2019-10-26 - Phone Calls At Midnight

Work is what it is; to Isabella Reede, it's all too easy to be sucked into the vortex of progress at the exclusion of everything else, up until the hours have passed and more physical needs reassert themselves, so when Alexander gets a videoconferencing call from his lover at last, after a few days of not having really spoken save for brief textual check-ins, it's past midnight and she's just now eating.

He would find the foodstuffs familiar - he had sent it over that day along with the bouquet of autumn wildflowers and a fruit-and-cheese plate. His acceptance of the notification would find the portable cutting board on her granite countertop, and her slender form popping something in the oven for reheating. The vibrant spray of the flowers he had bought her rest close to where sunlight would hit it indirectly in the morning through one of the one-sided glass windows in her kitchen, though one had been plucked from the others - a dandelion rests in her hair. She's probably kept it on her the entire day while she chewed on pens, pored through her books, and the occasional taunting, snarky text to Maximilian in the UK about her progress. A piece of apple dangles from her mouth as she bustles - she must be on her laptop again.

Once he answers, she turns to look over her shoulder, the bluetooth earpiece's light winking by the side of her head and she grins at him openly, moving over closer to the camera. "I'd like to take all of these as a very good sign that you're taking my survival very seriously," she teases him, leaning over to press her lips against the screen. This is followed by a murmur. "Thank you."

Alexander can be found on his bed. He almost missed the notification, because he had his headphones on - from her visits to his bedroom, Isabella would recognize them and the music stack they're hooked to as one of the most expensive pieces of decor in the house; it plays everything back to cassette tapes, and the headphones are the high fidelity, noise-canceling, blow up your eardrums types. Right now, they're hanging around his neck, and he looks a little damp. Not unexpected, perhaps, due to the rains that come on and off in Gray Harbor autumns. "Hello, Isabella." His smile is warm, although he looks...tired and worried. But her teasing softens a lot of that, and he returns the phone kiss with amusement. "You're quite welcome. And you sent me something too. What is the countdown to?"

Of course that would be the first question. The second is, "How's the writing going?"

She has heard, seen and experienced this relatively expensive musical apparatus in those prior visits, and is suddenly reminded of something she has promised him in the days back when they were simply flirting. Isabella makes a subtle notation on a nearby notepad, frowning once at the items she finds there in what amounts to be a lengthy to-do list.

Of course he would ask that and she grins faintly. "Take a guess," she tells him, because when it comes to her own mischief, when did she ever make it easy?

"The writing's going good," she confirms. "I did venture out a little bit the last couple of days, even I can't sit hunkered down, surrounded by paper all day. I've forgotten how beautiful it is out here during the Fall, too. Saw August, Easton, a few of the others. The temptation to pop in on you was tempting, but...I feel like if I saw you, I'd never come back here for the day. I think we've thoroughly defiled my residence the last time you were here."

She notes the worried expression, and it does blunt the sharp, brilliant edges of her levity - she doesn't address it yet, but it's definitely coming.

Alexander hums at the challenge. "Well. It seems to be within the next few days. Halloween? One of the Masquerade events? Maybe you can tell me what my costume should be." He breathes a half-irritated sigh. "I don't actually like costumes. They're nicknames for faces. But Thorne is clearly hoping that this is a success, and I don't want to be that asshole who refuses to even play along. But I have no costume ideas." And then the camera is briefly obscured by a wall of white fluff as Blue Bell jumps up on his chest.

"Mrf! Claws! Damnit, cat." But rather than push the cat off, he raises the phone, petting her with one hand as she turns around and settles on his chest with a couple of small miaows. "I'm glad to hear the writing's going well, and no one says you have to chain yourself to your desk. A little fresh air and distraction will do you good." He grins at her concerns for dropping by. "Probably for the best. I've been out and about myself, of late. And a job's actually going to take me out of the house for a day or so. Haunted house," he adds, with a chuckle. "Maybe haunted house. In Gray Harbor, I don't rule out anything."

"Nope." Isabella laughs as he gamely tries to make a guess. "It's definitely not Masquerade related, and honestly, I wasn't really thinking of dressing up too much for it either, but it is Byron's baby and I do intend to support him by participating." Watching his grumpy expression, her own softens as she cradles her face on one hand. "So why not go as Erik from Phantom of the Opera? It'll just be a tuxedo with a long-tailed jacket and a half-mask. And you told me before you've always wanted to wear one. If you intend to accuse me of trying to put you in a tuxedo this weekend...well, then, you would be correct, good sir." She winks at him at that.

There's a hint of surprise when Blue Bell jumps on his chest, and affection slips over her when she watches him pet her. "She's an impossibly beautiful cat," she murmurs, cooing softly at her through the screen. Interest - and skepticism - has her lifting her eyes from Blue Bell to Alexander again. "A haunted house? Is that why you look so worried?"

"Hm. It's not my birthday, or your birthday," and don't ask how Alexander knows that, "it's not any sort of anniversary, unless it's one of the strange ones like 'three and four quarters months' or something like that. And if it is, then we need to have a talk, and you're no longer allowed to set anniversaries. It's not Halloween." He tickles the cat between her fuzzy, fuzzy ears. "I can't imagine you'll be done with your draft that quickly, although that would be something worth celebrating."

Her suggestion makes him pause. "Huh. I never thought about that. But I suppose it's simple enough, and I could rent the tuxedo and a half mask wouldn't be hard to make. That's a good idea. What are you going as, or will you leave it as a surprise?" His smile is quick and warm as Blue Bell turns her head to blink blue eyes at the phone. She takes the compliment as her rightful due, and puts out a paw to bat at the plastic, idly. "And...no. I'm not even sure the house is haunted. Easton and I might just spend twenty four hours rambling around in disused rooms." He thinks about it for a moment. "No, I've got some other things on my mind. Ms. Velez and I went to Alejandro and Violet's house, looking for additional clues. I read the tub in the bathroom and," he shivers, "it was exceptionally unpleasant. It was almost as if I was reading a Dream. One that lasted a very long time."

Isabella's lips part to ask precisely that - how he knows when her birthday is when she didn't even tell him, before her jaw snaps shut with a click; she learns quickly, he's probably background checked her a day or several after they first met. She does give him a half-amused and half-exasperated look through the screen though. Still, as he eliminates all the other possibilities (and correctly!) with his usual precision and efficiency, she can't help but smile - there's pride on her face. "As always, it's incredible to watch you work," she murmurs, her face tilting into her own hand. "You're right, it's definitely none of those. Maybe I just plan to seduce you thoroughly when the timer hits zero."

She gives that answer too willingly and too innocently for it to be that - or just that.

When he asks about her costume, she laughs. "Carmen," she tells him; the passionate protagonist of Bizet's most famous opera who tragically meets her end getting stabbed to death by a jilted lover. "I'm most definitely no Christine Daae, but hopefully you're willing to settle for a wild, troublemaking Spanish gypsy. It does mean wearing a dress, so I hope you won't be too shocked either."

After a moment, she nods. "August told me about Julia. I didn't know she was connected to the Asylum business." Concern flits through her expression at his shiver. "What happened, Alexander?"

Alexander's eyebrows go up. "I'm a bit skeptical, due to that smile on your face, but if that is the endpoint of this waiting game, then I can't say I'd be disappointed. You're always worth waiting for." A flash of a smile.

Her costume draws a low chuckle. "Now, that is something I can easily see for you, my dear. You'll be magnificent. Christine was always a bit tepid for my tastes, to be honest." He pauses to shift on the bed, drawing an irritated sound from the cat, although that's easy to soothe with the application of long strokes of his hand down the length of her body. The question draws a grunt from him. "The usual. Set on fire, drowned in blood, creepy fucking hatred bombs." His tone is light and dismissive, but the headphones and haunted look in his eyes suggest that it was more affecting than he's willing to admit. "Violet's sister may have escaped - or been released - from the asylum, and may be out and doing...things. Although I'm not sure why or to what purpose. I hope Easton and Dr. Glass can figure out a way to get us over there, soon. There are too many unanswered questions."

"Tepid?" She grins. "What are your tastes, Mister Clayton? And why am I not surprised that you're familiar with the characters?" she asks with a laugh. "Then again Phantom is very much mainstream now, though I don't think many have read Leroux's original novel or are even familiar with it."

May be out and doing...things.

Isabella's eyes wander away from the videocam for a few moments, though now that he knows the full shape of her trauma, he would know why, but her features are grim and determined in the doing; her attention flicks back to him after that brief pause, takes in the look on his face - he isn't all that practiced in hiding his emotions, but she lets it slide without comment save for the stare she gives him that suggests that she has noticed.

"Easton told me that he received a key from Doctor Stevenson," she tells him. "That used to belong to his uncle. He's hesitant using it and with good reason, and he doesn't even really know what it opens. I suggested he get it read. He says he has someone in mind." Not Alexander, obviously, or she would have told him from the start. "I asked him to keep me posted." After a pause, she sighs. "I don't think he's too enamored of the good doctor, how she approached him rubbed him the wrong way. Not like anything about his uncle would put him in a good mood, but the encounter didn't sit well with him."

The question is considered. He leans his head back for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. "I suppose the right answer here is: you. And you are definitely to my tastes, Miss Reede." A smile that can barely be seen at this angle. "But more broadly? Intelligence, determination, passion, drive, confidence - not necessarily in every part of life, but someone who has something that they know they're good at and is unapologetic about that is very attractive. Most of the people I like have some or all of those traits. People I'm attracted to have those traits, and also some level of sexual or romantic desire for me. That's usually what makes it...sexual or romantic, for me. Feeling that from them." He shrugs. "Probably more detail than you wanted. And I like the soundtrack of the musical. I've never actually seen it or read the book, though."

When the subject changes, he raises his head to look at her again. There's a flicker of hurt in his eyes at the idea that Easton has something to be read, and hasn't asked him to do it. He doesn't comment on that, though, just, "He told me about the key. I've sort of wondered if...would whatever it goes to qualify as something lost that could be found by a mover? The psychokinetic branch of abilities is the one I have the least knowledge of, but it feels like with a key, you might be able to...find...the lock?" A small smile flickers to life. "She's a bit of a unique person."

The termed right answer draws forth another laugh. "Well, obviously," Isabella points out to him with no small measure of amusement, but he does get her meaning and she listens intently. "I've always suspected that the emotional aspects are the ones you key into the most," she confesses in the end. "Not that you don't enjoy physicality." And that's obvious, too. "But it seems to me that you'd definitely be attracted to yourself." She's teasing him, shameless and never sorry for doing so and it shows, brows lifting upwards, because everything that he has described could apply to him as well.

The flash of hurt isn't missed; a twinge of guilt manifests in her stomach. "He thought he should spread out the risk," she tells him simply by way of explanation. "That way not the same people carry all the burden or the pressure. And I agree with him." Questions about psychokinesis give her pause. "The big issue in his case isn't whether he can find where it leads but rather whether he wants to and I don't think he'll do that without as thorough of an assessment of the risks as he can. Considering our newfound limitations, while that could have been possible pre-Gohl, I don't know how viable the method is post-Gohl without a guide as to where to start looking for it. I don't think Easton would be able to get away with not having the Key examined if he does want to explore it. Casting a wide net isn't all that much of an option anymore." She makes a face. "And this is from more recent and practical experience. Magnolia Jones and I tried to fish for the Lover's Jewel from the lake and we couldn't even feel the bottom. And when we tried my submersible ROV, we were unable to find it so the Ring's in the wind again."

"Sex is fun," Alexander agrees without notable shame or hesitation. "I don't...need it, the way a lot of people seem to? But it's fun. I enjoy it." He snorts at the last. "Hardly. Intelligence, I'll grant you," a flash of his own arrogance there, "but the rest? I don't really see that in myself. It's why I enjoy seeing it in others. It burns so bright." His voice is a bit wistful.

Then he clears his throat, refocuses on the rest of the conversation. "All good points. I confess I don't mind not having easy access to any mind in a couple dozen miles, but when it's something like this, the restrictions do become inconvenient. Well. Once he has it read," by an inferior reader, his tone implies, "then we'll see if I can help with some good, old-fashioned detective work. If he'll let me take a look at it." And let's be perfectly honest; Alexander will probably try to read it then, permission or not. But his expression grows grave as she goes on. "Wait. What? How...how could it get out of the lake?"

"Well I definitely need it," Isabella says with a sudden laugh, leaning back from the laptop and flashing him an easy what can you do? look. She's young, energetic and more than willing to go after what she wants whenever she feels the need, it probably isn't surprising. "It was all I had while I was living as a student transient abroad." But there's no regret there, certainly - whatever loneliness she experienced tended to be balanced out by academic rigors and high-flying adventure. "And you're confident in your intelligence - not all aspects of life, remember? You're determined to survive at the very least and you're just as passionate about your work as I am mine, or as Byron is in his. You might not see that in yourself but I trust that other people see plenty of those qualities in you, and not just me."

She still looks relatively unhappy about the Asylum, but the necessity of finding where it is, and Alexander's own personal stake in it, has her relenting grudgingly. He'd see the conflict on her face. "Let me know if I can help, if not just to figure out a way to do all of this as safely as you possibly can."

His grave questions after has her groaning, and gnawing on a bit of brie and fruit in frustration, looking away from him - her profile will hint at just how disgruntled she is. "Two ways," she tells him, her tone dry. "One, someone went looking for it deliberately and fished it out, which is about the worst case scenario, or two, it was fished out accidentally - either some poor sod caught it on a line, or some poor creature swallowed it and was later caught by said poor sod. My efforts have largely been ideas and trying to eliminate other possibilities; I don't have a lot of contacts within the fishing and wildlife communities here, but August is an established business owner and a former Forestry agent, so I asked him to ask around if not just to explore that avenue further. And then we can cross-reference whatever data he gets with Magnolia's and Kevin's own resources." With the PD and the Gazette, whatever database a conspiracy theorist like Kevin keeps.

Alexander waggles his eyebrows at her, his grin flashing out. "I had noticed. I've had to step up my workout routine just to have the stamina to keep up." Not that he seems to mind. There's an awkward sort of shrug at her reply to his virtues, and he doesn't address it, just acknowledges it with that noise of recognition-not-agreement.

"Only if you do likewise, regarding your ring situation. I admit that I don't want to be too deeply involved in anything having to do with that damned thing - I think the last thing the city needs is me on a possessive rampage." His smile is fairly humorous. "But if you folk end up needing backup for something, let me know. And, if you liked, I could ask Mister Carver. He at least implied he might know more about the thing than he's previously disclosed, and that he would be open to discussing it, if someone asked." His voice is a bit dry.

"Alexander, you're not that old," Isabella states with a laugh, though warmth and affection are reflected there when she leans forward again, that feline cast to her visage visible even in the dim lighting of her living area. "Though I hope that isn't a complaint." Her murmur there is low and throaty. "Certainly not complaining about what all the extra training is doing to your body and energy, but there's always the option of lying back and simply letting me love you." Her teeth clip delicately on the cushion of her lower lip, her voice lowering further. "All of you."

There's a hint of a grin, though the bottom curve of her lip remains trapped within those pearly edges. "Besides, if anything, I think you owe me some pride and awe as to how adamant my preference is for experience over youth." She returns the waggling of his eyebrows with her own. "You can do to me in ten minutes what a man ten years younger would be able in an hour."

He brings up Alistair Carver and there's a blink, the young woman's expression suddenly focused and sharp. "....shit, you're right. He was present when it first came around. Would it be too much trouble if you did? Byron doesn't like him for some reason, don't know if he nor Lilith ever actually asked him for help on it."

Alexander laughs, his eyes going half-lidded and thoughtful. "Mm. Might have to try that sometime. If you want." And then she goes on, and his laugh becomes startled. "I. My dear Isabella, I'm not sure that's the compliment you think it is. But thank you. I appreciate the sentiment, at least." Is he blushing? He might be, just a little.

A shake of his head at her question. "I don't think so. The worst he can say is 'no', right? In which case, you're no worse off than you were before. And 'asking for help' and 'Byron Thorne' are not concepts that go together very easily," he adds, in a grumpy sort of mutter. "I'll ask. See what he says."

"Why not? It's simple mathematics," Isabella says with another laugh. "What's sixty minutes divided by ten if we average at least an hour? Six. Six times, Alexander. Marvel at my expert arithmetic. When have we ever stopped at one?" It probably won't help the state of his complexion but she at least, is confident and unashamed to go into absolute factual detail. "But yes. Anytime, I did say I was going to seduce you thoroughly when the timer runs out." Though not just that - she's certainly keeping that card up her sleeve, though there's hints of both apprehension and anticipation here and there. Her face is too eloquent to hide it.

Still, she's not clarifying any further, focusing on Alexander's words regarding his newest acquaintance. His grumpiness is taken into account, smiling ruefully. "Byron's stubborn, but I thought that was a quality you liked about people?" Another hint of teasing, before her mien softens into further seriousness. "It's what happens when you've been forced to be self-reliant at so young an age." She only knows the vague shapes of what had happened in his home, but she remembers his account of having to cook his own meals since he was a child. "Are the two of you still butting heads?"

A nod regarding Carver, and a smile. "I'll leave him to you, then, my darling."

Alexander rolls his eyes. "I think you're mistaking me for a nineteen year old. I have never managed six times in one hour, and I think that'd be actually physically painful." Spoilsport. But his grin is teasing.

To the other, he says, "I never said anything about stubborn. Determined, yes. Driven, yes. But engendering within me the urge to shake him until his fucking teeth rattle? ...also yes, but it's frustrating." And that, unlike the teasing above, is not entirely playful. "And we're not. Not exactly. It's simply a very complex situation, and like any sort of complex social situation, I have no idea how to handle it." A long sigh. "But the only way out is through."

And then a nod in return, an easing of his expression at the term of endearment. "And I'll leave the ring to you. Just be careful. And don't let it interfere too much in your writing. Remember - there's always another murderous obsession-inducing ring out there, but a deadline only comes once."

"I didn't mean you. I meant me." That razored grin returns, her pure enjoyment of the rapid-fire banter obvious in Isabella's face. "And that is a compliment. Though I suppose I could round down if you would really like me to, or exact penalties because you cheat." Not cheating, he said the last time, but she's stubborn and she's also teasing him.

The more he explains, the more his frustration escalates and by the time he finishes, her green-eyed stare is fixed on him with a curious and wondering expression that inevitably paves the way to her asking. "Alright," she says slowly. "So what did he do recently that inspired you to entertain playing a tune with his teeth?" She doesn't pry any further than that, however, about his complex situation. She knows there is a history there, but Alexander's never let her in on those details and neither has Byron - it stands to reason that they're both keeping others away from it for a reason.

Regarding the ring, she sighs. "It's technically Magnolia and Kevin's matter," she tells him ruefully. "I'm just around for ideas. I promise I won't procrastinate too badly with my thesis. I think I have around twenty thousand words or so left."

"That's not cheating," Alexander says, again, although his grin is maybe a bit smug. Just a bit. "Although I guess if you'd prefer I stop..." he lets that trail off, a playful threat.

It's hard to maintain in the face of her next question, though. His fingers stroke through Blue Bell's fur in a sudden, energetic urge of exasperation. "It's not something I feel comfortable talking about in any detail," he admits. "I'm quite sure he'd prefer I didn't. Sorry, Isabella. It's not my preference for handling things, either, but I'm trying not to alienate him. Although sometimes I do wonder why."

"Your ideas are always solid, my dear, and with that thing out in the wild, I can't imagine anyone turning your help away." He smiles. "And good job. You're moving along at a nice clip. We will need to celebrate when you're done. A nice dinner somewhere, at the very least. Then maybe we'll go chase ghosts in the woods or something."

"Don't you dare!" Isabella playfully tosses a grape at the screen, peals of silvery laughter escaping from her and leaving her features limned with pleasure. It bounces off to roll back into the chopping board, where she promptly eats it. "Never stop."

It's clearly frustrating him, though it's rather adorable that he's treating Blue Bell as a therapy pet at the moment with the way he's stroking the cat. Long fingers dispense a faint wave. "I only ask because you're frustrated and not because of any desire to get in between the tangled web the two of you tend to generate together while occupying the same space." The words are genuine, but dry, softened as they are by the recognition that human relationships are naturally messy and there is history there that she isn't familiar with. "And maybe because you like him, even if it isn't mutual. You tend to go quite far and endure a lot for the people you like, Alexander, no matter how they feel about you in turn."

His compliment about her ideas has her smiling ruefully, though there's a touch of envy and melancholy there. There's a glance sideways. "Not always," she murmurs. "My unique disability tends to force me to adapt in other ways, but it's relatively difficult to feel useful when everyone else can do magic. Though I think Gray Harbor is benefiting from a very lucky coincidence that I can't throw fireballs like August is starting to do."

A soft chuff of laughter. "Very well. Because you insist." Alexander winks at her.

"I know. I wish I could avail myself of your brilliance in resolving the situation, if I'm honest. It's frustrating that I can't. Trying to deal with these things on my own usually only ends up making them worse." His tone turns rueful, perhaps thinking of more beyond just Byron and whatever's got him frustrated with the man at the moment. There's another awkward sort of sound at her observation. He doesn't deny it, but he also doesn't seem to enjoy having it pointed out.

He moves on, focusing on her with narrowed eyes. "Isabella. Our abilities are...often overrated. They're not a quick fix for the problems we find ourselves in. In fact, they can often make those problems worse. There's no substitute for a sharp mind and a flexible nature, and I'd rather have your help on any problem than someone with far stronger abilities and weaker cognitive facilities. Anyone who doesn't recognize that is due for a short, sharp, and probably painful lesson."

It's perhaps an uncomfortable observation to make, but Isabella has never shied away from saying things that he might not enjoy hearing; she's not about to start now.

There's a crooked not-smile at Alexander's remarks about her brilliance - not that she doubts her intelligence but rather her ability to make the right decisions despite it. "You can't get good at anything without practice," she tells him gently. "But I like the fact that you keep trying, despite your own self-doubt. I wish I could help you also, I wouldn't want you to drown if I could help it. But we talked about this before, human beings are messy, connections among them tend to be more complicated than it has to be. It's a helluvalot better than being isolated, though."

Our abilities are often overrated.

She's learned to live without in the last decade and change, but she's unable to help but glance down at her hands and see the memory of scarlet as his face hovers from the screen. Her eyes grow distant then, for a few minutes, revisiting the night she almost lost him.

It is brief, overall; she reanimates as she reaches out to drag her water bottle close to her. "I'm a little disappointed," she quips, her smile returning. "I was hoping you'd say it was because I'm gorgeous and courageous and insatiable. But I suppose being a gigantic nerd has its benefits."

Alexander reaches out and boops the screen right where her nose is. "People are messy. Isolation is...often bad. I can agree to both of these things. And you are all of those things, it's true, but the gigantic nerd portion is very appealing." He grins. "At any rate, I should let you go so that you can finish your meal, and I can think about grabbing something in the kitchen." He yawns. "And maybe make myself go to sleep, even. I'm glad you called. The sound of your voice makes the rest of the day more bearable. I love you, Isabella."

"You certainly know how to make a woman feel so much better about herself," Isabella says with a sudden bright laugh. "But I'm glad you appreciate a big brain as much as I do."

Her fingers press lightly on her lips and moves them so she could touch the screen over his image. "Sleep well, and do be careful while you're out there." There's a blink at the last words, her grin taking the turn for the wry. "I'm holding you accountable for that nice dinner when this thesis-writing is all over, by the way. And..."

There's no excuse; there's no anger, desperation, passion or any heightened emotion to call upon, so she looks faintly embarrassed as she murmurs: "...I love you, too." She does mean every word by the sudden intensity within the depths of her eyes as she looks at him, and seizing back the reins of her bravado, she sniffs. "And don't you forget it." She does sneak him a wink after that, before she reaches over and disconnects from the call.