputation. But it's nice to know you'd be my partner in crime if it were necessary," he teases, keeping his voice low with her. "Hmm? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. For both of those things. For just knowing, it's pretty useful. But for being able to prove something? It can sometime actively stand in the way. It's frustrating to know a thing but not be able to create an evidence chain. So I try not to rely on it more than I have to. It would be as if you read your artifacts, and discovered some new, fascinating aspect of life - but could never publish on it, because you can't provide any sort of documentation that it existed like that."

"I can't help but remember what we talked about before about motive and the human element," Isabella ventures, her tone thoughtful and somewhat absent, a slight frown touching her lips when he brings up Billy Gohl's decidedly lack of one, though she's brought back to the present easily at the warmth of his mouth touching her forehead. There's a sideways step taken, the band of her arm curling around his back just under his arm. "Did you ever come across a case before like...this one? What we left behind? Where there's no reason or rationality behind the purpose?" She can't help but ask, she knows very little about the world he occupies, and much like what August has to endure occasionally with respect to agriculture and botany, she fires off these questions, ever indulgent in whatever curiosities ensnare her.

"He only had the one cipher - the creation of it was attributed to him, but that's largely because of Suetonius' writings, he was the first who mentioned that Caesar encrypted his messages, though some documents do surprisingly still exist." They must, otherwise her fellow historians would have never known how the method even worked. "A few missives to his commanders during his conquest of the Gaul, though I have it on good authority that by the ninth century, there were already methods devised to break it thanks to treatises on frequency analysis written by Al-Kindi. You know, how you can pinpoint repeating symbols and determine that it could be the most commonly used letter in whatever language you suspect the underlying message is written in? That guy. Not..." And there's amusement there. "...that you would ever need it when all you have to do is touch it and mine some part of a code's secrets." There's clearly envy there; what she could discover, if not just for her own edification, if she could touch an object and see its past.

The frustrations he outlines is understandable, also. "See, this is where the age difference helps," she teases him in return, bright eyes tilting up at him as her head leans back against his nearest shoulder. "You're tempered by experience, you tell me things that my hot and reckless head should be considering when I'm presented by something new and fascinating. Not gonna lie, though. Now I really want to take you to England with me at some point. I can take you to Whitechapel, see how you would react. Or would that be too much? It was the most notorious criminal rookery in London during the Victorian era, and not just because of Jack the Ripper."

"Oh yes," Alexander says, softly. "It's rarer than most people think after a lifetime diet of horror movies; most people do need a reason to kill, even if it's just a moment of blind rage. But there are always some people for whom the killing is the whole of the point. They're usually either caught immediately, because they don't tend to be people who blend in well in other aspects of their lives - or they're not caught for a very long time, if ever, because the nature of their crimes defy prediction or understanding." He gives her a slanted smile. "They pose an interesting challenge."

The information about the cipher is listened to with interest, even drawing his eyes away from all the lovely crime artifacts around him. "Can you imagine the early conversations trying to pitch that option to his people? Explaining everything, and why it was necessary? I wonder how many skeptics he ran into." Then he shakes his head. "It's not that easy. If there's not a strong emotion attached to it, I don't get much. Or anything, sometimes. I'd never put my talents above reason and research if I were trying to break a code."

Then a laugh. "'Tempered', huh? As long as it's not 'weathered'. Or 'ripened' or something." He grows thoughtful. "I suspect London, itself, would be--somewhat overwhelming. I'd almost be afraid to try and read anything there, considering how far back those bones go. But, I'd love to see Whitechapel. And visit the site of some of the old temperance houses and Chartist gathering halls. If we were going to do a Victorian tour." He flashes a grin at her. "Where would you go, in London? Assuming anywhere."

"You should watch Mindhunter on Netflix, then, unless you managed to watch all of it during your convalescence in August's cabin. Though..." Isabella tilts her head and examines his profile, a slow smile curling on the corners of her mouth. "...I think, if I had to predict you based on what I know of you so far, you'd rather read the books it was based on, or the non-fiction accounts that led to the development of the FBI's behavioral analysis unit."

His observations about Caesar draw both appreciation and amusement on that expressive face, laughing - though she remembers that she ought to keep her voice low. "If he was pitching it to the Senate, maybe, but his military officers were devoted, loyal and with them, I doubt he had to do much explaining. His sway over his legionnaires was very much like your namesake's draw with his warriors when he proposed an eastern expansion." Searching his face, her voice softens, her earlier mirth winding away from it and reflecting approval instead. "I'm relieved," she confesses. "Besides, your brain is formidable enough a tool eighty percent of the time, though all of that is interesting to learn, also. People we know can be easily drawn to the fact that you're a powerhouse in that arena, but not many are cognizant of the limitations inherent of that."

Her hand finds his when they talk of London, and she proceeds to start away from the Zodiac exhibit - the last of a long line, moseying towards the end of the hall. "The pub," she tells him unabashedly as she laughs. "So I can afford a proper introduction of you to Doctor Langston and my colleagues in Oxford..." She makes such a face, suddenly. "Probably Maximilian, also, though I'm just as likely to kick him into the Thames right after. But if you're thinking about sights..." And her face, here, brightens considerably. "The Chislehurst Caves, without a doubt. They've been around since the thirteenth century, these manmade tunnels that were once chalk and flint mines in southeast London. There was a paper published about how they were originally built by the Druids, Romans and Saxons, but they've developed a fascinating historical imprint since then - the network was used as an ammunition dump during World War I, and then an air raid shelter during World War II. There are plenty of secret passages, hidden pools, and the underground hospital and chapel..." She sneaks him a glance. "Not all that removed from the supernatural, either, though that's understandable considering the wealth of knowledge we obtained just handling the matter back in Gray Harbor. Plenty of ghost stories associated with it."

She turns her head to look at him. "Would you like to move on? We can stay longer in this wing, if you would like."

"You'd be right," Alexander allows, with a warm smile for her knowledge of his preferences and eccentricities. "Although I've read a couple of them already, over the years. It's a fascinating division - although the actual science on behavioral analysis doesn't really hold up to the mythologizing that it receives in popular media." He shrugs. "But it's a powerful idea."

He stops, and gives her a mock-stern look. "All right. You're flattering me now, and it's stoking the fires of my paranoia. What is it that you want?" He reaches out to try and pull her in for a quick, playful sort of embrace.

He doesn't resist being drawn away, his hand warm and rough in hers as she guides them onward. "You'd...introduce me to your colleagues?" As always, he seems startled at the idea that she might want to bring him into those more professional or even more personal parts of her life. The notion startles him, and he's silent for a bit. "We can move on," he says, at last. "There's plenty more to see." But he's still thinking. And eventually, he says, "Tell me about them? This Doctor Langston and...Maximilian? Sounds like a friend, if you want to kick him into a river."

"How much stock do you place on that?" Isabella wonders with genuine inquisitiveness. "On behavioral analysis, as opposed to hard, scientific forensic evidence? I've meant to talk to Vivian about her views on the matter, but considering..." Her voice trails off, and she sighs. "She wants a house by the beach, where she could keep an office. She barely even looked at Byron in the funeral." After a heartbeat or two, she adds, quietly, "What a mess."

His sideways embrace drives away the shadows on her features, however, and she laughs again, leaning against his side and squeezing him with one arm. Though it isn't long until her fingers link into his. Her expression retains the throes of her earlier laughter, something enthusiastic and girlish about the way she walks ahead of him, if not just to pivot around and walk backwards, tugging playfully at his arm.

"What I want?" she wonders, ever the picture of exaggerated and incredible innocence. "I think I already have what I want. Though if I'm wrong..." Her mischief grows, a palpable and sharp-edged thing. "You ought to correct me soon, and you can get your own ride home!"

His surprise is one for which she makes a face, the words she doesn't say evident and clear: Of course I would. "They'd be interested, especially after I told them in a very dramatic fashion about how you've saved my life, or how I've saved yours. Archaeologists are like that - I think some part of us is disappointed every time an expedition doesn't turn into a Lara Croft or Indiana Jones movie so whenever something exciting does happen, they can't help but be all ears. Not like I could ever tell them in full about Gray Harbor's strangeness. Just enough for them to be curious."

Her head tilts back as they wander towards the Native American exhibits, grinning broadly at him. "Maximilian's been an absolute pill since our first year together. We're in two different branches of archaeology - he's land-based, I'm water-based, but that hasn't stopped us from disagreeing profusely about everything. Thank god we've never had to compete for the same grants, otherwise my designs to drown him in the river might have turned into a reality. He's intelligent, though, and capable. Doctor Langston loves him." Last said with a grump. "On top of the fact that he's further along his doctoral thesis than I am grinds my most competitive gears."

The younger woman's visage gentles considerably, however, when she's reminded of the doctor. "He's our Lincoln Professor of Archaeology in Oxford," she explains. "And he's been everywhere - a career adventurer all his life, and it shows. He looks like leather given human form." There's laughter there. "White hair, gray eyes...whenever he's out of the field, he dresses in khakis, sweater vests and tweed without fail, even during the summer, and he's supported me from almost since I entered. The consult that brought me back home was his, but he sent me because I'm from here. He's an absolute gentleman and he's very British about many things, but..." Her voice grows absent. "He's important to me. I think you'll like him, and I think he'll like you. He's a huge fan of Dante Taylor's writings."

"Some, but not...as much as others might," Alexander admits, with a shrug. "There are certainly statistical trends that seem to hold true, particularly for serial stranger murders - if your victims trend towards women, then you're probably looking at a male subject. If your victims are white, then your subject usually is. Cross gender and within race seems to be a norm. Likewise, some killers do seem to have a ritual element to their murders, chasing some unknown resolution that they can never quite reach, but try to relive by proxy with each murder. By looking at the ritual, you can surmise some of its meaning for them, and through that meaning, develop a sense of who they might be." There's a pause. "But you know statistics - they identify trends, not specifics. And, in some cases, can blind us if we allow assumptions to dominate analysis."

All of that comes out rapidly, despite the shrug, his voice soft but excited. He likes thinking about this sort of stuff. And her mischievous response to his question doesn't dampen it at all. "What, you'd leave me stranded here in the big city? An innocent, small town boy taken advantage of by the world-traveling sophisticate? Ms. Reede, how could you?" His free hand goes to the back of his forehead, and he pretends to swoon as he follows her lead, getting a few weird looks from the other patrons.

The rest is listened to with more seriousness, although he glosses over the idea of their interest in meeting him, focusing instead on her delight and memory of them. "Ah, so Maximilian is your erstwhile rival? We'll have to make sure that you finish your thesis before he does, so you can send him pictures of a very proper celebratory dinner. What is it that you argue about?"

The curiosity only grows as she speaks of her mentor, although this, he doesn't tease her about. "He sounds impressive, and clearly means a lot to you. If the occasion ever offers itself, it would be an honor to meet him." A brief snort at the mention of his fandom. "And what was his reaction to hearing that Mr. Taylor is camped out in Gray Harbor?"

Isabella listens intently to his small dissertation on behavioral analysis, her attention fixed on his profile as they slip past the sparse crowd to head for the Quinault exhibits. "So basically what you're saying is that investigations really should follow a case-by-case analysis from the start as opposed to an absolute reliance on what trends data says about them?"

His dramatic swoon enables a burst of laughter, stepping closer so she could throw her arms around him from the side. It does not help with a few people gawking at them already, because he's liable to half-drag, half-carry her with him as they move, as is typically what happens when two grown adults slightly horse around in a museum. But it's clear that she doesn't care, left brimming with the uncomplicated joy of spending time with someone whose company she enjoys. "I can think of at least five reasons why you're not as innocent as you claim, Mister Clayton," she banters back, though by the heat implied in her eyes, these are reasons that are not fit to be said out loud in public.

His suggestion is met with enthusiasm. "Yes! We should do that. I'll send him a picture of us together in said celebratory dinner, and then maybe he'll stop proposing marriage just to annoy me, on top of having to suffer the agony of defeat after I relentlessly and thoroughly crush him with my academic superiority!" It's all exaggeration, complete with a raised fist, delivered in the most comedic way she can, but he knows her. There's a nugget of truth there. There is no way she absolutely will not put a considerable amount of effort into scholastically annihilating Maximilian no matter where she is in the world. "Most of our arguments are in methods and trends. How to grid out sites, which technologies to use. He thinks what I do is unnecessarily dangerous, though he can't dispute that the finds are incredible once drawn from the water. But in the immortal words of someone, my darling - go big or go home."

His willingness to meet her mentor earns him an absolutely beautiful smile from the woman next to him, though she must realize it later, turning her face away and lifting her free hand to tug at a lock of hair. "He's enthusiastic, of course. Elias Weber is hosting a reading by him at Likely Stories. I was thinking of getting one of his books autographed to send to him. You should come to that with me, we might learn something new."

Alexander gives Isabella a brilliant smile. "Exactly. Not ignorant of statistical trends, certainly, but grounded in context." And he's not at all adverse to some light goofing off, pivoting a little to give her the smallest of spins, careful of the exhibits and other patrons. "Relatively innocent," he corrects himself, and slants a look in her direction to see if she'll call him on that.

Her enthusiasm for tackling the rival brings another low rumble of laughter from him. "Marriage? Really." His eyes twinkle. "Are you sure that his passionate disagreements aren't just the academic equivalent of pulling your pigtails in class? If you break his pining heart, the quality of his work might suffer, you know. And then he wouldn't be as fun to crush. I should think. You seem the sort to demand a worthy opponent." A wink at her.

His attention turns a little towards the exhibits, studying the maps outlining various Indian nations over time. "Hmm. Yes, sure. If you want to go, I'd be happy to accompany you. Mr. Taylor is an interesting fellow."

She squints at him playfully, though she spins along at his guidance and even ends it with a flourished bow. "I think our last night together in your house would beg to differ," Isabella ripostes with a laugh. "Poor Blue Bell. Denied your warmth and companionship."

His winking jests draw a winsome grin from her, her jaw tilting in that stubborn, defiant line. "Absolutely certain about it," she tells him. "There's a woman he's been pining over since our second year in Oxford and she won't give him the time of day also, not in that regard anyway. I think what's insidious about it is that she's very sweet? She's completely oblivious. There was this incident where he thought he finally scored a date, so he booked a table and everything, except that her grandmother was visiting from Ireland at the time, so she decided it was fine to bring her while meeting up with a work colleague. So he had to endure the entire evening being his most well-behaved, non-lothario self while this old Irish lady glared daggers at him from across the table because she knew. Oh, Alexander. I laughed for days."

His agreement brings forth something pleased on her face and aura, and she slowly makes the rounds on the exhibit with him. "I met with Andy Geroux recently about the Kruger case," she tells him. "He has deep ties with the Quinault community. I'm definitely not trying to think about the things we left behind in our hometown, but I can't help but be reminded." She looks up at a display, the colors of full tribal dress mounted on a mannequin behind glass. "I don't know much about them, and Andy's always happy to talk about his background - native customs, the politics. He told me about an island that no one but the Quileute can set foot on, where his father took him as a boy - a place they say is older than the oceans, and how he could feel the age of it." She falls in reflective silence for a second or two, before she continues, "He said he feels much of the same thing in Gray Harbor."

"She's a lovely companion, but I have to admit that when it comes to cuddling in bed, I'm more of a fan of you," Alexander says with no shame whatsoever. Although he does look a bit guilty. "I do feel a bit bad, though. She's been needy as anything since I got back. And Luigi's been bitey, which is his version of the same thing," he admits. "I'll have to spend some quality time with them when I get back."

Then he shakes his head. Now is not the time to fret over his animals, no matter what he might think. He chuckles at the trials of Maximilian. "Poor guy. I suppose just...asking, straight out, is off the table?" A pause. "Or I guess he could ask her grandmother. She sounds fierce and passionate."

He slips his arm around her waist as they stroll through the exhibit. "It's fascinating. I've never had much contact with the tribes - tribal law gets to be its own headache, and they are even less interested in having a creepy white guy poking around their crimes than the police department," he admits. "But I've sort of been wondering about that. The link between Over There and what we see as spiritual spaces. Maybe they're one and the same, in some ways - and it's just the," a frown, "quality of the space that determines whether it's holy or Gray Harbor."

"You're not much of a cuddler," Isabella points out; the truth, but done with obvious good humor, an independent enough creature that she doesn't see that as a rejection, and more as a part of him that he can't help. His restlessness does worry her, though, the general sleeplessness that invades the darkest hours of the day and he'd be able to find it in those green-gold irises. "But I'm happy to steal those minutes whenever you're inclined." She leans against him when they move through the exhibits, anchored by his side, her own arm slipping around him and sliding a digit or two into the belt loop of his jeans, along his opposite hip. She sneaks a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"They must miss you," she remarks, tone steeped in remembered wistfulness. "And it isn't as if I can't relate to that - they were without you for a couple of weeks."

His shared fascination about those mysteries brightens her considerably, though hers takes on a more cultural curve. "Andy said much of the same. I didn't even know every member of the Nation has an equity stake in the casinos established on their lands and under the umbrella of their name and it's apparently led to some tribal groups forcing others out, citing they're not them enough so they could increase the size of each stake for those who remain." Disapproval is evident, on her tone and the rest of her, but as they ease into more mystical topographical connections, the edges of her white teeth clutch at her lower lip. "He talked about that also - Sacred Land. Not in detail, but I heard rumors that the Quinault tend to be relatively secretive when it comes to this region anyway and that's what opened the door to him discussing it. I should introduce the two of you sometime, I think you'll like him - he's going to be my neighbor and he's always willing to discuss his background and roots. He talks a lot. Considers it a failing, but for those with academic inclinations like you and me, I told him it was a blessing."

She tilts further into him to nuzzle absently into his collar, dropping her voice. "I only asked him about Joshua Foster, but while I'm on the subject, I did reach out to my environmental group. The Krugers weren't testifying about environmental concerns. They were going to testify about a disturbance they witnessed during the building phase of the project. I haven't told the detectives yet, but I thought I should tell you before I forget."

"Not much," Alexander agrees, softly. "But when I do, I still prefer to do so with you, Isabella." He slides his hand up her back to stroke the back of her neck for a moment, smiling as she kisses him. Before she slips away, he steals another in turn.

But then? Then she is CRUEL. He's trying so hard to not obsess over the case, not dive into it to the exclusion of all else and enjoy a lovely time away with his girlfriend, and then she has to go out and hand him New Information. All else sort of disappears for him, as he blinks at her with fascination, his interest sharp and immediate. Still, he manages not to demand answers, but clears his throat and says, almost casually, "Oh, that's pretty interesting. Did they say what sort of disturbance?"

"I know," Isabella murmurs, her speakeasy contralto pitched low and tenderly intimate. Her gaze lifts to meet his own, letting the near-perfect black of it swallow her whole. They are away from sunlight, unable to glimpse the interesting tiger's eye transition his own irises make when imbued by light, but she remembers it well. "I'll take everything I can get." Her smile returns, equal parts affection and rue. "I can't get enough of you."

His following kiss steals the rest of the words away, her head bent back against the hand on her neck, the white-gold chain leaving its cold dagger-bite against his fingers. There's a temptation to do more. There always is, if nothing else just to prove the veracity of her earlier statement - but there's a pointed, and sharp, clearing of the throat from the monitoring curator standing nearby and she smothers a chuckle, mischief returning before she starts pulling him away from the exhibit.

Alexander's face, sharpened with focus and interest, has her gaping for a moment at the sudden change, before she's laughing again. "They didn't unfortunately," she says - at the very least, she isn't upset about it. "Just that they saw something while it was being built, but not as to the nature of the disruption. And since I promised you that I'll only deal with information and prevent myself from kicking down doors and whatnot, perhaps you'd like to be the one to pass that on to the detectives?"

Her arm around him squeezes him once. "Come on," she says. "Let's go get coffee."

Alexander barely seems to notice the curator, but when she chuckles, he pulls back to grin down at her, only then noticing the disapproving stare. "Oops," he says, not sounding particularly sorry. He is pulled! He goes willingly. "You have strange tastes," he tells her, solemnly. "But I'm glad of it."

He has the grace to look abashed at her reaction to his interest in any information that can be gained about the local murder. "Still. That's very useful information - it suggests that there's more to the casino that meets the eye. If it was just an OSHA violation or a workplace accident...well, it's a lot cheaper to bribe people than hire a hit man." There's a nod. "I'll pass it on. But," he looks worried, "I don't mean to shut you out, if there's more you want to do, Isabella. I get worried, but I never mean to close you in." He doesn't object to coffee, at least.

He might be right - maybe she does have strange tastes, but there's absolutely no apology on Isabella's face as she turns that effervescence against him, brows lifting upwards towards her hairline. "Is it so bad to want to be attached to someone unique? Though it isn't all...you know. Candy and flowers." She sobers there, reminded of the last few weeks as they emerge from the white building's proper, moving down the steps together and heading further into Seattle's frenetically pulsing center. There are more crowds there, though there is no chance of losing her when he's still got an arm around her, and hers around him.

But the archaeologist maintains the air of not noticing, her eyes forward. "I was worried about everyone but especially you. What you said..." Do I want to live? "You told me to forget it, that maybe with all the stress and the pressure of getting it done and fighting what was in us, you might've just been saying things - but I couldn't." She inclines her head at him, gaze angled up to cross the height difference between them. "A lot of the frustration has its appeal, also. I suppose I could have fallen for someone less difficult but that wouldn't be me, either. It wouldn't have been the first time you..." Scared me. "....aggravated me with something that you did or said but..."

She can't help but laugh, suddenly. "It's not as if we didn't find our foundations in an extremely stressful situation. I mean, we're revisiting our first date three months later. Who does that?!"

She waves a hand at his concerns about the casino case. "I promised you that I would help," she tells him. "The fact that I was even connected this was accidental to start. Plus I'm heartened that more and more detectives are coming to you for assistance. It's entertaining in a way, watching you beat them at their own game." There's a teasing wink at him there.

"It's not bad," Alexander allows with the cautiousness of a man who suddenly feels the treacherous ground of relationship conversations opening up underneath his feet. "And you don't like most candy." A pause. "I don't think I've asked about flowers. Which ones do you like?"

His attempt to divert is ultimately in vain, though, as she stays close and distracts him from the press of people and minds with pointed observations about certain of his behaviors. "I didn't want you to worry about me, Isabella." Although he squirms at the silent reminder of what he said. He's not looking at her, now. Instead, his eyes scan the crowds as if a mugger might suddenly appear out of nowhere. "I...Isabella." A deep breath. "I wasn't sure it would go away. I've always been," a long pause, "unstable. I've told you that. I've hurt people without Gohl being involved. I'm trying to be better. But if I was going to feel like that for the rest of my life...I would have had to do something about it." He doesn't elaborate on what, but well, it's not hard to guess. "But it didn't last. I'm back to whatever my approximation of normal is, so you really, truly don't have to worry about it anymore." With that, Alexander finally turns to look at her, his smile hopeful. "Okay?"

"And, yeah, it was a bit...odd. How we, uh." A shrug. "But it's been a lovely date so far. I think." Of course, now that it's been brought up, there's a hint of anxiety in his eyes. "Are you having fun? Is there something else you'd like to do?" The sudden nervousness even supersedes murder talk; that's how you know it's love.

There's a visible frown at Alexander's very audible tells that he feels like he's about to step on a landmine; from her perspective it's less about their relationship and more about the fact that he sounded as if he was giving up on life in a very real, very permanent way. It gives way to an open grimace, suddenly reminded of the embarrassing voicemail she had left on August Roen's phone - someone who she was just starting to get to know, but who she has had to rely on in those two trying weeks, smarting still from the blow on her pride in having to do it. Remembering how desperate she had been.

But she listens - she doesn't address the other things, not yet. And when he explains himself, she finally turns her face to regard him quietly, seriously. Unstable. That he had hurt people before. Uneasiness creeps up her stomach, but she pushes it down, because she doesn't know the whole story and his reassurances are solid. She gives him the benefit of the doubt, because she can't help it, especially when all of it is punctuated by that hopeful smile.

"...okay," Isabella says, returning his smile with a more tentative one. "I believe you. Know that I'd worry about you anyway, whether you tell me anything, or whether you omit anything. It's just that those words weren't easy to hear, and had I any suspicions that you were serious, I would have been kicking down doors, no matter what you said, or what we understood, or what we agreed. But..." She takes a breath, and meets his eyes squarely. "I'd...I hope you'll continue to see Vivian, in your efforts to get better. Promise me?"

He does remember her ambivalence towards sweet things and that's only when she finally addresses the flowers question; she laughs. "Anyway, you have asked about flowers," she teases. "But that was during my very painful stay in the hospital after the Two If By Sea shooting, and we talked about so many things that I can't blame you for forgetting." Nostalgia and melancholy suffuses the line of her mouth as they walk. "Dandelions," she supplies. "When Sid and I were young, we played on this field close to the forest, and it was just covered with them - they'd puff on certain times in the year, ready to release their seeds. There was this one time...we were waiting for a friend's birthday party to start, and I was reading about book that told me that people believed even in the olden times that you can make wishes on dandelion puffs. So he asked me what I would wish for. And I said..."

She tilts her head back to watch the sky. "I was seven at the time, and greedy, so I told him I wanted it all. All the things. And then he just...." Her expression softens in the memory. "He closed his eyes and made them lift, and said I could make as many as I wanted." She pauses, but not for long before she continues, "They looked like snowflakes, floating upwards."

With a sigh, she turns her face to nuzzle the side of his with the absent press of her lips. "It's odd, but it'd be boring if we did everything the way we should. If we just followed along what everyone says these things should go. We're both unusual. It fits that this....what we have...would be unusual, also. And honestly, I'm thrilled that it is. Is that weird?"

That brilliant smile threatens to blind him from where she's situated. "I'm having a great time. Are you?"

Alexander reaches out, and cups her face in both of his hands. Irritated pedestrians stream by them on both sides, and are ignored. He leans to bring their lips almost in kissing distance, his eyes solemn and dark on hers. "Isabella. If there is one fear you need never have of me, or for me, it's that I'll take my own life." His voice is soft. "It's not in me, no matter how tired or...how I feel." He presses a kiss on her, gently. Then pulls back. The mention of Vivian gets an uneasy little smile. "Maybe I will." But he's clearly got some reservations with it.

Which are then washed away as she catches him in having forgotten her preferred flowers. He winces. "Augh, sorry, Isabella. I'll remember from now on," he promises. "I'll have to get you twice as many, just to prove it." His smile is ready and gentle, listening to the memory. He actually opens his mouth, as if to ask a follow up question - then closes it. Recognizing that it treads close to the subject of another conversation. Instead, he just says, "I wish I could have met him."

He leans into the nuzzle. "If it's weird, I think it's still okay. And yes." He pulls back just so she can see the sincerity in his face. "I am having a wonderful time."

Isabella watches him mutely for several long moments, her sunkissed visage trapped within his hands and brimming with all the words that she is unwilling and incapable of saying, allowing herself the time to look into his dark eyes and remember that for all of his faults, flaws and failings, Alexander Clayton doesn't lie, and she swallows at the knot at the back of her throat. His words, the way he utters them, what his hard, but handsome profile carries puts a sudden, savage cramp somewhere within her ribcage as the rest of the world falls away, leaving him standing in the center of her universe, interspersed with the brutal recollections of all the ways she had almost lost him in the last few weeks. For a while, she is silent, unable to trust herself to speak with any measure of dignity.

"...okay," is what she finally says, her mouth roving against his; it's so tender, so gentle, but nothing about it belies the underlying intensity of her kiss when she knows he could feel it, the things she doesn't say roiling underneath the surface like something volatile and alive, her arms twisting around his neck and her fingers finding his dark curls. "I believe you. I believe you." A reiteration, in the end, but her pitch and inflection are markedly different from the first time she said it. Three times, like a promise. Like a spell.

When they break away and start moving again, her smile returns. "I wish you could have, also," she tells him, and if he permits it, she'll draw one lean, whipcord arm across her shoulders, her arm winding loosely around his hips.

"And I'm glad that you are." Eyes twinkle as she looks up at him, her good humor resurrected. "Now let's go get that coffee. And who knows, maybe we'll hear some mind-blowing poetry this afternoon."

~ * ~

POETRY READING, ARTISANAL COFFEEHOUSE

"My twisted soul can no longer fly," drones a much younger man dressed in casual clothes, clutching the microphone stand with his fingers and doing his best to put some expression on his pale face; whatever soulful effect he is going for leaves him looking constipated instead.

"Darkness rips at my blinding eyes."

Somewhere at the back, coffee in hand, Isabella's expression flattens. What does that even mean?!!

"...or maybe not." Looking over at Alexander, that evocative face begging him for a quick and sudden escape, she offers. "At least the coffee is good?"

Alexander never minds touching Isabella, so the arm is gladly settled on her shoulder and he pulls her close. "That sounds lovely. You have wonderful date ideas, Isabella."

~*~

He is clearly rethinking these words, now. He's sitting slumped next to Isabella, his eyes open, expression blank. When this all first started, he was terribly enthusiastic. Hearing Real Live Poets! In the flesh! But adolescent angst, hackneyed imagery, and melodrama have left him just...staring. "My god," he mutters, sounding impressed at just how bad that it is. He takes a sip of the coffee, gives her a sidelong look. "The coffee is good. And they are very," he searches for a word, "earnest."

He lowers his voice a little more. "Shall we run away? There's no dishonor in retreat."

"This must be a record," Isabella whispers to her companion as the current poet continues to present his literary disaster to a polite and attentive crowd. "I've never seen life drain out of a man's body that quickly." She means him. His body, and her exasperation fades for a second in favor of teasing him.

But when Alexander suggests a retreat, she is up from her seat in a flash, gathering her things. "Yes. Yes. Definitely. I refuse to perish here, Mister Clayton." Her hand finds his, and once he's joined her and gripped it, she leads the way for a hasty exit.

And really, he's never seen her move so fast.

~ * ~

GAMEWORKS SEATTLE

With an afternoon listening to poetry completely dashed, there's nothing for it but to find one of the city's busiest gaming centers and lose themselves for a few hours in rediscovering some part of their childhoods, albeit by his own admission, Alexander had never really left it, and it's been a while since Isabella has touched a console. The arcade they step into is one of the city's most well-known establishments for the very thing, its offerings ranging from the modern to the classic. If his companion is in any way hesitant about entering a realm that she has not visited in over a decade, there's no indication of that on her features. In fact, her expression lights up when she finds a Dance Dance Revolution machine - as always a crowd pleaser, especially when someone talented is on the pad.

"I'm terrible at it, but I love to watch," she confesses to Alexander with a laugh. "But I believe you and I have a wager to settle. Where's that Street Fighter II machine?!"

And there she is, unwinding her arm from around him and taking several trotting steps, her girlish enthusiasm putting a spring to her step, as if fueled by the ding-ding-ding of a variety of pinball machines set off by their players, all the bright lights and the 8-bit sounds emanating here and there from various corners of the room. She even stops by an old vintage claw machine, and she laughs. "I haven't seen one of these in ages, they're such traps!"

"I mean, the next one could be better," Alexander suggests...but he doesn't protest as he's dragged out into the city again.

~*~

The Gameworks renders him silent. Not quite awestruck, but closer than one might imagine. Alexander's been to Seattle before, but always with a specific task to accomplish, and he's never felt comfortable enough in the bustle to do much exploring on his own, much less lose himself in a massive arcade for a while. So his face is painted with delight as he walks with Isabella through the crowded hall, his hand tight in Isabella's. "This place is amazing," he breathes. He focuses back on her, then on the DDR machine. "Oh, a rhythm game. I'm reasonably decent at those. Haven't played that one, though."

But she's right, and they do have a match to settle. He follows her eagerly to the machine, and if his step isn't springy, it's got its own enthusiasm to it. "They're fun traps, though. If you have a few dollars to waste and want your blood pressure to rise a--oh man!" He looks past the claw machines to a large machine. "Racing games! Man, I haven't seen one of these in years." It's one of the fancy arcade-only varieties, with the full seat, steering wheel, gearstick, and pedals, and he's practically drooling. "You'd be good at this, Isabella. The way you drive." A flash of a teasing grin.

"It's so ridiculous, it's great. I think they even hold actual tournaments here for...things. Don't look at me, I'm as far removed from this as they come, these days, so I'm definitely following your lead." Green eyes and their golden shards return to the DDR machine and her astonishment is visible when she the spotlight of her attention falls on him once more. "Wait, you are? So you're decent with rhythm game but not with dancing?" Eyebrows waggle as she teases him, utterly merciless. "Do you need bright lights and golden coin sounds to enjoy that kind of thing? Because that can be arranged, I can put glowstick bracelets on my arms and a coin scarf around my hips."

His excited grip is returned by a squeeze of her own hand, and at the way he stares at the large machine, Isabella doesn't even hide it; she bursts out laughing and gives him a playful push in that direction. "The way you're looking at it, I don't know if I ought to be jealous!" she exclaims. "Ugh, my feminine pride, outsexied by..." And she squints at the title of the game once they venture closer. "...Daytona USA '98. Holy shit, that is old!" Nevermind that Alexander probably graduated from high school that year.

"Alright, change of plans. Since I think you just besmirched my very safe, careful and responsible driving, I challenge you to a race. If I manage to win against you, you get to indulge my attempts at dressing you." She winks. "Deal?"

"These games are not dancing," Alexander protests. He waves in the direction of the DDR screen. "Look! The prompts are right there! You don't have to memorize a thing, although I guess you can, if you want. And there aren't other people involved, so you don't have to track what everyone else is doing, and there's no touching, and...okay, the coin sounds help a little, too." He makes a face at her. "Don't judge. Although if you want to wear that, you can - as long as it's all you're wearing," he adds, with a waggle of his eyebrows.

But then his ego is crushed in the next moment by her exclamation. "That's not old!" He reaches out and pats the machine. "Don't listen to her, baby. You're a classic." He sniffs, then turns and looks at her. "Mmmhmm. Fine. That's a bet I feel comfortable taking, because you're going to skid out and crash on the first lap." Ohhhh, fighting words.

"Nope. Too late. I'm totally judging," Isabella grins points at him. Though the suggestion that she only wear accessories to whatever naughty dancing lesson she deigns to give him has her gasping in a mock-scandalized fashion. "Mister Clayton! How dare you. What kind of woman do you think I am?!" Pause, beat, before she flashes him that sunfire grin. "You know me so well."

She would say more. It's in her eyes, the way she parts her lips, but when the belated realization that he has just outed himself about the coin sounds finally sinks in, there's absolutely no suppressing it. She leans heavily against the side of the arcade machine and nearly sinks to the floor. Her laughter spills from her, the kind that seizes up every muscle and carves javelins of pain down her ribcage. A hand grasps pitifully at the railing of the racing game, her shoulders shaking. "Oh god, oh god. I can't..." She doesn't even remember the last time she's lost it this terribly, tears of mirth collecting at the corner of her eyes. "Why?! Why are you so adorable, this is so unfair!" She playfully flails at him.

And by the time he strokes the machine and calls it baby, she nearly does cry. Cheeks flushed and glowing with her laughter, she's making a big show of pulling out her phone. "You said it. You said it! You called something baby! I can't...no, this is too good, I'm telling Easton!"

Alexander turns red. Just beet red as she loses herself in peals of laughter. Laughter's always been a sensitive spot for him, a sore point almost guaranteed to make him defensive and snappish. But in Isabella's joyous sound, he finds no malice or mockery. It's still embarrassing, though, and he hisses, "Stop," under his breath as families and children look around at the two grown adults acting like loons by the old - classic - racing machines.

And then she's threatening to tell Easton. His eyes widen. "You wouldn't dare." Oh, but she would. And he knows just how daring she can be. So when she pulls out that phone, he lunges forward. "Don't you do it!" he says, and makes grabby hands at the phone. It's playful enough that he's not hard to dodge, and he's grinning rather than truly upset. "He'll never let me forget it!"

She doesn't care. She's still laughing. They're making a huge production of themselves in front of a row of old racing machines, but at least here in Seattle, the populace will think that Isabella Reede is the crazy one and not him for a change. And as he turns a plummy shade of crimson from his embarrassment, she nearly crumples on the ground. She almost actually dies. "No, no, don't blush. You're blushing! It's too cute, noooooo!"

There's no way she'd be able to dodge him even if she wanted to, because his reaction only prolongs her fit of hysterical laughter and he's able to seize her and the phone before she can even find Easton's name on her contact list. Her arms wrap around him instead, and he'd feel her shake and tremble, lost in the storms of her jocularity. She clings to him, instead, for dear life. "Oh god, could you imagine? He'd call you baby all the time. He'll try to con you into saying it in his presence. He'll never forgive me for not capturing this moment on video. Oh, Alexander, oh...oh...I can't breathe...!"

Eventually, it subsides. She wipes her eyes, their color enhanced by moisture trapped within, and the smile she flashes him is a dazzling thing, an unapologetic competition to the flash and fire of distant nebulae.

"You talked me into it," she tells him. "Let's go a few rounds."

"You're an awful, terrible, merciless woman," Alexander says, wrapping one arm around her, and then the other, although the other has the phone. He peeks over her shoulder and checks to make sure no texts were sent. "HMPH." Then he hugs her tightly, and kisses her traitorous, laughing mouth, again and again. "You saw nothing. You heard nothing," he tells her sternly between kisses. "And we shall never speak of this moment again." A nip at her lower lip before he finally releases her.

"Racing, then? Now that you're out of breath, I'm sure I can beat you." He's probably going to eat those words.

You're an awful, terrible, merciless woman.

"And yet!" Two words that sound utterly reprehensible in its feminine satisfaction, downright triumphant and smug. That betrayer's mouth parts, Isabella on the verge of saying what is perhaps another taunt, but he fills that space instead with his attempts to keep his dignity intact and she returns each preemptive kiss with relish. He smothers her laughter within her lips, even as she plays the contrary bint. "I saw everything." Said breathlessly within the shadows between their faces. "I heard everything. I'm definitely going to bring this moment up every chance I-- mmph...mm..."

The urge to do more intensifies. Her shameless nature has absolutely no qualms indulging herself. Except he withdraws with a final nip, and there's a disgruntled noise from the side of them. She turns her head to blink at two children gawking at them, no more than eight or nine, with looks on their faces that suggest that they're about to tattle to the nearest adults they know.

Both of them turn and run, their half-baffled, half-horrified statements drifting through the crowd. "Mooooooooom, those two old people are putting alien eggs in each other!"

Isabella's face is indescribable, watching them disappear. "What are kids watching these days?!" she cries, flabbergasted as she gets in one of the consoles. Shaking her head, she points at him. "You're on," she laughs. "In a few minutes, you're going to eat my dust!"

"Am I going to have to work out some sort of bribe to make you forget?" Alexander muses, then lets his fingertips slide against her sides, threatening tickles, "Or should I jump immediately to more forceful means of persuasion?" He grins, quick and sharp, at her.

And then there are kids! He gives them a surprised look, which turns mirthful when they run away. "Alien eggs? Really? That's at least creative," he claims, and moves to sit himself in the other cockpit. There's even a fake seatbelt in here! Which he buckles, with relish. "I disagree, Ms. Reede. In a few minutes you are going to concede my superior driving skills, and gracefully accept defeat." He winks at her.

And then there's tokens found, and the machines rumble into life.

The path his fingers make down her sides triggers a faint twitch on her features, though she manages, with a straight face, to say: "What sort of forceful means of persuasion, Mister Clayton?" Isabella wonders, all fire and exaggeration. "Like tickles? Do you think to tickle me? What happens if I dash your hopes and reveal that I'm absolutely impervious to such maneuvers?" Oh, god. She's not. Any attempt by him to test the theory will probably shatter her carefully-crafted facade in the most embarrassing way ever and he's had prior experience to the one time she played the part of the crafty con. He may be wise to her games, he's frighteningly intelligent, but her air manages to hold. Her gaze is still lit with her earlier laughter, cheeks flushed by it and the insistence of his earlier kisses, and she only appears slightly credible when she plays up the part.

Watching the children leave, she mutters. "This is why I'm never having any of those." She will concede the point about creativity, though, flashing him a quick grin as she hops on the seat and straps in. It's ridiculous, it's not necessary, the machines are stationary, but if she's going to do this, she's going all in. Much in the way she lives almost every aspect of her life, she either invests herself wholly and utterly, or not at all.

That's only when she addresses his earlier remarks. A sidelong glance directed at him, her smile is a cutting, razored thing. "Bribery and flattery will get you everywhere you need to go, Mister Clayton," the young woman banters in a sing-song voice.

And there's a pause, before she delivers her finishing salvo: "....just not the finish line."

With that, she floors her gas pedal, though her car on the screen manages to hold neck-in-neck with him when hands find the steering wheel and she jerks it to the side. She even tries to ram her vehicle's shoulder into his in an attempt to force him off the track, eyes narrowed in concentration, her grin wicked and remorseless. Does she even know where the brakes are? If she is, she's definitely ignoring the fact that they exist.

"I always believe that claims should be tested by experimentation. You know that, Ms. Reede," Alexander says, playfully, and his fingers make tickling motions very lightly against her sides before he relents, eyes twinkling.

There's a bit of a surprised look when she says she's never having kids, as they strap in. "You don't want children?" he asks, neutrally. He's easily distracted from the question by her banter and the start of the race, and grins his own fierce grin. "We'll see," is all he says.

However careful he is in the real world when it comes to cars, though, he drives like a demon in the game, and they go bashing through the computer-controlled competition, with each other's only real challenge being the other. When she tries to force him off the track, he pushes back just as hard, trying to pull the same trick on her. Together, so close it's hard to tell who even MIGHT have the upper hand, they zip through several twisty turns of track. His body is hunched over, attention fixed on the screen as he shifts gears and hits the gas.

You don't want children?

That is among the list of least likely questions she has expected him to ever ask her, though as they continue to engage one another on the track, she doesn't take her mind and focus off the screen. "I didn't think that was in the cards," Isabella tells him without hesitation, though she doesn't especially clarify why she might feel that way. She doesn't miss the neutral tone. "I don't know if I'd be good at it, not to mention certain...biological concerns."

The fact that he's such a demon on the screen, though, and recognizes the pride one invests in his or her craft, only spurs her to be even more competitive and aggressive. She's always told him that she was, she doesn't just thrive on challenges, she thirsts for them, and the idea of beating a lifelong videogamer in his own turf is a prize that she finds absolutely irresistible. She suddenly slams on the brakes as he tries to check her into the shoulder, in an attempt to rip her car away before she's sandwiched, and leave him to deal with the fact that she's suddenly gone. She then punches it, maneuvering her car around his other side and takes off again. She's only able to gain some ground, but she's determined to increase the gap.

"We'll see? We'll see indeed. We'll see you staring at my ass while I leave you behind!"

There's a sideways flick of his gaze, just studying her for a moment at that response. He makes a thoughtful, noncommital sort of sound, although he doesn't press.

There are, after all, races to be won. His eyes snap back to the video game, and he curses out loud (receiving a dirty look from a passing family, as their young child says excitedly that man said fuck) as his car fishtails on the track, going into a spin as the resistance it was fighting against is suddenly gone. "Oh, you're sneaky." He sounds delighted, and he throws the gear stick around as he rights the car and hits the gas, coming up hard on her tail. "It's a very nice ass, I admit, Ms. Reede, but I think I prefer a different view." He waits until they're heading into a sharp turn before gunning the engine and slamming into her rear end to knock her up and into the wall of the turn. Then he jerks away and roars forward, pulling even with her once again.

Sneaky was Lilith's warning to Erin during that ladies' self-defense class when Isabella squared off against her. There's a laugh at the word. "Wouldn't be the first time I heard that said about me," Isabella tells him gamely as they tear through the track. "Look, after everything you said earlier, this is no longer a duel, Mister Clayton. This is all out war and in war, there are no rules!"

She ignores the dirty looks cast their way, as if she's somehow managed to fall into a space in the universe where there's nothing but her and him, and the thrill of competition thrumming through her veins, pouring white-hot adrenaline through those lifegiving channels. She is never more alive than when she's about to die, but only two other things manage to get her that way, too and this is one of them. There's a brief shout of dismay when he starts pulling away from her, and the finish line is right there, in plain sight.

"I'm sorry, Mister Clayton," she breathes as she squeals off after him. "But if I can't have that trophy..."

Her engines roar to life, and she flies straight at him, angling for the back and side of his vehicle in full, reckless speeds.

"NO ONE WILL!"

The sound of the crash is deafening, cutting through both their screens, both vehicles careening out of control into the concrete shoulder and just crunching into it, leaving the other NPCs to win the race, instead. Yes. That did just happen. She killed them both. And she's unable to help it, in the end. She's slumped on her seat in helpless fits of laughter, because she's relatively certain Physics doesn't work that way, and for some reason, it's absolutely hilarious.

"The hell...!"

Alexander tries to jerk the car out of the way when she makes that ominous pronouncement - he's smart enough to see what's coming. But not fast enough to avoid it. Crash! Game Over!

He sits back in the seat, and just stares at the screen in a daze. "You...kami-fucking-kazied us." Silence descends. And then he, too, dissolves into helpless laughter. "The finish line was right there, Isabella! Right there!" He points, in case she missed it. And then laughs some more. "You're a menace."

"Yes." And despite their mutual defeat, Isabella looks downright smug as she tilts that mischievous face his way, the devil in her surfaced in full and leaving those green eyes glowing like embers. "And you were about to hit it before me. Desperate times call for desperate measures, Alexander. You can't say you weren't warned, though. I told you I fight dirty!"

She flips a token with her thumb, and rolls it around her palm to show it to him. "Care to try again? All or nothing?"

There's no stopping her now. She's had a taste of blood, and she's coming for him in that tenacious, relentless way she tends to live her life. Pure enjoyment, her unhesitating relish of the moment, is stamped on every line of her.

Alexander stares at her for a long, long moment. "I would not be your Maximilian for all the money in the world," he says, finally, his voice dry. Her competitive nature out on full display makes it clear that being her rival in anything is just asking for a world of trouble.

Then he chuckles at the gleaming token, and retrieves one of his own. "Of course. I was robbed of my rightful victory." He tosses it into the machine, shifts around to get comfy in the seat, and waits for her to join him at the starting line. "Did we ever establish what I get when I win?" The choice of 'when' rather than 'if' is deliberately there to provoke her, to bedevil her. His grin is sharp and playful.

And now Alexander has a glimpse of what growing up with Isabella was like, or why she may not have inspired many close friendships when she was younger. How Byron managed to live with this for most of his childhood was, perhaps, terribly incomprehensible, but they were alike in that regard, unable to say no to challenges presented to them, even from each other. His remark, colored by an older man's wisdom, has her bursting out into laughter again, flashing him a wink.

His willingness to keep going only stokes all the fires raging within her, and the deliberate implication of his inevitable victory has her lips parting and rounding in a silent gasp, because how dare. "....oh. Oh. Ohhhhhh. I see how it is. You really are determined to get it today," she says, popping her token in and joining him in the starting line, and even revvs up her engines a little bit in a taunt. "Just for that, I'm going to try and make this extra interesting. You don't know what you're in for!"

His query is a fair one. "Well. We never did, but I think it's because you know that I'm going to crush you like the racetrack ant you are," she declares, all bluster and bravado. "But I suppose we should work it out, for fairness' sake. What would you like to get if you win?"

"Extra interesting?" Alexander's smile is sharp. "Are you going to ram us into a wall closer to the finish line, when you realize you can't beat me?" Yup. He's asking for it. Just asking for it. "Racetrack ant, huh? I'm no ant, Isabella. I'm...I'm...Speedy Gonzales! Arriba!" Look, he's just not good at witty banter, okay? When the starting flag goes up, he hits the gas immediately, eyes steady on the screen.

As the cars start to scream on the track, he says, "If I win, you have to take me diving, and keep me alive while doing so. Even if I panic."

"I don't know!" Isabella's cry is both exasperated and amused. "I'm making this up as I go!"

He may not be a master at witty banter - though really, she begs to differ, when she's seen him flirt - but his reference to the lightning-fast cartoon mouse only reminds her of H. Everly Sutton's ringtone for Captain de la Vega, and it nearly spells disaster for her when she can barely contain her mirth. But she shoves her foot into the gas pedal again and launches her vehicle into the track, neck-in-neck with him once more. "I hope the next time I Dream, the Captain is there as him, with the sombrero and red bandanna and everything."

There is a conversation - several, really, waiting for her in Gray Harbor, but these concerns are far away from her thoughts, choosing to leave her cares behind and focus on her time with Alexander, and his proposal leaves her blinking. She doesn't take her eyes off her screen, but her surprise is easily sensed. "....alright," she says with another sudden laugh. "You're on!" Her smile is equal parts rue and affection, though she remains facing forward.

"I'll keep you alive, always."

Alexander's smile is a bit crooked and strange when Isabella mentions Ruiz, but he does manage to laugh. "I think he'd just shoot everything and everybody rather than have any witnesses remaining to such a thing." His eyes never leave the screen, and he drives with every intent of being a serious competitor in this race. Maybe he really does want to go diving!

Or he just wants to beat her. Either way, it tempts him into recklessness, when he's normally so calculated. He licks his lips, his eyes narrow, and when they hit a straightway, he turns the wheel and tries to slam her into another car. Unfortunately, he misjudges the timing just enough that she squirts on through the closing gap, and now he's tangled with the car, cursing under his breath as he tries to get away and make up for lost time.

She doesn't know the content of whatever conversations he has had with the Captain lately, save for the unfortunate incident of attempting to suggest Javier to end it. They've not revisited that since that harrowing afternoon when everything spilled messily across both their laps and left one another wounded. But she's determined not to let these inevitable confrontations cloud the day. His quip does earn another burst of laughter from her, because it's true, though now she's picturing the Captain's dour face superimposed on an animated mouse's body, armed with a tommy gun as he goes full Untouchables on her group of friends.

Isabella's perception has always ever been a formidable thing, and she twigs on the danger before it closes the distance on her and she shifts her gears and the vehicle manages to escape Alexander's onslaught. "YES! Nice try, Mister Clayton, but my reflexes are like light--"

And she crashes nose-first into the car ahead of her, forcing it on a twisting, corkscrew turn while she loses control of her vehicle and enables him to neutralize whatever advantage she's just gained. "NO! Oh, god damn it!"

"Eyes on the road, Ms. Reede. Eyes on the road." It's a taunting sing-song as Alexander's car slides through a gap in the pack that her loss of control opens up for him. He's grinning madly, but she's able to regain control before he can really capitalize on the opportunity. Now they're neck and neck, even as he makes a sharp turn of the wheel to send one of the computer controlled cars careening off the road into an impressive explosion. He hums along with the game's music, eyes narrowed to slits as he tries to get some sort of advantage. But she matches him move for move.

The tension rises.

Eyes on the road, he says.

"I'll road your eyes!" The return salvo makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, and it's most definitely ridiculous, but Isabella doesn't care, lost in her enjoyment as tension rises and they're able to match one another speed for speed. As they round the bend on the last lap, there are no fancy tricks this time; there's no room for it, not when they're shoulder-to-shoulder. They hit that specific point where there's nothing for it now, no way to determine the victor except by sheer grit and application of skill.

She almost makes it. Almost. And there is a moment where neither of them knows who won when both their vehicles streak through the finish line. The tension lingers when the numbers scroll down, marking the tally for times, revealing, ultimately, that Alexander wins by a few seconds. It would be a good showing, for some, especially against a lifetime gamer, but that is unacceptable to the competitive archaeologist as she groans dramatically from her seat. She points accusingly at the screen.

"No fair," she laments. "I'm almost one hundred percent positive that the lady cartoon announcer was checking you out, the odds were stacked against me!" She's definitely not serious. The declaration is preposterous, but it doesn't stop her from making it, laughter imbued in her brilliant grin as she directs it his way, finally. Her hands reach out to frame his face, their noses almost touching.

"Diving it is. We'll go before it gets too cold."

"Road my...Isabella, that is nonsense," Alexander can't resist pointing out, although his eyes don't move from the screen, and his whole body is throwing itself into the acceleration, the gear shifts, the yanks of the wheel this way and that as it comes down to the wire. Then they're through!

He lets out a held breath in a whoosh as the numbers come up on the screen, and shakes his hands out. They're just a little aching from how hard he was gripping the plastic. "That was totally fair. I beat you, Isabella, and you're just going to have to accept it!" He's chuckling as he makes the claim, and then her hands are there, turning him to face her and his skin is warm beneath her hands. He leans into the touch, closing it just enough to let their noses boop together. "Acceptable," he says, quietly.

His own hands come up to cover hers for a moment, before he's sliding out of the chair and away. "That was fun. A lot of fun," he admits, sounding a little sheepish. "I rarely play games with people. Just Isolde, and even that's only been since she arrived."

She's already thinking about where to take him for his first experience diving. Deft fingers unbuckle herself from her seat, Isabella's slender figure rising from it, booted steps rising to join him. "You did beat me. But it won't be forever. I'm determined to practice, for next time." She shoots him a haughty look, a quiet sniff, turning her nose upwards - but she sneaks him a wink afterwards, indicative that she's only just joking.

Glancing at the flashing lights and colors, she inclines her head, and jerks her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the rows, and rows, and rows of arcade machines and newer games that they've yet to try. "I'm following your lead on this one, remember?" she reminds him with a laugh. "What else should we play? I'm submitting myself to your capable hands, Mister Clayton."

And she will. There'll be hours yet. If nothing else, they'll be lucky if they remember dinner.

~ * ~

SEATTLE CHINESE GARDENS

In the end, the grand victor of their hours-long foray into whatever colorful entertainments Gameworks affords them is neither Alexander nor Isabella, but their respective stomachs, because by the third hour, the blood sugar demands of their bodies become sharply bladed things and then they're off, again, to whatever else that the city promises them. It is approaching ten in the evening, and Seattle isn't like New York, where nobody ever really sleeps - stores and restaurants close at reasonable hours. Perhaps they should have planned this better, but as the young woman accompanying him is fond of saying, no plan survives first contact with the enemy. Tonight, the enemy is hunger.

Thankfully, food trucks are a growing trend and while they're not able to find a place that'll serve a couple for a late dinner in what could be termed as a nice place, there are plenty of mobile cheap and delicious eats around and if anything, Isabella seems to even prefer this. They manage to find a collection of such purveyors of low-pressure meals in the concrete rotunda close to the Seattle Chinese Gardens, well in the midst of their Fall series of chamber music performances. They don't even have to settle on the same cuisine, or just one. The array provided is dizzying; pork buns and dim sum steamed fresh from a Chinese-themed truck, Tex-mex specializing in no-fuss tacos from another, hot dogs, pretzels and other common pub fare, ice cream and other treats. Even his companion can't resist, falling out of her mostly low-carbohydrate lifestyle to indulge, ordering a single bao, a box of dumplings and a Diet Pepsi. And she must've really meant what she said when she told him she loved him, because she lets him pay.

They manage to make their way over the arched bridges of the beautiful venue, the central pagoda lit with paper lanterns and illuminating Autumn foilage with pink, red and yellow lights. They find a spot on the grass, a serviceable distance from the crowd of other late-night revelers watching the string quartet playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons, strains of music reaching them faintly.

"Oh my god," is what she says when they set their food down and she sprawls on the grass. "I haven't played that hard in ages."

Alexander is usually a fairly light eater. It's not something he makes a big deal out of, but anyone who watches him for long will pick up on the fact that most food for him is a requirement, not necessarily a pleasure, to be consumed then moved on from. But the combination of the bewildering variety of food trucks, offering items that you don't usually find in anywhere like Gray Harbor, and the hard play of the afternoon, as well as the intoxicating joy of being in the company of someone he finds endlessly entertaining? It stokes his appetite like very little else does.

It's probably for the best that he's paying, because he follows her with a collection of treats that he can't possibly eat all of, mostly the sort of cuisine that their not-so-sleepy little town doesn't get a lot of. There's a scoop of squid ink ice cream, a couple of tongue tacos, several varieties of dim sum, chitlins from a southern place, five-spice duck on a skewer, and more. None of the servings are individually very big, but if he tries to eat all of this, she's going to have to roll him to the hotel. He settles down across from her with his prizes, and starts sampling with the intense focus usually devoted to his investigations. "It was great fun," he admits, as he nibbles on a red bean bun. "I haven't had that much fun in..." his expression goes blank. "I, well, I'm not sure when - or if - I've ever had that much fun."

Then, he offers a skewer to her. "Here, try this. Curried goat!"

His sudden appetite and his surprising adventurousness in trying new things is, so far, the best gift he has given her this entire day, and bright eyes observe him intently as he sets down his purchases and attempts to figure out the first thing he would like to try. She's very impressed with his choice of the squid ink ice cream and she's told him so on the way there, which she intends to have a lick or two of before they leave the gardens. Their differences can't be any more sharply delineated than the way they approach food - he treats it as a necessity, whereas she treats it as an experience, to be savored with all of her five physical senses; in a way that isn't surprising, considering where either of their psychic talents lie.

Isabella finally rises from her sprawl, and proceeds to open up her box of dim sum, looking absolutely delighted when steam billows out from the carefully packaged affair and surveying the collection within. "Ahhh, it takes me back," she murmurs, contentedly, already unwrapping her chopsticks and snapping them in two. "I know this isn't your usual music," she says - she enjoys most genres, though Jazz remains her favorite. "But I hope you don't mind it. I like Vivaldi."

She seems surprised at his confession, ripples of it overtaking the fine lines of her face, though there's hints of melancholy there, too. "Has nobody ever tried to do this with you?" she wonders gently. "Just spend a day doing things that you actually like?"

Whatever other words she deigns to say is delayed, for now, by the presentation of the curried goat. She flashes him a quick grin there, tilting her head and leaning forward to capture a piece of the meat between her teeth and tug. And there it is, a bit of that comical struggle when he has to hold the stick very securely and she has to gnaw at it to get to what she wants, laughter in her eyes and sauce winding down her chin. She does manage to get it eventually, pressing the heel of her palm against her skin to wipe off the dribble.

"Just because it's not my usual music, doesn't mean I don't enjoy it," Alexander says, with a smile. "It's appropriate music for the moment." He sprawls on his side, propping himself up in the grass with one arm, using the other to share treats. He grins as she struggles to get the chunk of goat off the skewer, laughing for a moment before tearing a hunk off for himself. He chews and swallows, watching her expression. "Oh, no you don't," he says, waggling the skewer at her. "Don't feel pity for me, Isabella. I haven't really done anything like this before, no, but that's as much my fault as it is anyone else's. I've never had a lot of friends." There's a thoughtful pause. "Actually, this is probably the most friends I've had at one time, and...I usually end up doing the things they want to do, because I don't have a lot of firm preferences myself. I like when people around me are enjoying themselves."

He finishes off the skewer, and then eyes her box of dim sum. He's not particularly subtle about the attempt at theft - he just takes his skewer, leans over, stabs a dumpling, then retreats with a challenging lift of his eyebrows as he pops it into his mouth. His eyes widen, and he immediately makes sounds of distress and starts waving at his mouth in panic.

It's hot. It's very hot. And he's definitely not going to spit it out.

"Is it?" Two words said through laughter. "I'm glad that despite all your rock and roll that you don't think classical is just for huge banquet and concert halls and romantic restaurants." Isabella licks off the sauce from her skin and finds a napkin to wipe off the residue, watching him as he sprawls on his side. This is new, too, how he lounges on the grass, as content as a cat and for a few minutes, she does nothing but savor the backdrop he presents, as if the king of his small domain, underneath a dark, starry sky and silhouetted by the lights of multicolored paper lanterns. And when duly chastised, she lifts her brows in a silent attempt to protest her innocence, hands lifting up in her defense.

"Well, I'm glad your social network is growing," she tells him genuinely, visibly pleased at that admission, at least. "Like most things worth having, it takes a considerable amount of effort to maintain, but...I think if you avail yourself to the benefits that brings, also, the liabilities and risks won't be so bad. And of course you do, you're empathetic by nature, and not just..." She taps at her temple.

His blatant act of larceny widens her eyes, though, and truncates everything else that she's going to say. There's another gasp. "Thief!" she cries, and makes an exaggerated attempt to prevent him from eating it, only to be burned by the fact that it's fresh and there's hot soup inside it. She can't help her laughter, and the smug expression she angles his way. "Serves you right," she mock-huffs, and offers him a sip of her diet cola. "Take this as a sign from the heavens that you weren't meant to follow any aspirations to be a career dumpling bandit."

She uses her chopsticks to take a bite of the safer offerings while the other soup dumplings cool. "Tell me about your friends," she urges, curious eyes directed his way. "And what do you like about each of them?"

Alexander doesn't answer anything immediately, because there is an explosion of hot soup in his mouth and he's tearing up. He manages to swallow it, although anyone watching can tell just by looking at his expression that it burns aaaaaall the way down. He gasps and sort of flops over on his face for a moment. "I regret my criminal acts. Forgive me," he mumbles into the grass. Then recovers, rolling back up to reach for some of his cold food and nibble on that, instead.

Between bites, he says, "I'm not a music snob. Anything that people enjoy playing or listening to is nice. The harder, angry stuff speaks to me more than others - but that doesn't make the rest bad." Her request, though, has him pausing. "I...really?" A frown. "Um." For a moment, it looks like he might try to refuse or divert. Certainly, it seems to be a difficult request for him; his brow furrows, his eyes nearly invisible beneath the faint light of the lanterns. "I don't really know where the dividing line is between a friend, and someone who I would like to be friends with, and someone who I am largely pleased to be around but don't know if we're just friendly acquaintances or friends."

An uncomfortable sort of shrug. "I can name a few, I guess. Not all. You, for example." A quick flash of a smile. "You're easy. Definitely a friend. And what I like about you is your intelligence, and your fierceness, your strength of will, your curiosity, your determination to protect the things and people you value. All of those things."

He casts around for another 'easy' friend, and his expression softens. "Easton. He's kinder than you might think, if you just watched him in public. He kept trying to be friends, even when initially I wasn't sure that I wanted any, and he didn't have any reason to do that. The first time we met, I was just generally...very me. He's funny, he cares about people, he's stubborn when he decides to be. He's been through a lot of shit, but he just keeps going. He's a survivor."

After a moment, Alexander moves on. "Isolde. It's easy to disregard her, if you're not paying attention. But she's also a survivor, and I think her life has put mine to shame, when you talk about hardship." His expression tightens - a flash of anger and sorrow, before he refocuses, "But she still sees the joy in things. She's open with her heart, and she's fierce. You should see her in a barfight. She's sweet, but she can also ride a guy like a fucking bronco pony, and it is magnificent." Another grin flashes. "I love to watch her with the animals. She treats them with respect. She's just a good person, all around."

You're easy.

"How dare you." Isabella's flat expression is so dramatic and overblown that it's clearly obvious that she's simply teasing him, before another laugh parts her lips and she reaches over to give his shoulder a playful push. "I didn't mean me, genius! I meant your other friends." With his careful description of the other people he can manage to think of, or comfortable opining on, she makes a thoughtful sound, though she seems to agree with every assessment he makes of the people he does identify. "Easton's incredible different in his brainspace than he is on the outside," she contributes, though her statement is absent and thoughtful, her mind returning to the bridge they shared and what she has managed to view within it. She sets her empty box down, stretching her legs out and leaning back on both palms, head tilting back to look at the night sky above them. "But he's a really good guy." His struggles in repairing his relationship with Bennie blossoms from the back of her mind like a thorny rose, and she attempts to push it away, frustration slipping over her face.

She's making a marked effort not to think about the place they've left behind, but it's a dicey prospect when there are so many people she knows who are struggling.

"Anyway, I don't think any actual thinking person would ever disregard Isolde," she tells him. "Though some part of me actually wants to see someone outright underestimate her, and watch him rue the day after." She flashes him a grin. "Though I'm really disappointed that I'm only hearing about the bronco pony story just now, by the way. You're holding out on me." She pokes his shoulder teasingly with an index.

Alexander snorts at her flat expression. "Not that sort of easy. /I'm/ easier, in that way, than you are. Unless you have a past history of orgies that I've yet to uncover." He waggles his eyebrows at her playfully, and when she pushes his shoulder, he just lets himself flop back on his back, to stare up at the lanterns and the sky beyond them. "And you should have been more precise. Precision is a virtue, Ms. Reede." A finger is lifted, then wagged in her direction.

There's a flicker of something when she mentions Easton's mindspace. "That's right, you've linked with him." What wasn't there when Byron joked about having to kiss Isabella is there, now. Something between jealousy and wistfulness, that longing he has to make a deeper connection with people, it's written all over him for a moment, although she might miss it as she stretches out. And yet, he's entirely sincere when he says, "He is. He may have been a jerk when he was younger, or so I'm told, but now I would trust him at my back in any situation."

His smile blooms again, though, at the talk of Isolde. "Hey, I'm not proud of the barfight. But if you're ever in a fight with Isolde - one that doesn't involve a bunch of ghost cops shooting the hell out of the place - she's a solid person to have with you. And she's a good person." He turns his head to look at her profile. "Your turn, by the way. Three friends, since I gave three, and why you like them."

Isabella laughs at that as she looks over at him. "Well, definitely not that sort of easy. I'm just not an orgy type of girl. If I ever tried, I'd have to be really high, or drunk, or both. And then it'll probably just be like that threesome scene in Zoolander where it's sexy at one moment and then, suddenly, there's muppets and midgets involved in the frame, and extra limbs that don't make sense. It'd be too bizarre."

She doesn't miss them, those threads of wistfulness and an element she can't quantify playing over his handsome features, but considering she's never known Alexander to be jealous before, the expression is off and alien to her, and she can't help but incline her head at him in a curious fashion.

You've linked with him.

There's a flicker there, the archaeologist falling silent, reflecting on how fortunate she had been that Easton was unaccustomed to such things - he didn't even know he could search for Doors and objects deliberately until she showed him how, guided him to do something she remembered, but couldn't to the extent he could manage. To a practiced Mentalist like Alexander, all the anomalies would have stood out, as stark and fresh as open and freely-bleeding wounds. The ex-marine, by contrast, does not have such expertise, and nor does he have her lover's powers of observation - he didn't seem to notice how she did, or more precisely, how she did not communicate with him. "We met in the middle of the bridge," she tells him. "I was largely in his and even then, mostly as a guide. That's what's handy about it, I think....you can meet in the middle without diving too deeply."

With him flat on his back, she smiles, setting the rest of the food aside so she could shift, so she could offer her lap for him to pillow on and should he take her up on it, her hand finds those thick half-curls that adorn the top of his head, playing with it, fingers rolling soothing, absent circles on his scalp. "I'm worried about him and Bennie," she murmurs. "But I think...he's determined to fix things, and honestly, that's the best anyone could ever hope for at the moment."

Her face tilts, lashes half-lidding as she takes in the spray of glittering stars above their heads, following the diamond path towards the Autumn moon. "Byron, because he's complicated. The Captain, because he's complicated...." She grins mischievously, though she doesn't look down at him. "Sense a trend yet? You, because you're complicated."

She lets it linger, playfully dangling the bait on the line, but eventually, she gives him a more serious answer. "I've known Byron for over half my life. Out of everyone else in the city, he's the only other person who ever really knew Sid, what he was like under his smiles and his charm. We've always had our differences....we always will. Sometimes we'll rub one another the wrong way, but I think it's because on some level, we're so similar. We're both competitive, we're both go-getters. When I left...I tried to forget everything about this place, but I couldn't forget Byron, no matter how much I tried." And she did try. Guilt, unmistakable and intense, slips over her mien.

"The Captain's difficult." She laughs. "And dangerous. When he looms at you that way, he can be a very intimidating man. But we have similar interests, and he's a patient enough mentor in things that I thought I needed to learn - guns, how to handle myself in a fight. Back to basics, he told me the last time. I honestly didn't think he and I would ever interact with one another again after you introduced us in my houseboat, but..." Her voice trails off. "He's very similar to me too. He and I...I don't think either of us are capable of letting go."

She lets that hang, before she looks down at him, smiling.

"And I like you because every time I'm with you, or think of you, you make me feel like I've unearthed something nobody ever has before."

Alexander laughs, softly. "It's not so bad. There do tend to be a lot of limbs in play at the same time, and you will end up in an awkward heap at some point, and someone's going to get a pulled muscle or a spasm at the wrong time, and getting an accidental knee to the crotch is a hazard. But it's fun." A shrug. "If you're into that sort of thing. No one has to be."

He doesn't indulge her curious inclination of the head, just watching her with a face softened by the lantern light. "That is one of the nicer things about the communication we can establish. Connection, but controlled." A flicker of a smile, although his expression is mostly solemn. When she offers her lap, though, he doesn't hesitate to take her up on it, rolling so that he can move and gently lower himself down again. His eyes close as her fingers thread through his hair. "She'll need time," he says, quietly. "And so will he. Coming terms with the fact that someone you love can and will hurt you is difficult. So is realizing that you can hurt - really, terribly hurt - someone you love, and dealing with the aftermath of having done so. They have to build trust again. In each other, and themselves." A pause. "I hope they work it out."

He goes still and silent as she mentions her three, particularly the first two. His eyes stay closed, and his expression is blank, as she elaborates. "Why did you try to forget Byron?" he asks, the question just slipping out, his curiosity a palpable thing. He doesn't respond to anything regarding the Captain, but her last sentence makes him smile. "So, you're saying I need to maintain an air of mystery and intrigue?"

"Hey, you do you. ...which you have." Isabella grins wickedly down at him now that he's situated on her lap, tangling her fingers further into his hair and kneading his scalp in soothing, affectionate circles - he's always loved that, and touching those coal-black strands is always a luxury, so she indulges both their whims, exhibiting a casual and careless, natural sort of affection that she never really displays to anyone. It is usually to provide comfort, whenever she extends the offering to someone other than him, but there's no such excuse here, letting the light pressure of her digits roam over his head because she wants to, and she feels like it, and she loves the way he closes his eyes and relaxes whenever he does. The little things make her happy, she had told him once. This is, if nothing else, the littlest thing.

All of his commentary regarding the Easton and Bennie situation is sound, but there's a faraway look in her eyes when he opines on it; perhaps reminded of their own situation, or something else entirely. "Yes, they need the time," she says. "Before I left the city, I talked to Lilith a little bit and we both agreed that everyone could use a break, step away for a bit and then look at the things that need fixing with fresh eyes and brains, and a refurbished determination. Easton asked me whether I could recommend anyone to give him a check up, someone with no involvement in the Matter. You can imagine how challenging it was to offer up a name." He can't see her face, with his eyes closed the way they are, but he can sense her making such a face as her recollection takes up the sheer number of people who have been affected by it. "I told him to talk to Magnolia Jones."

Though when he asks her why she tried to forget Byron, her roaming fingers still against his hair. The pause is brief. Eventually, she continues, stroking through his half-curls and watching them slip from her fingers. They splash like ink against her skin.

"I tried to forget him because he was tied to some of the best memories I had of Gray Harbor," she confesses at last, her voice soft. "...and the worst memory I had of it."

She finally glances back down at him at his smile, and she laughs, and while his silence about Ruiz is not one she misses, she figures it's the guilt - of what he had tried to do to his friend while gripped by Gohl's influence. She leans in to press her mouth against his forehead. "I think you'll always have said air of mystery and intrigue without trying," she tells him, lowering her caressing fingers to tickle his ear.

"...and because of that thing you do that makes my toes curl." The last is teasing and intimate, a secret pressed against his brow. "That's very intriguing. And mysterious."

Alexander turns his head so that he can lightly kiss her stomach, before turning back to let his hair be stroked and his scalp massaged. His expression is as peaceful as it ever gets, the smallest of smiles playing over his lips as he feels the fingers running through his hair. "If I do nothing else, I do me," he agrees, with a quiet amusement.

Which fades into concern. "That's not wrong. We all need the time, and something like...normality. Whatever that means for each of us. I'm rather glad for the Kruger case; thus far, it doesn't seem to have anything to do with the Veil. Just people being shitty over large amounts of money, and that's business as usual." A nod at the information about Easton. "Yeah. He approached me about it. I told him that I was quite sure that the influence was gone - a drunk guy plowed into my mailbox, and I haven't killed him yet - but I can't blame him wanting to be absolutely sure."

He hums to himself, then says, "I'm glad you failed. If Byron was tied to some of your best memories, it would have been a shame to lose that, even if you also lost the worst." There's just a grunt about his 'air of mystery and intrigue', and one might get the impression of his eyes rolling under the closed lids. "You're biased," he claims, lightly.

Her hand ends up cradling the back of his head at that kiss, lips pulling faintly in a smile.

His peaceful expression draws a faint grin over Isabella's face, though he wouldn't be able to see it; the playful dance of her fingers over his scalp traces absent patterns along it, nonsensical spirals and half-remembered hieroglyphics, silently watching the way coal-black locks slip in between. She says little else in the ensuing quiet, letting her thoughts wander, her emerald regard finally lifting away from his face - reluctantly - so she could look at the milling throng by the central pagoda and all the bodies there. Not as crowded at this time of night, but shadows skim along cobblestoned pathways and curling avenues that cut across manmade pools of water that call to the imagination distant, exotic lands and the realms of the fantastic.

She has never been afraid of the dark and in spite of them being situated for just over an hour from Gray Harbor, the oppressive sensation that normally accompanies it is faded and blunted, here. Contentment might encourage her companion's present state of relaxation, but she suspects, if not just privately, that the distance helps, also.

"Detective Quintanilla mentioned that he was going to have a patrol car do occasional drive-bys through my place, speaking of," she ventures, now that he's brought up the Kruger case. "I was halfway ready to tell him that he and the ADA were worried for nothing and as it stands, it doesn't seem like there'd be anything left to stand in the way of that atrocious project getting built despite my group's efforts." Her interest hadn't been in the double murder in the first place - she had been surprised that it was connected. "Like there isn't already enough trash to go around." Irritation, clear and unsuppressed, stitches through her tone in unforgiving webs, disapproval and frustration brought to life in so many words. "What do you think of all of that, by the way? Now that you know the Krugers witnessed a disturbance during the building phase?" A more thoughtful note slips into her query. "I wonder what's so important about it that they could've been killed over it..."

She lets that drift off, fingers drawing over a single curl, to capture it between thumb and forefinger and watch it hug against her skin. "He recognized me instantly," she muses, thinking of Byron. "Over a decade and change, and he still remembered."

Amusement returns at his exasperation. "And how," she exclaims, gamely, leaning forward to plant a solid kiss on his mouth. "When it comes to certain things, objectivity isn't just underrated, but unnecessary. Though I wonder if I could stand to have a week of less mystery." A breath escapes her mouth, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. "I was pulled into another Dream recently."

"Good," Alexander says, to the news of police drive-bys. "Especially if you are going to continue with opposing the casino. We still don't know exactly how the murders connect to the casino project itself, so it's hard to say what might be considered a large enough threat to the murderer's agenda to be worth pushing back against." His faint smile turns into a stronger frown, one of worry and concern. "If you've got a concealed carry permit, you might consider carrying for a while." Her question silences him for a bit. His eyes remain closed, but his face has gone that slack of thinking and calculating, like trying to have emotions is just too much effort when there's work to be done. "Which parts? The casino itself I have no strong opinion on. The murders are, I think, connected with whatever the Krugers witnessed. Casinos are often connected to organized crime, but if this one is, I don't think it's locals - they have other means to suppress that information. I've considered trying to break into the office of the lawyers the Krugers were supposed to meet with, see if there's any copies of affidavits that could speak to what the hell actually was being discussed. I've reached out to Elise Kruger in hopes she'll let me see her parents' papers. Maybe find something there. But...hell, a floating casino? Could be a lot of things. Smuggling, body disposal, human trafficking, even some sort of infrastructure to rig the games - these establishments are big money, and anything that interferes with that can make some people consider it worth killing over."

He looks like he might ramble on in that vein for a while, until she bends over and kisses him on the mouth. He returns the kiss with interest, but his eyes don't open until her last remark. "What? What kind? Are you hurt?"

"Don't worry, my darling. I'm never not armed or dangerous in some way." This said in an easy drawl, though there's no amusement there - more resigned at the fact that these days, the familiar weight of her father's Glock has become more necessary.

A thoughtful noise escapes her at his breakdown of the Kruger case, though he can practically hear Isabella frown at the suggestion that he ought to break and enter a lawyer's office. "I'd say breaking into the lead counsel's house might be easier, but from my limited experience in dealing with lawyers through this entire affair, I know that most adhere to prohibitions of leaving the premises with any work product due to confidentiality concerns, especially when they're prestigious firms." As with the case with Foster and Pursley, both big money individuals with plenty to lose. "As for the casino, itself, they're good fronts for increased criminal activity." One of the best arguments she has found in deciding against it. "I met a freelance cybersecurity expert recently who had strong opinions on the matter, and Andy's understandably conflicted about it."

The idea of smuggling, bodies and human trafficking occurring above the water makes her grunt, her hand leaving his hair so she could absently pull at the grass. "Ugh," is her single emphatic statement about all of that. "I suppose I better get you in a wetsuit then before the water gets tainted any further. Or we can just take a drive out to Edmonds Underwater Park for your first time. It isn't far." An underwater park?

She doesn't answer the question regarding the Dream for a while, her hand finding his hair again and returning to the invisible mural she is etching on his scalp. "No, none of us were hurt, because the moment I knew what was involved I in agreement with everyone else that we needed to get the hell out of there. Though we..." Her brows draw down faintly. "We...it was strange. For a while, we had no awareness that we were us. Like bodies with different identities. I was a schoolteacher, for instance. We were in a house, and our host was murdered before dinner could be served. And when we finally found him there was a message left about Them and that we were going to dine with Them. Erin was there, so was Vivian, and Mister Vydal."

Her eyes drift shut, if not just to curtail a sudden wave of nausea at the memory. "I wasn't about to stay. Thankfully the rest concurred."

"You are always formidable," Alexander agrees, solemnly. He shakes his head. "I prefer not to commit illegal entry into people's homes unless I really must. It's a bit more personal. Besides, as you say, the documents I want to look at are likely to be at the office." He hums to himself, following the line of the music hanging in the air without thinking about it too much.

"And the wetsuit is a good idea. I wonder if there are entrances into the casino complex below water," he muses. Look. She started him talking about murders, when he was being good and avoiding the subject, so now he's thinking about it. He's a focused kind of guy. "But the underwater park might be the best option for my first time. God only knows what's in the bay."

He quiets to listen about the dream. "How interesting. And frightening. I haven't had many Dreams that have messed with my own perception of myself. That sounds," he shivers in her lap, "awful. I'm glad you all got out of there. The host...were they real?"

"I wish that were true." Isabella smiles down at him faintly at that. "I could stand to be a little more physically hardy." There's a playful nudge, there, against one of his biceps. "Specimen," she teases in a sing-song fashion.

The pause that follows when he thinks about underwater entrances to the casino complex is a long and thoughtful one, and that is definitely something that attracts her imagination. "Usually I only hear about those in military bases, certain research facilities and older places," she supplies. "But if you're starting to think about what sort of crime happens there, I could take a look, if you would really like me to." If anything, this was her fault that he's thinking about it now, she is the one who brought it up at the interest of making sure that she remembers to pass on the information, but turnabout is fair play. She promised him that she wasn't going to kick down doors and now she's offering to scout out the building site's perimeter to see if there's a way through the water to get in!

But it's the sort of excursion that would most definitely put the thrill and adrenaline in her blood and she's probably already entertaining her wild imagination - of emerging from the depths, guns blazing like a Navy SEAL.

"I'll set up a dive when we get back. I think you'll love it. I can describe it to you, but I wouldn't be able to do it justice - you're just going to have to see for yourself," she tells him, her fingers slipping down to roll her thumb against the pressure point at the base of his skull when he shivers, undertaking circular, soothing motions. "I'm not sure," she murmurs. "We certainly didn't stick around and find out. If he was..." She thinks. "His name in the Dream was Norbert Boddy - I kept my first name in the Dream, though my last name was different. If he was real, it stands to reason that the naming convention would be the same as applied to the rest of us, and how difficult is it really to find a Norbert in a small town?"

"You just want to be able to beat me up," Alexander teases her back with a smile.

He watches her as she thinks. One, because he enjoys watching her think, although there's a wistfulness there, too, like he'd like to crawl inside her brain and feel her thinking from the inside. He doesn't try it, but the desire is there, even if the darkness might obscure it. The second reason, though, is also clear, when he says, "I don't want you to do anything that's going to be an unreasonable risk of getting you hurt. The information would be useful, but...only if we have reason to suspect something might be there. Otherwise, if they find you, you might be taken for an environmental terrorist or something. Don't die," he warns her, reaching up to run the backs of his fingers over her jaw before lowering his hand again.

"I look forward to the dive, though. And it shouldn't be that hard to check missing persons reports for the area, see if anyone matching the name has gone missing in the last few days." He stretches and yawns, her hands on his skin, and the copious amount of food, perhaps relaxing him too much. "I'd hoped we'd get a break from getting lost for a bit, though. Be careful, Isabella."

"That would be domestic abuse," Isabella returns with a laugh.

His wistful expression has her inclining her head at him curiously, brows lifting in an inquiring fashion. "What are you thinking?" she asks, every straightforward with her questions - and either unwilling or unable to test her abilities against the challenge of breaking through the mental defenses of someone as formidable as Alexander in that arena, though the suspicion she harbors is that he's still thinking about the case waiting for him back home, starved as always for the intellectual challenge coupled with the relief that it isn't anything like the Billy Gohl matter. His warning is sound and her smile lifts faintly, just an upwards ticking of the corner of her mouth and her face turning in a slight cant towards the backs of his knuckles. "I'd like to obtain my doctorate from Oxford first before I get thrown in prison for being an eco-terrorist," she observes. "And I won't, but like I said, this is why that older man's experience is handy. I promise I won't go poking until you've established that there's a reason to."

Her smile blossoms in full at the rest. "I think you'll love it." She finally eases her hand away from his hair, tapping her index finger against his forehead. "Shall we go back? You look like you're about to sleep."

Alexander slowly sits up at the tap. He's got grass stuck to his back, but hardly seems to care. Not that he seems to care about his appearance much anyway, other than having everything neat and clean. He turns to look at her. "I was thinking that I would like to link with you, feel what you're feeling when you think your way through a problem." Ask a straightforward question, get a straightforward question. He doesn't dwell on it, though, but starts packing up the remnants of the food, separating out wrappers and things for disposal, keeping everything that's still tasty. "Let's go back, sprawl on the bed, eat more of this, and...well, I'm sure we'll sleep eventually," he adds, with an amused, even sly, smile in her direction.

"You mean as in...through the bridge and into me?" Isabella wonders, rolling on her knees so she could assist with the packing of the remains of the foodstuffs there, rising to her feet once the trash has been packed in an empty paper bag, to be recycled because she's not a philistine. There's no hesitation, or pause when she says the words, but these thoughts are quietly enunciated; whatever wistfulness he had demonstrated earlier is returned in kind - in spades, feeling the yawning abyss within herself, the endless well of nothing that had been left behind and can't help but wonder, again, if it was even possible anymore. That surge of longing winds sharply through her nerves, spicing the air with its intensity, and she looks down at the paper bag in her hands.

Her fingers crumple into it. "I'd like to try, one day. But it's been a decade and change." She lifts her eyes to his, her smile a faintly pitiable one. "It's probably a mess. Like an abandoned house that nobody's set foot in for a while."

She waits for him to stand and offers her hand for him to take, her laughter returning, though it's more seen and felt than heard. It remains trapped in those expressive features and imbued on her bones. "Eventually," she repeats with a laugh. "You know, you tend to make noises about your age but I think you can be just as insatiable as me. Which I suppose is fortunate on my part considering how I'm only one body and can't exactly afford you an orgy-like experience with just a single set of limbs. That's alright, though." Eyes glitter from underneath her long lashes, mischief more sultry than impish resting within. "I'm always up for that challenge, too."

"It's your mind, Isabella. It could never be like an abandoned house," Alexander says, with quiet confidence. He leans in and brushes his lips over her temple, murmuring, "You are a volcano and a storm, vibrant and tumultuous. A hurricane of bright fire. I like it." He then leans back, and sedately returns to clearing up and packing things. When he stands, there's a bag of leftovers over one shoulder, and a bag of trash in his hand, but he still has one hand free for her, and he takes it at her offer. "You inspire me," is all he says to the matter of his insatiability. "I have to keep up, after all." He winks at her, and starts strolling for the nearest trash can to toss the waste.

Her face tilts into his temple-kiss, her smile growing at the touch of it against her skin. "We overlap there," Isabella observes, reminded of the times when she's glimpsed his mindscape in the throes of passion, unable to stop herself from asking for these little sips of him while his mouth is on hers and his hands are exploring every inch, to let him skim through those fires while she tasted the terrible intensity of his distant lightning storms, splitting apart a glittering expanse of stars in a field of darkness. "It's just that your intensity is more precise. Like how lightning strikes the earth."

Her fingers twine in his, and she tosses her own bag in an underhand arc into the recycling bin as they go.

She laughs at his wink, turning her face to nuzzle into his shoulder as they go, eyes lifting to look at his profile, that mischief growing. "While I'm happy to be your muse, you don't have to keep up." She nips at his shirt playfully. "Sometimes I'm more than happy for you to languish at my mercy."

Eventually, however, they will find her cherry red Jeep, to drive back to the modest hotel they've checked into in the morning, though there's a wistful glance from her on occasion, as bright lights pass and the hours turn towards their darkest. Escape is simply that - even the term itself is impermanent. Everything is, but there's a part of her that will never fail to feel it - the urge to take him by the hand and run, and run, and never look back.

But at least, today, they're able to manage it for a few hours.