2019-11-01 - How To Chain Your Dragon

She's still unresponsive when the sun rises.

Throughout the night and the dawn, Isabella Reede's vitals remain strong and steady, however; there is no faltering of her heartbeat, no violent spasming from untold nightmares. While that may be deceptive - she has never woken up with a start no matter how terrible the dream, after all - Alexander would not get the impression that she is suffering such things while she sleeps, if this could be called that. At some point in the intervening hours, she has been placed in the safety and security of her bed, her clothes changed into something more comfortable than the ribbons her pantsuit have been reduced to, flat on her back. Unlike the way they found her, her eyes are closed, if not just to spare the rest from the disconcerting sight of those emerald-gold eyes staring lifelessly at nothing, silhouettes and shapes reflected dully within them.

The sunrise sears streaks of crimson and gold across a horizon that is slowly giving way to another tomorrow, autumnal winds blowing in from the Pacific growing colder by the day. The breeze buffets against the few vessels docked, the creak of old and salted wood adding its tune to the rush of surf against sand and the occasional chorus of seagulls that patronise the skies above them. It is silent in the houseboat, save for the occasional tick-tick-ticking of an old-fashioned wall clock mounted somewhere in the kitchen. It is approaching six o'clock in the morning - November officially arrived a few hours ago.

Her alarm goes off once the appropriate hour hits, nothing of the blaring screech most others would associate with waking. Nina Simone's low, soothing alto fills Isabella's boudoir:

Love me, love me, love me, say you do
Let me fly away with you
For my love is like the wind
And wild is the wind...

Alexander has remained by the bed through the long hours of the night. It isn't the first sleepless night he's had, and it won't be the last. He bears up under sleep deprivation better than some, but he's still looking haggard by the time the sun rises. That's more the worry that's etched lines into his features and made him look older than he is. He's talked to Isabella throughout the night, here and there. Tried to make a connection with her, remind her of things she likes, commented on her thesis - even read out bits of it and made the kind of remarks that would have her throwing a book at his head, normally.

But from her, there's only silence. He reaches over to slap the alarm off when it goes off, and gets up to make coffee. He also texts Byron, asking if the man might be willing to help try to bring Isabella back through more direct, if supernatural, means. Alexander is moving stiffly, thanks to the lightning strike to the shoulder last night, and the night without sleep, but at least he knows where everything is to get some caffeine started. And, as always, Isabella's selection of beans are much better than his.

It's not that Byron's isn't concerned over Isabella's well-being at the moment. It's that he has problems of his own, namely one big problem: Where's Lilith? So after Isabella's rescue, he may have been scarce during the immediate aftermath, but he was planning on checking in on both Reede and Alexander at some point. When he gets the text, he's just leaving the Gray Harbor Pawnshop (again) and hops into his car to head out to Bayside. On the way, pondering on what they could possible attempt to try and snap Isabella out of her current state, he sends a text to Tobin, informing him of what had happened.

Tobin's Boat Tour was pretty convenient to where the houseboats were located, so Byron drives in his rented Mercedes still to see how things were faring. It's still festival time, but he's not wearing anything extravagant at the moment, though it's likely his costume and mask are in his car. Instead, he's dressed in a fitted gray sweater, jeans and sneakers with a leather jacket thrown over it. He'll meet up with Tobin first, before the pair make the trek to the Reede's boat. "I still haven't heard from Lilith." He'll also inform Gilford along the way. "If she's in a dream, she should've made it out by now."

Tobin's portion of the festivities are largely over at this point. Perhaps that was strategic on his part -- do the big event up front so that he could relax for the rest of it. There are continued haunted boat tours for the season, but he has employees handling those for the time being. So when Byron came by, he had no problem getting away to come and stop in on Alexander and Isabella.

He's dressed in a comfortable pair of jeans and a plain white long-sleeved t-shirt with a dark red hoodie over it, left unzipped with the hood down as he walks along with Byron toward the houseboat. "There's no telling how long you can stay in a Dream," Tobin reminds him. "Just because it hasn't taken this long before doesn't mean that it couldn't now. Do we know where she was before she disappeared?"

Alexander is restless. Always, but particularly when helplessness gnaws at him. So while he waits for Byron and Tobin to get here, he decides that since there are technically food-like objects in Isabella's fridge, maybe he can make a light meal for people. The ingredients are consulted (why does she have so much CHEESE? There is a limit, woman!) verses what's in Alexander's very limited inventory to cook. Bacon egg and cheese sandwiches it is, then.

Or it tries to be. He finds it hard to focus, his attention constantly drawn back to the bedroom. Which means that by the time the men reach the houseboat, they smell the burning even from outside the door. Alexander's gone through most of a loaf of bread and a dozen eggs just to manage to make three or four sandwiches that look...mostly edible. And there's a thin haze of smoke at the ceiling. When they arrive, he goes to the door quickly to wave them in and the smoke out.

"I know that we don't understand dreams very well, but the dreams that I've been in, I wouldn't want to be trapped there for any length of time." Byron will remind Tobin, his brow creased as they walk along the docks. "We don't know if she's being tormented or if those things, I told you about them right? She found herself in a dream surrounded by figures that blamed her for their pain-- because of all the people she's healed." He knows that it was mainly himself, but he doesn't need to say that much.

The smell of burnt something, while not completely odd coming from a dockyard like this, it does catch his attention. There were other people living in these houseboats, it didn't mean that whatever was burning was coming from... but the unpleasant smell grows stronger the closer they got. Once inside, he has to clear his throat, or perhaps cough a bit at that acrid smell. For all he knew, whatever was burning, it could've been Isabella's doing. Maybe she woke up. Maybe she was possessed. But all he finds is Alexander and a lot of smoke, "Clayton, is everything alright? Did Isabella wake up?"

"Well no one /wants/ to be trapped in a Dream," Tobin says, "I suppose unless it was a particularly good dream, but mostly they're not," at least in his experience, anyway. He shakes his head though when Byron asks if he'd told him about Lilith's dream of people blaming her for their pain. "No, you didn't." He slides his hands into his pockets as they walk along, a little bit lost in thought. "Has anyone tried to locate her? Maybe something that she had on her?" He then glances up and over in the direction of the burning smell and his brow furrows a bit. "What is that?" But when the door is opened and the smell comes wafting out he holds a hand up over his mouth and nose for a moment. "Is the boat on fire?" He doesn't actually think it is, but it sure smells that way.

On the other side of the door, Alexander gives both men a flat look. His fingers drum against the door, as if for just a moment, he's contemplating shutting it in their faces and going back to cooking. Or burning things. Whichever. Instead, he contents himself with waving a tendril of smoke in their faces. "Thorne. Gilford. I was making a meal. Isabella hasn't woken up, yet. I would have let you know." He waves them inside. "Would either of you like some coffee? I promise that's not burnt." A pause. "And the sandwiches on the plate aren't, either. You can have some. If you want." Don't ask about the sandwiches in the garbage. He stares past them. "Did you see anyone on your way in? Anyone unusual?"

Going back to what Tobin had said before he was distracted and once Alexander clears things up about the houseboat not burning, Byron turns slowly to Gilford, "The last time I spoke to her was before the charity race. The one where we were attacked by zombies." He says in his own flat tone. "I tried contacting her after the fact, but she wasn't responding. And I have no idea where she was at the time, I'd assume home and I've checked there several times." Byron is usually up for a cup of coffee over food, so that's where he's heading to now, "I tried reaching for her mind. Reading the shop, her loft. Hank's trailer. Nothing."

Pouring himself a cup o' joe, he asks Tobin, "Care for coffee since I'm here?" Alexander's question gets an arch of his brow and a brief glance, before he makes sure that he's not overfilling his cup. "It's safe to assume that you have someone in mind by asking that question, Clayton?"

Tobin meets that flat look with a pair of raised brows as though waiting to see if Alexander might indeed shut the door on their faces. When he doesn't, he nods and says, "Coffee's good." Once it's clear that nothing is currently on fire, he seems to relax a little bit and doesn't ask about the wreckage in the trash bin at all. "Anyone unusual? I mean, other than the partygoers for the Masquerade and their masks, no, I haven't noticed anyone unusual on the docks today." And he's spent most of the day out on the Harbor Queen, helping the crew get the larger ship completely cleaned up after the Masquerade Ball. He nods as Byron goes on to explain about Lilith and asks, "Does she keep anything on her like a piece of jewelry? We could try and locate that." He nods to Byron about the coffee, accepting a cup.

Alexander closes and locks the door behind them, although not without another scan of the docks, and a frown. He slouches his way over to his own coffee cup, with a sympathetic grimace as he picks up on the conversation. "I take it Miss Winslow is still missing, then? If we had a strong mover, it might be possible to open a door to the Veil, and see if we could sense her - but if she's in a Dream, I don't know that we could pick her up from the," a frowning pause, "default Veil realm. It might not hurt to try, though."

He takes a sip of his coffee, and adds, in answer to Byron's question, "Yes. When I brought Isabella back to the houseboat last night, the organist from the church was here. He claimed it wasn't intentional, but also pointed out that our town doesn't do 'coincidence' very well."

Byron leans against the kitchen counter, letting his coffee cool down before taking a sip; his free hand grips at the counterop's edge beside him. The mention of the actual Masquerade ball affords Tobin a curious look, "How did that go anyway? Nothing... too terrible happened right?" There has to be some non-life-threatening events being held, he figures. And hopefully those in attendance had fun! "And I don't think so." He says about the jewelry. "Not that I noticed anyway." More like, nothing like Isabella's pendant special. This probably means Byron didn't buy her any piece of special jewelry as well...

When Alexander next speaks, this is when he may be used to Byron saying that 'he will handle this', but nothing of the sort comes out. Instead, he takes a sip from his cup in contemplation.

He says nothing more in response, however, listening further to the mention of the strange visitor. "The visitor is he from here? And when I ask that, I mean our world. Not the Veil. Not a dream."

Tobin takes his own cup of coffee and adds a bit of cream to it before taking up a post at some clear spot in the kitchen, leaning against a counter or a wall, whatever might be convenient, his mug cradled in his hands as he listens to Byron and Alexander. There's a furrow to his brow when Alexander mentions that the organist was present and he asks, "How is stringing up someone by piano wire and using them as a battery not intentional? It's not like she wandered into a church and tripped and fell into a room full of piano wire." Presuming that he'd gotten some of the details prior to their heading over. There's a lot of weird things about the Veil, but that logic doesn't stand with him. He then nods in Byron's direction, curious about that question as well. He wasn't there, after all, but he is curious to know.

Though, when asked about the Masquerade he says, "It actually was quite beautiful. Everyone's costumes became, richer, more real, more lush. Performers appeared and juggled and tumbled and breathed fire. And at the end of the evening a flotilla of gondolas drifted by with lanterns filled with flowers and paper dioramas. It was, actually ... a really nice evening. No one even got drunk and fell over board.. which happens remarkably more often than one might think at these sorts of cruises."

Alexander thinks about Byron's question. In the end, he's forced to say, "I think so, but can't guarantee it. He's a lot chattier than any Veil creature I've met, and he didn't have any obvious nonhuman features. On the other hand, his costume and the fog concealed most of his body, and he was wearing dark glasses over his eyes." A shake of his head at Tobin. "No, that was intentional. Of course. He wasn't ashamed of it. I meant running across us as I was taking her home." He snorts. "He said he was enjoying the moonlight on the water." There's a moment where Alexander's expression shifts, uneasy.

It's only a moment, though, and he takes a drink of coffee to clear his muzzy head. "Anyway. He made it clear that he plans to stick around and cause trouble for a while. Be on your guard?" His gaze drifts back to the bedroom where Isabella rests. "We should..." he nods towards her, worry furrowing his brow. Nonetheless, the talk of the boat cruise brings a faint smile to his face. "That does sound beautiful. I'm glad. That it was."

Oh yes, Byron had informed Tobin all about what they encountered at St. Mary's. It will be difficult to get the vision of Isabella with all of these wires attached to her, cutting into her skin, out of his mind any time soon. This is all brought back in full once Tobin brings it up. "I was just curious if the man could be like those actors. Someone working for the do.. the Dark Men. It's a similar MO to what Geoff told us way back when. They want someone to pray on the rest of us."

Gilford's letting them know how pleasant his event was gets a slow nod at first which is then followed by a hint of a smile. "Good to hear. From what I'm being told, people are having fun and getting into the festival spirit." For good or bad, but he doesn't say that. "Anyway, it sounds like you all had a beautiful time."

Pushing off from the counter and bringing his coffee with him, he nods. "Can we check in on her? There's been absolutely no change since the last time I saw her?"

Tobin frowns a little bit over at Alexander and says, "Just enjoying the moonlight on the water on this dock where Isabella's home was after she was the one that was strung up? I find that very, very hard to believe." His skepticism is clear both in word and the expression on his face. He lifts his coffee and takes another sip from it, expression thoughtful. He then says, "Me too," with a bit of relief. "Especially after getting sucked into a Dream during the opening ceremonies. I was a little worried that everything was going to go to Hell.. but it didn't." He then nods toward Isabella and asks, "What's her current condition?" He moves along with Byron, so that they can check on her.

"I was able to close her eyes. But other than that?" Alexander heaves a sigh and shakes his head. "Nothing in the way of conscious responsiveness. Physically, she's perfectly healthy, and even capable of some reflex responses. She can drink, if you're careful. But it's all automatic. She's catatonic, otherwise." He's doing his best to keep his voice calm, clinical, useful. But it cracks and wavers on every other word, and he does his best to ignore it. To concentrate on what he needs to do. He leads them both back to the bedroom, where Isabella has been arranged under the covers against the autumn chill. "And yes, if Peregrine is human, I'm quite sure he's working for Them."

"Hey, Isabella," he tells her softly. "Byron and Tobin are here. And criticizing my cooking, so I could use some backup here." The joke is lame, and he doesn't even deliver it well, because of the frog in his throat. He sits down on the edge of her bed, and reaches for her hand, taking it in both of his. "We're going to do what we can to give you a path home. From wherever you are." Her bed has been surrounded by things he knows she finds significant, or precious, or just memories of better, happier times. Just in case.

Whenever the three of them enter her room, Isabella can be spotted easily; on the bed, under the covers and kept warm by soft goosedown, her tangled hair making loose patterns on pale linens and her lashes heavy against her cheeks. Her breathing is deep and even, most of the blood from last night cleaned off her skin and dressed in comfortable clothes. Glimpsing her like this, she looks so peaceful that nobody can be blamed for assuming that she is asleep.

The most precious object in her possession, perhaps the only physical thing that she attributes such deeply personal value, rests against the hollow of her throat, the moonstone pendant gleaming faintly in the light of the early day, and when the investigator reaches out to clasp her hand in both of his, he'd sense everything about her that is alive - the rush of her blood through the pulse ticking at her inner wrist, the fact that her skin is warm and soft to the touch. But her fingers dangle limply against his own and her eyes don't so much as flutter.

Byron barely remembers much about the opening ceremony, perhaps because he was only there for the beginning of it, so what Tobin says, also, reminds him of this. Then Alexander is explaining Isabella's condition to them and all that Byron can do is nod. Except when a certain name is mentioned. "Peregrine? He introduced himself to you then?" Interesting name!

When the group enter the room and Alexander tries to lighten the mood with a little joke, Byron will play along and state, "It's probably a good thing that Tobin and I arrived just in the nick of time. Or else this place might already be up in flames." Yes, he knows that the grilling was done before the reached the boat, but with all the smoke filling up the living area, that must have been one catastrophe.

It's difficult watching her sleep this way. She looks at peace right now, but he still remembers her staring out at him when still attached to those wires. "Bella." He says quietly. He takes a place near where she lies, leaving space for Alexander. Just as an aside now, he asks Alexander, "So that line from the poem she texted. Did it have anything to do with what we witnessed at the church?"

Tobin offers Alexander a gentle and sympathetic look as he hears that slight cracking and wavering, knowing that it's hard for him. He doesn't reach out to touch, but the look that he gives is an equivalent, as reassuring as he can make it. "She's going to come out of this," he says with that eternal optimism that still has him hoping for things lost since he was seventeen. He says to Isabella, "I was /not/ criticizing his cooking. I was merely inquiring as to the structural integrity of the boat given the volume of smoke present." He smiles just a little bit, and then he settles somewhere nearby, studying her in quiet contemplation, reaching out to see if he can get a sense of anything off of her mentally.

Alexander shakes his head at Byron. "Not exactly. I gave him that name, since 'evil guy in the top hat' is a bit wordy, and 'Stranger' bothered me. Although, technically, Peregrine means about the same thing."

Something almost like a smile flickers to life as both Byron and Tobin play along a little with the joke. It doesn't really reach his eyes, which never leave her still form. But he tries. And tries to sound entirely confident as he gives Tobin a nod. "Of course she will. She must be bored in there; if we don't go get her, she'll just kick our asses when she does find her way out." He takes a breath. "Her mental defenses are formidable, and I'm not sure -- if she retreated because of trauma, she might strike back, try to defend herself. Which is why I think it's best if we work in concert. And you both know her better than I do, really."

He grimaces at Byron. "I don't know. When we wake her up, we'll need to ask her what she can remember up to that point." Again, that look of unease, like he's gnawing through something in his brain but isn't quite certain of his thoughts, yet.

"You named him after a falcon?" Byron asks, his tone only slightly curious.

Then he has another question, "Work in concert?" The eyes that were quietly observing Isabella lift to view Clayton at that mention, before they turn to Tobin once he's settled down. Out of the three of them, Byron had the least experience with his abilities, only coming into his own, in full three years ago, having remembered that he had any powers at all. Before then, he played around with what little he had an understanding of. It's not something that he'd lived his entire life using.

"Like the falcon," Tobin says absently when they begin discussing Peregrine, but it's distant, and the other mentalists in the room can sense that he is attempting to reach out, to sense what is going on with Isabella, perhaps to try to break through and reach her. But whatever it is that he attempts to do, it doesn't seem to break through, at least not on his own. He then looks over to Alexander, a little more focused and nods in agreement, "I'm not going to be able to break through on my own. All three of us are going to have to work together to do it. Whatever's going on there, it's strong, and I don't think it's just going to let up on its own." He looks over to Byron, knowing the significance of that question and says, "What's got a hold of her is powerful, and while Alexander and I have quite a bit of ... oomph, between the two of us.. I think it may take all three of us to do this."

Alexander shrugs. "It means 'foreigner' or 'stranger'. Before it became associated with the bird. From the Latin." A pause. "And he has a certain bird of prey air about him."

He falls silent at the question from Byron, as Tobin starts to explain what he'd found there. A slow nod, and he lifts his gaze from contemplating her warm hand in his, to look back at Byron. "I wouldn't ask, if I didn't think it was necessary. You both have the strongest bonds with her that I know of, and - although I can't say I've done this before, I think that it's important. To have that. Other options exist, but I suspect the success rate would be lower." Even so, he tries to keep his voice even, just laying it out as he sees it.

Byron will accept Alexander's answer on the falcon, believing that a person could look like a bird of prey.

It Tobin hadn't brought up having already probed into Isabella's mind, Byron would have missed it. Though when the pair go on about how teamwork was the best option, which he is normally fine about, there's this look of wariness in his eyes, but he doesn't look on either of them, allowing his gaze to settle on Isabella. "So how exactly do we do this? Boost one's power etc?"

"We'll need to create a link," Tobin explains, knowing that wary look in Byron's eyes, "Which I understand if you don't want to do. Alexander and I can try with just the two of us if we need to. But, we're going to need to link our powers together, and then focus them into getting through the defenses that are around her to reach in and project our thoughts to her, to lead her back out of wherever she is." That's the best way that he can explain it. "She's stuck in there. And we can't leave her there." His tone has that same, gentle, even quality that it always has. That he is a powerful mentalist was evident from the moment he shot lightning out of his fingertips during that ill fated boat tour when Lilith came back to town, and he hasn't bothered to deny it since.

Alexander lifts his hand from Isabella's to gesture at Tobin, in agreement with everything the man has said. "If you'd rather just monitor us, and pull us out of the link if something goes wrong, then that would still be a big help," he offers. A sidelong glance to Tobin. "I've done some fairly deep manipulation of people, in the past, but not to break anyone out of a catatonia. I was thinking that, if she's retreated out of trauma, then we might be able to make a connection with her at a point where she felt safe. Like a childhood memory, something that wouldn't bring her defenses up quite so high."

From where Byron stands, he can clearly see how brightly the light within both Tobin and Alexander shines in his eyes. Though he wears this semi-amused smile on his lips, there's a definite wary shift of his eyes as he looks between both. Out of the three of them, however, Byron knows Isabella best, but is he willing to give these two a chance to probe into his mind for her?

Clayton's suggestion gets a long side-glance from Thorne. "You make it sound like I'm the only one who would /not/ want anyone else in my head. It's crazy to think that anyone would just allow it." He makes a point of stating, before his arms cross over his chest and he takes another drink from his still warm coffee. "You both have far more experience in this than I do. I'll observe." This is said point blank, bu there's this edge of annoyance in his voice.

"I don't particularly want anyone in my head," Tobin says to Byron with a slight shake of his, "And generally speaking, I refrain from being intrusive. But this," he gestures to Isabella's prone form, "is not a normal situation. This is a friend locked inside her own mind, who needs help getting out again. I'm willing to do it for her. And I trust you." And he does. Tobin has always trusted Byron, his entire life, from the time that they were children. "But I also respect your privacy." His smile is just as warm, seeming to understand, and not to judge even when Byron declines and sounds annoyed. He nods and then says to Alexander. "We can try together. We're going to bring her back."

There's an exasperated breath from Alexander. He raises his hand to rub at his face. "Even in a link, it's not like we get free run - I build a sort of," a pause, "sort of a receiving room, in my mind. For communication and a link that can be used to share what I want other people to know, without dumping my whole brain on them at once. I can show you how. If you ever want." But that's all the pressure that he exerts in that direction. He turns to Tobin, and nods. "Of course we are." He'd like to sound confident about that, but he's not a very good liar. He does offer a brief smile. "All right. Let's do this."

Then he closes his eyes, both hands returning to hold Isabella's. He doesn't need the physical contact any more than Tobin does. Not really. But it makes him feel better, and in something like this, perception can be reality. He takes a deep breath, then tries to reach out with his mind, offering a line to Tobin, to help build a bridge between the two of them. His mental landscape, or what he chooses to show of it, is a void filled with stars made of reflective glass, sharp and in constant motion, reflecting bright light and darkness in equal measure.

Tobin nods to Alexander and can't help but joking a little, "For which I'm grateful, Alexander. There's only so much that I want to know." But it's clear that he's teasing just a bit. "It's the same for me, though I'm not sure I would have described it the same way." He's not sure how he would have described it at all, since he's never had to try before. He nods though, when Alexander seems ready to begin. He sits down, mostly so he doesn't have to concentrate on standing. He doesn't close his eyes, but he does take a deep breath and lets it out, and tries to open himself up, to lower his natural resistance so that he can pick up that thread that Alexander is throwing out without him needing to expend much effort. As he does, he cants his head just a little bit to the side, and then says, "I feel you." It's more for Byron's sake than Alexander's, since he could simply speak through that link otherwise.

While Byron knows Tobin well enough, with the pair going a long way back, he should know better, but at this moment, he can't help but feel like he's being guilt tripped into help Isabella. There's evident conflict on his features, the way that those dark eyes hold a great intensity, his gaze staring down at her prone form. There's a tight set of his jaw, a grinding of his teeth. He avoids eye contact with Tobin for the moment, or else the latter would probably catch a glare from him, but one that wouldn't actually be directed at Gilford, specifically. The entire room, anywhere that his gaze fell would fall beneath the harsh look.

Then Alexander adds more to it and this makes him bristle, "How do you know that, Clayton?" He asks, finally turning towards someone other than Isabella. "How do you know that someone might not accidentally tap into the things that you'd rather them not know?" Those fooled by Byron's confidence in the past may be taken by surprise that there are things he's willing to hide from his past, since he always projected someone with the perfect life, even as a child, hiding away all the bad within his mind. Those things that still linger there. "You can have the strongest mind and someone would still find a way, unknowingly or not, to tap into it." He's obviously not going to accept this offered help from Clayton, of all people. But he has his reasons for this as well.

For someone with the perfect life, Byron is incredibly protective of his memories and his mind, for that's the basis of you who you truly are.

He'll quiet down to allow them to do their work as he pretends to enjoy the cup of coffee in hand, which only tastes bitter the more he drinks it.

Alexander can multi-task fairly well. He keeps his touch on Tobin's mind light, just enough to establish a connection. It's the first time he's ever tried to communicate in this way with the man, after all, and whatever he might say, there's a certain wariness to that. Particularly with how powerful Tobin is. His mouth quirks up at Tobin's quip. "I promise not to project anything that will involve me or anyone else naked," he says, oh so solemnly, in return.

He doesn't look at Byron, since his eyes are closed, but he doesn't need to for him to hear the irritation and unease in him. "Because if you're guarding those, we couldn't accidentally tap into them. What we do - it isn't telepathy. I can't take your bank account numbers out of your head. I can push images or sounds into your mind, and I can read your emotions, and if that's strongly connected to a specific memory, I might be able to pick up hints of that, but the link? It's entirely consensual. If there's anything out there, then it's because on some level I want it there. Or at least don't mind it. That's why it's so hard to reach Isabella, in part. She's blocked off. Nothing about this is going to be subtle." His voice is somewhat remote, academic. He's answering with half his attention. The other half is reaching out for Isabella, now. "Tobin. On three?" His voice is tight. Breaking someone's defenses isn't something he does lightly, and whether he admits it or not, the thought of doing it to Isabella, even in her state, is distressing.

Lies. Is the first thing that comes to Byron's mind when Alexander tries to explain things further. He doesn't want to interrupt whatever it is that they are doing, so he keeps his thoughts to himself, even if he has doubts to much of what Alexander has said due to his own personal experiences from his past. Though at the time, he had no understanding of any of it. Perhaps if this conversation came up again, he'll have more to say, but for know, he's the silent observer in the room.

Tobin can't help but laugh at that and says, "Well, I mean, you can, but I make no claim as to be able to concentrate if you're going to start projecting porn in my head," despite the gravity of the situation. A little levity sometimes is needed in order to ease the creeping tension. He doesn't need to be an empath to feel the frustration in Byron. It's written all over him. He glances over in Byron's direction for a moment, but he says nothing to hi for right now, just offering him that same reassuring gaze, before refocusing on Isabella. There'll be time to talk about things later, but for now, there's an open link established. "On three," he confirms, no longer joking, and no longer smiling. His expression shifts to one of deep concentration, and though his eyes are open, it's clear that he's not looking at whatever is in front of him.

Gently, he projects calm toward Alexander, with a light touch, attempting to help him focus. He knows this is hard, not by sensing it supernaturally, but because he knows that it has to be hard for him to see her this way, and to have to be the one to try and help. So Tobin lends his support, in every way that he knows how, and then reaches out toward Isabella as well, gently, to once more reach for the link, and then he waits. And on three, he summons up every ounce of his considerable ability and gives a firm shove against those defenses, to try and get their message through.

There's a moment of instinctive resistance from Alexander as he feels the calm seep down the link - a sense of wary, gathering power, like a snake rearing back, unsure whether to strike or not. It's only a moment, though, and after assessing it, he actually allows that calm to wrap around him, slowing his breath and strengthening his focus. The rotation of distant stars slows and syncs, creating bewildering patterns of light and shadow.

His power is a knife, sliding in with Tobin's, cutting at the weakening points of Isabella's defenses with a surgical precision. When they're through, his body jerks on the bed a little, his hands tightening on Isabella's as they fall into the depths. His mental self is as fluid as wind or water, flowing out of the way of the sudden, looming shape. Like Tobin, he forces himself to speak physically, rather than just through the link. "We're in. We're going to have to restrain that, I think. Before it tears us apart, preferably." And yet, there's admiration and even a little awe in his voice as he drinks in the sight of the fiery beast. It's beautiful in all its unleashed ferocity, and even though it very well might flash fry their brains, he can't help but enjoy the sight of it.

As he's not one of those delving deep into Isabella's mind, Byron could sit down and try to relax. Instead, he remains standing, lingering somewhere near the bed on which Isabella rests. He continues to observe with a watchful eye, taking a sip from his cup of coffee every so often, while remaining incredibly attentive. Now he has to come to wonder if whatever happened to Isabella was also happening to Lilith, but unlike Alexander, he'd received no message from Lilith regarding anything. His mind returns to that phone in his pocket even if he doesn't reach in there to grab it and check his messages again.

Any odd movement or shift made will catch his attention, so he does notice when Alexander's grip on Isabella's hand tightens. Uncertain now on whether he should say anything, less break their concentration on the work at hand, after some thought, Byron asks, "What do you see?"

It's only once they begin to actually start their work against Isabella's defenses that Tobin's eyes drift closed, now immersed in a different sort of sight. He is silent, though, making no sound as he feels that encroaching presence, and when the fiery serpent confronts them, the only real outward sign of it is the slight indrawn breath that echoes the gasp inside of his mind. It's something to be hold, the sheer power of it, running rampant through Isabella's psyche, and a new experience for him, to feel its presence quite so viscerally.

Now that he is inside and confronted by that mental landscape, he's only vaguely aware of Byron's voice outside of the link asking what they see. He doesn't answer, not now. Instead, he focuses on those chains, the ones around its ankles and neck.

He extends his senses toward them, to try and tighten them once more, to try and weaken the rampaging beast, still not entirely sure what the best way to approach it is, but standing his ground despite the power of the creature before him, rather than retreating.

Alexander is fairly good at multi-tasking; although his 'eyes' are full of the sight of what's inside Isabella's mentalscape, enough of him is still attuned to the world outside to hear and understand Byron's question. Enough, at least, to murmur in response, "...there's a dragon in here."

Which might, then, at least reduce some of the confusion when that fire rakes across his presence in the dream, and the investigator drops Isabella's hand to clap both hands over his ears, doubling over with a groan as his head shrieks with pain and disorientation. He holds the link as it wavers and frays. "Tobin. Are you okay?" It's spoken and sent at once, creating a peculiar doubling effect for Tobin. Even as he asks, Alexander recovers enough to start to try and distract the beast again. Reluctant to cause injury to this representation of Isabella's power, he instead tries to muster his own power (and augh, it's like there are BEES in his SKULL) to weave an illusion around the beast. Music and calm, subtle lights and safety.

It should come as a surprise to no one that Tobin's psychic form manifests as, well, Tobin -- unobtrusive, unimpressive, could probably use a haircut Tobin Gilford. The only real difference is the fact that his eyes are a rather intense shade of blue that gleam with the power behind his abilities that he is so used to keeping to himself. Here, one can sense just how much he is capable of. Even so, when that comet-like tail comes whipping toward him, the sound he makes is a strangled one as he attempts to dodge its fury. The heat of it blows him back, causing him to stiffen and ball his hands into fists. "Yes," he manages through clenched teeth, barely able to hold on to both the link and to his focus on the dragon before them.

As soon as he manages to catch his breath, he makes another attempt, once more to try and use those chains to bind it, to trap it so that they can get it under control.

There's a wince from Alexander, a shiver down his spine as Tobin takes another hit from the beast. It's not that he's really planning things, but he slides in closer to the dragon, his mental power shifting from soothing to something more aggressive. He joins in with the attempt to wreath the beast in chains, grabbing one of the ones on the shattered ground, and trying to reattach it to that broken collar. Maybe the beast will be more tractable if the range of motion of its head is restricted.

Tobin curls up on himself in the room, lifting his hands and grabbing ahold of his head, drawing in a hissing breath as that mental lash burns into his mind. His breathing is deep and quick as he tries to regain control. While Alexander moves in closer to try and strengthen the chains, Tobin instead switches places with him, focusing on the connection itself, and attempting to exude those soothing energies outward, a formidable task with his brain on fire.

In the real world, Alexander sways in place, sweat beading on his skin and his hands falling to brace on his thighs. His breath is shallow and pained. "You ever...get the feeling...this was a bad idea?" he mutters and sends, both voices wavering with the effort. But he doesn't give up. The stars pull closer, his attention focusing as he grabs that chain again. The dragon shall be leashed.

Or his girlfriend is going to psychically broil his brain. That could also happen.

The noise that Tobin makes could be agreement, could just be the pain of the lingering burning sensation in his head as he tries to keep the soothing illusion that Alexander started going, radiating calm, radiating a feeling of peace. This is slightly more in his wheelhouse than taking the offensive anyway, and so as the mind searing begins to ease up, he continues to hold the connection and the illusion, weaving those threads together.

While he takes a semi-casual stance with his lingering in the beginning of all of this, Byron's posture shifts when he notices the physical strain that both Alexander and Tobin put forth in the attempts to, well, all he can guess is to soothe whatever beast is in Isabella's mind. He has a lot of questions, regarding her current state. Whether it was induced by this Peregrine or whatever it was that he had put her through.

Placing his near empty cup of coffee down on the shelf besides the childhood photograph, he takes a step forward to try and get a better grasp of what's going on. He says nothing for now, looking between the two, before he seeks out answers on his own, his own mental attempts to gauge Isabella's mind separate from their attempts. Not linking with either of them.

By the end of it, Alexander's fingers have dug into his thighs hard enough that, if the jeans came off, he would find ten red marks that are probably going to bruise in a bit. His head is ringing from the dragon's struggles, and when the chain finally holds, there's a palpable burst of relief and exhaustion slipping down the link to Tobin. And an image, wavering from exhaustion: A little emoji person doing a cheering motion. It even has pompoms.

Alexander's brain is a little weird when he's punch drunk.

But he's still aware enough to notice the dragon starting to narrow in again on Tobin. He clucks his tongue at it again, much in the same way he chides his cat, fond and stern all at the same time. "None of that, my dear. He's a friend." His voice - mental and otherwise - is ragged and tired.

When Alexander finally gets the beast chained, Tobin continues that steady calming presence. He meets that large green eye's gaze with his own, unwavering, but gentle. It is only once the dragon curls up once more to rest, that he begins to draw back, making sure that Alexander as well is ready to withdraw, and then gradually letting the illusion ebb. The tension in his body eases as well, though he remains slumped over, cross-legged on the floor with his head in his hands, just breathing. That was definitely unlike anything he'd ever attempted to do before, and it takes him a moment before his senses recombobulate in the here and now in the room. "Did you know your girlfriend has brain dragons?" is the first thing that he asks when he manages to speak.

Unlike the others, Byron comes in with a fresh mind, not having the ordeal and strain of putting up with the creature protecting the woman's mind. He's not in sync with Alexander and Tobin, something which he prefers, but in the dragon's weakened state, he has an easier time probing the situation, though he only gains a sense or a glimpse of the others there through Isabella's mind alone. Seeing that the dragon has its eye on what Byron can sense is Tobin, there's this sound of frustration from him before he says in a stern tone, "Bella."

"Bella." He speaks out again, his brow furrowed, "Remember who you are. Remember who /we/ are." He lifts a hand in her direction in a reassuring manner, "Remember when we used to hang out during the summers at the cove?" His tone lightens, his lips upturned into a faint smile, "It was hot, but that's why we retreated there. All three of us. To get away from the heat, it was one of your favorite places."

Alexander slips out of the link shortly after Tobin does, with an exhausted sound. He slumps over where he's sitting, unclenches his hands, and rubs wearily at his face. Still, Tobin's quiet question draws a chuff of laughter, tired but warm with genuine amusement. "She is a fierce and willful creature, Mr. Gilford. I've never seen the dragon before, but let's say that if I were pressed to name a 'spirit animal' for her, that would be a good one." He shakes his head and blinks eyes that have gone bloodshot with tiny broken blood vessels. "God, my brain is on fire. Are you okay?"

When he can look around, he notices Byron's focus, and makes a soft sound of concern. Still, he's not going to disturb the man in whatever he's doing - while he may have concerns about Thorne, sometimes, he doesn't see him doing harm to Isabella.

Tobin can't help but laugh a little, himself. It's that sort of laugh that's not really because something's so much funny, as a release of built up tension. When Alexander asks if he is okay, he nods his head a little bit and says, "Yeah.. I feel like someone rubbed ghost peppers on the inside of my skull.. but I'll be fine." He looks up then to notice Byron as well, and says nothing, looking back over toward Isabella, not sure what to expect at this point.

Byron can sense the others slowly breaking their link from Isabella somewhere behind him, despite that in the physical world, he's the one hovering behind them. He can understand the dragon's... no Isabella's wariness, his own mind works in a similar fashion. He only wishes that his own defenses were as effective as her dragon seems to be. It's something that he'll need to work on...

His hand reaches out to touch to creature's snout, in the real world they can see his hand shift in position and rather than extend in that helping hand sort of way, it looks as if he may try to pet big ferocious creature. When the dragon moves in a slightly startled motion, he slows his own motion, "It's okay. We're here to help, Bella." He makes sure to add emphasis when speaking her name, "It's just Alexander," One of the rare times that he actually mentions Clayton's first name in the man's presence, but in Byron's mind, he's alone here with Isabella despite his words, "Tobin and Byron. It's safe to come out now. You're safe now."

It's her, but not her - just a piece of her without thought or conscience, the part of her that she is afraid of the most. With the link re-established thanks to the tired men in front of Byron, however, they are able to leave the one who has the longest history with her to do the rest. The dragon does nothing at least, as he attempt to reassure it, comet-tail flicking somewhere behind. But it says nothing either - now that the chaos has subsided and the battle has been won, it is disconcertingly, eeriely silent in Isabella's mindspace. It would be Byron's very first indicator that there is a more serious, permanent problem somewhere past the void beyond the dragon's overwhelming presence.

But that isn't the immediate objective.

The hand extends to the massive maw and the snout. The half-blind dragon lowers its head up until the man's psychic image is reflected within the one working iris and the unseeing one, mirroring two subtly different Byron Thornes within each. Finally, slowly, the fiery snout leans forward to press into the palm, both large eyes closing. He would get the sense that the wariness and defensiveness are bleeding away in a rush.

Silently, it starts to shift away, resigned to its chains. He would get the impression that it is safe to leave the space, but the dragon will continue watching Byron as it coils up against itself and rests.

Outside of her head, Isabella's eyes snap open and lets loose a small gasp, as if submerged until the point of drowning, only for her head to finally break out of the water's surface. Disoriented and confused, she's already moving, instincts taking over. She doesn't know how long she has been lying on her back, easy pickings for whatever threat there is, but she's trying to rectify the problem. A small, strangled cry leaves her lips.

"Well, that's an image both vivid and disturbing, Mister Gilford." Alexander laughs, again. "Accurate, though." He keeps one eye on Isabella and Byron even as he offers Tobin a brief smile. Then Isabella gasps, and Alexander's entire attention is riveted on her. "Isabella?" He speaks immediately, but recognizing that form of disoriented waking from his own frequent night terrors, he doesn't try to touch her or restrain her in any way. Not at first. Instead, he scoots back to give her space, and says again, "Isabella. You're safe. People are here, they're your friends, and you're safe."

"The sensation is both vivid and disturbing, Mister Clayton," Tobin shoots back with a faint smile as he watches Isabella, glancing over to give Alexander a little nod. When Isabella suddenly jolts upright as though coming up from drowning, he freezes where he is, not wanting to move to startle her any further, and letting Alexander do all the talking. She'd be expecting his voice, probably Byron's, but definitely not Tobin. So he just watches, for the moment, remaining seated on the floor where he is, figuring that's probably a pretty non-threatening place to be.

A quiet mind isn't something terribly bad in Byron's opinion. But then this felt different than when he used to try and force himself to clear his own mind to leave an empty, quiet space there. Unknown to him, at the time, he was starting to build those walls that protect his mind now, though they were still fragile things back in the day. As he prepares to make his own departure, an almost sympathetic look is given the resigned dragon. That's the last that he sees, their eyes observing each other before he blinks, breaking that bond.

Breathing in a deep breath before releasing it out as a heavy sigh, he returns back to his cup to finish off what little is left of his coffee. "Good work." That's what he tends to say in these situations when he's forced to work with others. It's semi-friendly, but also a touch professional in tone when he utters it. Those dark eyes only briefly look between the two men before tilting his head back with the rim of the mug to his lips.

Her heart is in her throat and drumming loudly against it. Isabella's eyes manage to take in Alexander's face, first, being the closest person to her given that he's perched on the bed, and then over to Byron and...Tobin Gilford? Her elevated breathing takes up much of her cognitive functions at the moment, however, and for a few minutes she doesn't trust herself to speak. But some semblance of calm, and largely due to the investigator's experience in similar things, descends on her since nobody is trying to touch her or hold her down - actions guaranteed to turn her into a combative, flailing harpy.

Her fingers fly upwards, a habit when she's uncertain, to brush her fingertips over the cold bite of her moonstone pendant, feeling its chill slice deeply into her heated skin. Her emerald eyes drop down to all the objects that Alexander had placed on her mattress in an effort to draw her out without the Talent, and then back up to the faces surrounding her bed.

"....oh, god," she whispers, her voice low and hoarse as she takes in Alexander's bloodshot eyes and Tobin's exhausted form on the ground. "What happened?" Though by the way the query leaves her lips, it sounds like a different question entirely as fragments and pieces of what she last remembers fall into place: What did I do? A hand reaches out, slowly, to touch the side of the investigator's face, as if to assure herself that she is actually awake and that this is reality - he looks like he's aged ten years since she's last saw him, eyes red-rimmed and body hunched with fatigue. Her face twists under the vicious demands of her self-recrimination.

Most of those years, and another five besides, are wiped away when Alexander grins. And he grins now, a pure and simple expression of joy as Isabella reaches for his face. He leans into the touch, lifts a hand to hold hers against his cheek for a moment. "Hey, sweetheart," he says, soft and fond. "Good to have you back." As her face twists, he reaches out and boops her on the nose with one finger. "Stop. Whatever you're thinking, just stop. You were kidnapped, and someone hurt you. Byron and I and a few others found you, brought you back, and then we and Tobin just woke you up. Nothing to be concerned about."

Okay, so sometimes Alexander does lie. Or at least only tell the parts of the truth that he's interested in sharing.

Tobin relaxes once it doesn't appear that Isabella is going to suddenly lash out or anything terrible is about to happen. His shoulders relax a little bit and he smiles faintly. "Hi, Isabella," he finally says once Alexander's offered up his explanation for what'd happened. He doesn't seem to feel inclined to elaborate on it either. "How are you feeling?" he asks, and then glances over in Byron's direction, studying him some now that the whole ordeal seems to be over.

Byron handles this situation in the same way he used to handle the stresses in his life. He often downplayed the effects that it had on him. That doesn't mean that he withdraws himself and becomes aloof to his emotions, that wouldn't seem natural at all. The cup is set back down and he joins the others, giving Isabella this relieved grin. "Welcome back, Izzy." His brows lift and he lets out another sigh, "You had us worried there for a moment. But we're all good now that you're back." When his gaze meets with Tobin, his best friend will notice this spark in Thorne's eyes, giving way to his 'easy-going' personality. He looks mostly relaxed, even if there are subtle tell-tale signs, despite moving in that relaxed, casual way that he tends to to exude his confidence, there's a hint of tension in his shoulders and posture.

It might not be the best time, but he needs to know, "What exactly happened? How did you end up at the church?"

Sweetheart, he says. Isabella says nothing for a long moment even after she gets booped on the nose. Her thumb absently refreshes itself with the shape of his cheekbone, the disorientation and guilt fading away - though not completely, for the latter - at the wake of that expressive, wholehearted smile. Finally, however, she smiles back, wryness playing over the pliant curve. "You've never called me that before," she tells him quietly, her old mischief surfacing because that, too, is an irrepressible creature, and part and parcel of her. "Maybe I ought to do the Sleeping Beauty act more often."

Always like lightning, with this propensity to use her sense of humor as armor. Fingers threaded in his, there's no shame in her when she drops her head slightly to press her lips against his battered knuckles and lowers both on the covers. The gesture is a casual thing, but that is deceptive - she grips his fingers warmly, but tightly.

Tobin's question earns him a grateful, and apologetic, look. "My head feels like it's about to burst." At least they're not the only ones! "Like an overripe tomato. Um...sorry for the mess. It's not always like this in my boat, I promise." She actually does look genuinely embarrassed. She doesn't know the other young man well, despite being only a year older, and here he is, roped in to help. "I owe you," she adds, softly.

To Byron, her expression softens considerably when he flashes her a grin. "B, I..." The statement is tentative, but whatever she is about to say, there's something about how he holds himself that makes her decide against it. Later, she decides; they were due a long conversation anyway. Shoulders relax slowly, loosened further by a long exhale. "When I came back here, my pendant was missing - after the City Hall meeting," she tells him. "I came back here and realized it was no longer on me. So I went to look out for it. I..." Sheepishness overtakes her expression, and a degree of displeasure. "I had to use to find it - I walked around the Park..." There's a pause, and she wrinkles her nose in memory. "Accidentally set Patrick Addington on fire, but that's another story. I just kept spreading my net until I finally felt a ping at the Church - they were setting up for some kind of wedding, and the planner protested when I arrived but I told her I dropped something that meant a lot to me and I was going to be able to find it easily. And then I followed it to the back room..."

Her voice grows absent there, her expression suddenly cloudy.

"Please don't," Alexander says, quick and hard. He's nowhere near as good at hiding his emotions as Byron - or, let's face it, at all. So any attempt he was making to play this off as a mildly interesting diversion and not something that he never wants to see happen again? All gone in that single abrupt response.

He squeezes her hand in return until the joints creak. But he falls silent to let Byron's question stand, and her answer fill the room. A grunt. "That room was crowded, at City Hall. Would have been easy enough to slip it off your neck with the power your assailant was throwing around - even if some of it was yours," he adds, with a sigh. "I'm sorry, Isabella. I should have stayed with you instead of filling out those damned forms." A pause. "Although good job setting Patrick on fire. I'm sure he deserved it."

"You were kidnapped, and used in some sort of ritual as a...battery. Of power." It's bluntly stated; now that she's had to cast her mind back to the events, he clearly decides she'd rather have knowledge than a disturbing gap. "No one was permanently injured."

"You don't owe me anything, Isabella," Tobin says with a shake of his head and one of those warm smiles that are naught but genuine. "I'm just glad that I was able to help, and that you're okay, I mean, minus the searing headache. Would you like some advil or something? Some water?" He finally pulls himself up off the floor and asks Alexander "You?" Maybe he could use one, himself. But for the moment he just waits to see what they need. In the meantime, he studies Byron. He's well familiar with that smile and the underlying tension beneath it. His fingers only very briefly touch the man's shoulder as he passes him. He says nothing, though. Doesn't need to. He lets others handle explanations.

If anything, Byron's inquiries are asked to not only gain answers on Isabella's ordeal, but to get a bigger picture of what exactly is going on during the autumn season, nevermind during his festival. "City Hall?" He asks curiously, "Why were you-- Ahh, the protest." And he'll leave it at that, it's none of his concern. "Does this mean Peregrine was at City Hall at the time? Perhaps he's the reason why she lost in the pendant in the first place." He doesn't mention any sort of glimmer powers, but he definitely means exactly that.

Hearing Patrick Addington's name, there's a mixture of amusement and concern in his expression, "Addington is one of my tenants, just so you know." He's already got enough bad press for the Apartments with things happening to his high profile tenants! One of his hand fishes into his pocket finally, he feels his phone, but what he reaches for is that old key which he'd found in the church. He'd kept it. "I'm not even quite sure what happened in the church, but I remembered looking through the pews as children and the missals and... This may have been a set up, but it's almost as if someone wanted us to find you."

There's no discomfort when her joints pop at the force of Alexander's return squeeze, and even his harsh response is more of a balm to her at the present moment. Isabella must be in a mood, because there's no bladed retort of any kind directed his way. Instead, her other hand folds over his squeezing own, in a coincidental mirror of what had transpired before; this time, it's his hand that is sandwiched between her own.

"Accidentally," is what she says instead. "Accidentally set on fire." And if she keeps saying it, nobody will be able to prove otherwise. But that brief spark of levity fades, and gives way to a visible frown at Alexander's apology. "I'm not about to demand that you accompany me every hour of the day," she tells him firmly. "We have a system, and sometimes systems fail. Now we can fix it. There's absolutely no way this could have been anticipated - strange events, yes, but targeted ones?" Especially one out of a whim? Not that she knows that, she didn't have the discussion with the organist. Though at the man's blunt description of what happened, she makes a face and glances down at her covers.

"A battery," she repeats, in a tone that's both curious and hollow. "I remember going to the back room, picking up my necklace and someone grabbing my wrist. I turned around with a punch and I remember connecting. Whoever it was, he was in a suit. And I didn't stay, the moment I hit him, I started running." She furrows her brows. "The door closed on its own and when I turned back around again, there were..." Her brows scrunch up in thought. "...flowers. Yellow ones. Like lilies. And then everything went hazy, like...sinking into a warm bath, or..." Her lips part in memory. "...he had gloves on and I couldn't see his eyes. He was touching my face. He seemed older, though...like...in his fifties, maybe? He kept making shushing noises and I listened because..." Her expression shifts into a far away look again. "I don't know why I listened..."

Her eyes lift to Byron when he presents the key and she recognizes it with a blink. "The one that goes to the old priest's chambers? That was the room I found my necklace in. We used to be so curious as to what was in there because that's where they kept the ceremonial wafers and we thought they were cookies, but I don't think...it can't have been for that reason, could it? There's no way."

When Tobin rises, she smiles faintly at him though she still looks embarrassed. The grateful cast to her expression returns. "There's a big bottle of Excedrin in the bathroom, some water would be great. I think we could all use some. Thanks, Tobin."

Her attention shifting to Byron again, it becomes more inquiring. "Did you find Lil?"

Alexander nods to Tobin. "Please." A glance at Isabella. He's not letting go of her hand. Especially when Byron responds. "He probably was. Or somewhere around there." His shoulders roll. "I couldn't tell you what he looked like; the fog was too thick." The key is given a curious glance, and he turns his eyes back to Isabella to see if the key means anything to her. Also to look at her. He likes looking at her right now. He listens to her account of the man, and closes his eyes, trying to remember details from the conversation he had with the organist.

Being the victim of his own kidnapping, Byron flatly brings up, "While what happened to me is in no way similar to what happened to you, I wonder if there's some connection to any of this at all. Something targeting us." Whether it be those who have come together more recently to stop William Gohl or, perhaps, just a group of friends who had lived and grown up as children. "I can't prove anything of course and the circumstances are different. The players who have taken part in this are different." The motivations may also be different. Though this is nothing that he comes out to say, it's something that's on his mind.

Understanding Isabella's feelings of this ordeal, he's not about to leave the key here at all and he slips it back into his pocket before he forgets about it accidentally. He also remembers those moments from their past as mischievous children trying to find a way into the priest's chambers. Despite his acts of bravado, Byron was a somewhat cautious child, so while that was all fun and games, he always had it in his mind that they would be found out and their parents would be called.

At the mention of Lilith, he shakes his head. Lilith made three, if his fears hold any truth. "Not yet. I'm just glad to have you back." Reaching for the empty cup to place into the sink, he says, "I'll let you know if I find anything."

"Yes, it could have been an older man. Very well-educated. Urbane. Affable, even, if you ignore the trying to taunt me into a fight and trying to torture a lot of people, and harming Isabella. None of which I do." Alexander's eyes open, and he seems to relax a bit from some tension that had been so present that it's more notable about it's absence than its existence. He sits back, and studies Byron. "It's possible. Peregrine said that it was an...impulse action. But it's hard to say if anything he said was true."

Another long pause. "I don't believe I thanked you, Thorne. For stopping me in the room. I was acting like an idiot, and I appreciate your intervention. Thanks."

Tobin returns from the kitchen with three glasses of water and the bottle of Excedrin, offering the bottle to Isabella and one glass, the other glass to Alexander, and taking his own. He'd already taken a couple of Excedrin in the kitchen before returning. He leans up against the wall comfortably, no longer needing to sit for fear of toppling over while not paying attention to his own body. He is mostly quiet, up until Lilith is mentioned, then Tobin asks, "What have we tried so far as trying to locate her goes?"

"Difficult to say," Isabella tells Byron quietly. "I mean, before I even got to the Church, dinosaur children tried to kill me and everyone else in the Park and I bet incidents like what happened to you and me are happening everywhere." There is a glance at Alexander. "Maybe I should stay with you, or maybe you should stay with me until the festival is over."

Byron's last remark has her smiling faintly. "It'll take more than this to keep me from getting to where I need and want to be," she tells him, a resurgence of her usual bravado returning along with a defiant tilt of her jaw. Word of the fact that Lilith is still missing, though, sobers that quite quickly. "I'll help you look once I can drive again." Which won't be long - she has been unconscious for hours.

There's a quiet look towards Tobin, taking the glass and aspirin. She has to let go of Alexander's hand to do it, and there's some reluctance there, but she's galvanized by the idea that she might have to go out again sooner rather than later so she takes a determined swallow of three white pills and downs it with water.

And then, her fingers find Alexander's again once she's set bottle and glass aside.

"Wait, you talked to him?" There's a hint of alarm, one that she tries to bury by clipping her teeth into her lower lip, and at the thanks he gives Byron, she stares at them both. The question is in her eyes - what the hell happened??

But she says nothing else, if not just to listen to replies, and some idea behind the lack of progress of finding Lilith.

Listening to Alexander's vocal description of this Peregrine, Byron nods once. That's not much to go by, less you expect to speak to everyone you meet. However, when he hears Isabella mention the festival, /HIS/ festival as if it were some sort of curse upon the town, something that people should be afraid to be alone in, there's this brief look of annoyance in his eyes which quickly fade.

Though at what Alexander says next, thanking him for keeping him out of the room before his actions could hurt both Clayton and Isabella, Thorne gives another nod, his features softening to something akin to smile again. "While I'd normally be fine with allowing people to do things that they would later regret, that was not the case in this situation."

Then there's offers to help look for Lilith and he turns to Tobin, "I've checked everywhere that she should have been at. I've done readings of the locations but with our abilities being capped, nerfed, whatever," Not that Byron, himself, has used his for long distance tasks until shortly before Gohl's funeral, "It's harder to try and get a sense of where she might be. That just tells me that she's in a Dream or the Veil somewhere." He doesn't openly accept the offers of help, but the longer he lingers around here, the more time he was wasting. "Bella, you get your rest." He looks to Alexander, "And you keep an eye on her, Clayton."

That leaves Tobin. "I'm not going to keep you from your work, I'm just going to go back and see if she's returned or not."

"Thank you, Tobin," Alexander says and takes the bottle with gratitude. He pops four of the suckers and washes them down with water. "I would suggest finding a mover. One strong enough to get people in and out of the Veil. Easton, maybe, or Itzhak. I think either of them would help with no questions asked. Once over there, give her a mind call, or just look for her...mental signature. It may not work - distance is a thing I don't know if it really exists the same way as it does here. But it seems like the logical next step. I can't think of any mortal enemies that Miss Winslow has."

He nods to Isabella, taking her hand without hesitation. "I don't think this fellow is just around because of the festival. But for the next day or two, I'd feel more comfortable if I stayed with you. You should have familiar surroundings." A nod to Byron. A hesitation, before he points out, "You know that if you want help, any of us will. And if you don't, please take a security person with you while you roam around."

He furrows his brow and gives Byron a long, considering stare. "And keep us informed, whether you want our help or not. If it goes twelve hours without a check-in, I'm going to call you."

Tobin studies Byron in silence from where he leans, taking a sip from his glass of water. He doesn't bother to remind him that he owns the place and thus can wander away pretty much whenever he needs to. He knows very well it has nothing to do with his need to work or not, but he doesn't bother disputing it. Instead he says, "If I hear anything, I will let you know." He's fine with doing his own searching on his own. She's his friend, too. Besides, he wasn't offering help, just asking what had already been done. That he's going to help is a foregone conclusion. "You're welcome," he says to Alexander. Then his lips tick just a little bit at the corners when Alexander reminds Byron to check in. He wasn't going to say it, but he seems to appreciate someone doing so.

She would be the first to admit that she can be insensitive - that is, in fact, one of the things she has told Alexander the first time they actually had a fight. At that flash of annoyance, her expression shifts from determined to contrite at the drop of a hat. She didn't mean to.

Alexander's suggestions as to how to look for Lilith are sound and once again, there's a hint of both longing, regret and frustration on Isabella's features, reminded of the years when she could easily do what the investigator suggests. She and Byron have that in common; over-reliance on the talents of others was anathema to their natures - but if there is any exception worth mentioning and taking into account, it would be any excursion to the Veil, especially when looking for someone. "August told me he was going to Portland soon," she supplies to the rest quietly. "To test and see if what happened here happened elsewhere. He knows some thin points there because he grew up there. It might be time to collect some data, regardless, once everyone's accounted for."

There's a tight squeeze on the investigator's hand at his words. It isn't out of fear, not really, and while largely grateful for his presence and reassurances, it isn't just that. There's concern there - she and Byron aren't the only ones having a rough go of it the last few days. "Okay," Isabella tells him quietly, her thumb absently rolling over one of his faded scars.

She sneaks a shared grin over at Tobin when Alexander threatens Byron some needed pestering if he doesn't check in, but one that she attempts to clear off her face before Byron sees.

Alexander's suggestion makes Byron take pause. Right, he had brought up entering the Veil earlier when Lilith's disappearance was brought up. Of the two names mentioned, he barely knew of them and the other wasn't someone he was particularly close to. "Noted. I don't know how the Veil or Dreams work or whether one can sense someone if you've entered one, but they are in the other." Sensing her mental signature is what he's been doing this whole time, the mind call thing was never an option. Something that never really comes to his mind to do, but he makes a mental note of it, his expression never changing.

Then Clayton brings up mortal enemies. This was the first thing that came to Byron's mind due to recent events. "If something happened to her because of something mundane, I think I would've sensed it by now. Her car is still parked at the pawn shop. I got nothing telling off of that either." Isabella's bringing up August doesn''t a nod, but it comes with an acknowledging look at the very least. "Things changed when I was in Seattle. The very idea of using my abilities were at the back of my mind. Same as when I was in L.A. But.. a thin points?" That may be the first time that he's heard anything of that nature mentioned. He just figured it was Gray Harbor and a few towns that were special in the bad way!

When Alexander brings up security, Byron just has to laugh, "I have security waiting for me currently. Somewhere out in the fog, sure, but they are there. They're posted at the Pawn Shop when I sit there, waiting for her." This reveals, more than likely, that he sleeps over there for now. He says nothing about checking in, but he's heard the instructions. His usual 'Don't worry about me' isn't uttered, but it's at the tip of his tongue. It's not so much about him anymore, it's about Lilith. "I'll keep in touch." A pause, before he nods to Tobin, "If she contacts you, let me know."

Tobin nods to Byron, agreeing easily enough to let him know if he hears from her. He would, no matter what. Then he looks to Alexander and Isabella. "Okay, I'm going to go ahead and take a look and see if I can find anything. I'll let you know if I do." He smiles warmly to Isabella then and says, "Glad you're back. We should catch up some time." He smiles to Alexander then and says, "I can't say that working with you was a pleasant experience. That hurt like a sonofabitch, but if you ever need backup for something like that again -- call me." He then begins to make his way out, but not before saying, "Oh, there are thin places other than here. This place is just.. particularly... particular." Then he slips out the door.

Alexander lets out a frustrated sigh; it doesn't seem directed at Byron, although it definitely is provoked by something he says. "Insufficient data," he mutters, using his free hand to rub at his face. "We hardly know how anything over there works. But it can't hurt to try, if you get the opportunity. Just - if you do go over there, don't go alone and go prepared. We're not trying to compound the 'missing people' problem, here." He nods to Byron's assessment; he really can't think of any enemies a pawn shop owner might have acquired, so Byron's conclusions seem entirely reasonable to him.

He listens to the exchange about Portland and other places and their effects with interest. Alexander isn't widely traveled, and it's always somewhat fascinating. He relaxes as Byron both doesn't argue about the check-in, and mentions having security. Sure, they probably won't HELP, but Alexander can only protectively stalk one person at a time, and Isabella wins for the moment. "Good. Thank you." A brief smile to Tobin. "It was a learning experience, Mister Gilford. And I will; you're quite skilled, and I found it most interesting." He means it, too - even if it hurt like a sonofabitch. "Don't die. Either of you."

The usual notes and warnings have been said - Isabella doesn't feel the need to be redundant. "Thanks for waking me up, B, Tobin." She is sincerely grateful, but there's guilt there also, that sense of self-recrimination returning and the gnawing, growing sense of discomfort inside her at being used in the way that Alexander describes. She attempts to sort through her foggy memories of the encounter in the Church, green eyes looking down at the covers on her bed. She doesn't look up until the front door closes.

When she does tilt her head back again to look at Alexander, her gaze takes on a more scrutinizing cast. "Are you hurt anywhere?" None of them answered her silent question as to why Alexander was thanking Byron, or whatever consequences there were that the latter would have let Alexander suffer. She doesn't ask for details, and while she desperately wants to, she tends not to tread in whatever minefields lie between her lover and her childhood friend unless she absolutely has to. But she asks the question that needs answering, at the very least.

Alexander leaves Isabella for just a moment - long enough to follow Byron out and lock the door behind him. And give the docks area another suspicious scan. Then he returns to her bed and, now that the proprieties are no longer necessary, he kicks off his shoes and just crawls into bed with her and kisses her silly, if she'll let him. As much desperation and relief in it as desire, for the moment. When he can speak again, he murmurs, "Peregrine hit me with lightning. Which, by the way, hurts like a motherfucker. I feel vaguely bad for doing it to others." A pause. "He was very strong. He shattered my lightning with his own. I didn't even know you could do that." And his eyes gleam for a moment; the unknown antagonist might be a bastard who is going to pay for hurting Isabella, but he's also...interesting. Alexander finds it hard to resist a mystery.

He flops down beside her and offers his open arms to her. "But no major harm is done. What about you? Other than the headache. You were healed before we brought you home, but do you hurt anywhere else? Nausea? Dizziness?"

And he's leaving her for just a moment and when he does in that brief window, Isabella glances down her fingers and watches them shake, the familiar sensation and the rush of what just happened, delayed by company, surging through her veins and leaving her nerves thrumming with both the exhilaration and fear she associates with the best and worst of her impulses. She bites the inside of her cheek, nearly hard enough to draw blood, to keep from letting out a single sound. She can feel it too, the way mechanisms in her houseboat are turned, and locked, the clicking latches echoing like thunder in the back of her skull.

When Alexander returns, she looks up, her mouth parting to speak before she's engulfed by everything that he is - almost everything. Passion, relief and the sure and certain solidity of him make for a heady cocktail that has her returning his desperation with her own, clutching at his shoulders tightly and nails and fingers diving deep into the riot of dark half-curls on the back of his head. She doesn't just let him, she returns every token with that heated, restless way she lives most of her life; she is left lightheaded after, his murmur washing warm against her skin. Hazy eyes meet his dark ones.

And then he tells her he got hit with lightning. "You what?!" It comes out as just under a full-blown exclamation. His description of the night's adversary, too, leaves her face draining of color. "And you talked to him?"

He gets that look in his eye and she stares at him in disbelief. She looks down at his open arms. "Shirt off," she tells him, instead, though despite her reddened, kiss-swollen mouth she doesn't ask him this out of desire. "And show me, I want to see where he hit you."

Concern remains tight on her fine-boned face, but at his own queries, she glances down at her hands. "...I don't know," she confesses. "I feel strange."

Alexander flinches when her hands clutch tightly on his shoulders, but it doesn't stop him from his passionate expressions of relief. Talking, then, is almost a disappointment. He chuckles a little under his breath at her expression of disbelief. "He talked to me, I talked to him." A pause. "It was when I was taking you back to the houseboat, Isabella. I was alone, injured, and had you in my arms. If he wanted to talk, then I was damned well going to talk, because he's clearly very skilled, and I wasn't going to win a fight." There's no shame in that admission, for Alexander. He was outmatched, and killing himself wouldn't have helped anything.

It was still very hard not to do it, but Isabella doesn't need to know that, he feels.

It's perhaps a measure of the worry he still feels for her that he doesn't make any quip about her order to strip. Instead, he just sits up in the bed, and removes his shirt, tossing it off to one side. The impact of the bolt can be seen immediately, high on his right shoulder. A spiderweb of reddened, fractal lines radiate out from a central point, surrounded by a purple and blue corona of bruising. It's actually rather beautiful, in an odd sort of way. "It's a Lichtenburg scar," he murmurs, his fingers coming up to run along the tissue. "It will probably fade."

A moment before he turns back to her, asking quietly, "Strange, how?"

The revelation of the Lichtenberg scar is...well, at the moment, with his back to her, he wouldn't be able to see her face. Isabella's lips part in astonishment, with a quiet, breathed, "Oh my god," somewhere behind him, reaching out with light fingertips to touch the very corner of the injury. It wasn't all that long ago since she had witnessed Alexander rain down his own lightning - it had been a devastating display. Now that he has tasted the receiving end, she suddenly has more of an appreciation as to how dangerous all of that is, when it could bruise and mar skin and tissue in such a way.

Her stomach tightens and a low, throaty sound ripples from the back of her throat. "He's a dead man," she hisses. It had been another thing entirely, if it had been her, but faced with the visible consequences of fighting against him? He might as well be the Easter Bunny now, he did this to him. "Did he threaten you?" Nails bite deep into the flesh of her palm, unconsciously balling a fist so hard and so tightly they nearly shred skin. The nearby empty waterglass starts chipping under a crack that starts to spread on the surface.

The urge to heal it is so overwhelming it actually sets her teeth on edge - the high lingers for a long time and she forces herself to push down her fingers. "I'll get the med kit," she tells him quietly, leaning forward to press a long, lingering kiss at the back of his neck before she disappears in the bathroom for the kit. She returns soon after and retrieves the anaesthetic, antibacterial topical ointment she finds within, as well as some wide bandages. Her touch is light when she starts applying - she can be so gentle when she wants to be.

As to his question: "...I don't know," she tells him softly. "It feels like..." She pauses; that single dark eye he casts over his shoulder to look at her would catch a thoughtful expression slipping over her mien as she tends to his injuries. "...it feels like something came loose."

---

Alexander makes a thoughtful sound. "Do you know, I don't...know that he would mind that. Being dead. Quite so much." He shakes his head. "Not really. He seemed interested, more than anything. Which is, I suppose, a threat." He doesn't protest to her getting the med kit, although he's already treated it once, and there isn't really much there - the scar itself is just raised and reddened, but it doesn't look like it bled on the surface - all the damage is subdermal. But he recognizes that she needs it, so he waits patiently through the treatment.

"If it makes you feel better, Javier shot him. In the shoulder." He turns to regard her. "Came loose? Yes, I suppose...in your mind, we found a representation of your abilities. It had been freed from the restraints you keep it under, and it was not pleased to be locked down again."

---

"If he wants to die so badly, he ought to do it himself and save the rest of us the headache, then." It's uncharitable, and Isabella doesn't know the man's circumstances, but after the injury and the bloodshot look in Alexander's eyes, she very much doesn't care - her antipathy tends to rise in such a way when her people are right on someone's sights. "And around here, from someone or something like him?" Her worry is palpable, he can practically taste it in the air.

She doesn't seem to realize that he's humoring her, because she does need this if not just to alleviate the frustration of the last several hours - first getting in his way, and then being not just useless, but a liability to everyone she knows. It is a relief to feel him breathing against her palms, the warmth of his life pulsating under his skin - small, but effective salves to her wounded pride, now that she's got her wits about her, forced to piece together the shattered picture of last night's memories. With the last of the bandage taped to his skin, she puts the med kit away.

It leaves him the room to turn further on the bed to face her and she looks up to meet his eyes. "Did it hurt?" she wonders, softly. "The attempt?" Her hand reaches up, to push a lock of hair gently from his tired brow.

"I don't think people like that commit suicide," Alexander says, quietly. "If you're willing to sell your soul to work for Them, then usually it means you embrace survival, no matter the cost, and no matter how much you might hope that someone, somewhere will stop you. If you could stop yourself, then," he shrugs, "you probably wouldn't have gotten yourself into that situation in the first place." Undertones of bleak empathy color his voice; he knows what it's like to not be strong enough to stop yourself from doing things that make your soul ache.

He is quiet through the tending; it's still a novelty, for him, this idea of letting another person soothe and bandage him without suspicion or resistance. Or, if he's honest, to let them tend to him at all. His eyes drift closed, just enjoying the feel of her hands on his skin. He only rouses when she puts the medkit away, and he stretches out on the bed, rolling to extend his arms to her again. "Yes," he says, without flinching. "Your defenses are strong. You're fierce." A smile blooms. "It was beautiful and magnificent." And made him feel like his skull was being shattered from the inside, but he's not going to mention that part.

That earlier disbelieving expression returns with a vengeance as Alexander logically, precisely dismantles his encounter with a man who just tried to kill him, with the same emphatic reasoning he usually demonstrates when he's thinking particularly hard about a problem. It lingers, watching those dark eyes; her insides constrict painfully at what she finds there, and what she hears from his quiet baritone. Scrutinizing him in the silence that follows, Isabella sighs, and is unable to suppress a faint smile - and all of its (terrifying, intense) affection - that curls upwards. "How many times did you turn that moment over in your memoriae regis while I was unconscious?" she wonders - it is Latin, but she uses her brother's term for it. "Examining every word and angle?"

She likes that about him, too, and while there's a flicker there when he confesses that it did hurt, the fact inflicts some degree of discomfiture. But she does shift closer to the circle his arms offer to her, folding herself against his chest, a single long, bare leg sliding in between his and letting coarser denim bracket against smooth skin. Her cheek finds the side of his left pectoral, fitting herself somewhere under the hard line of his jaw, dark-brown waves tangling over his unwounded shoulder and splaying over the pale linens of her pillows. Fingertips brush over the long, faded scar on his abdomen, lips pressing in a thin line there, wondering whether it was another token of Zachary's empty affection, left to languish in the battered map of Alexander's life engraved on his skin.

"I wonder whether he taught me too well," is the absent comment she makes, following the path those long academic's appendages make over his defined center line. "When we were still connected, Sid always used to tell me that mental defenses were just like any other - to build them with every expectation that they would be breached, sooner or later. He said one of the best ways was to construct them in layers, with the most dangerous instrument in one's arsenal guarding the gates." She sighs. "Not exactly the surprise I had in mind, I was going to bring it up at dinner tonight, but now that you've seen it, it...I was going to invite you to...I..."

A sudden wave of embarrassment washes over her, feeling heat creep up her cheeks and she stubbornly presses the side of her face against his chest to hide it, but since it does absolutely nothing but remind her that he is holding her, she tilts backwards and groans. "I've officially lost my mind. We've done almost everything under the sun, why does this feel like I'm asking you to spend the night the first time?! It makes no sense!" And she didn't have this much timidity when she had in comparison!

Alexander snorts at her responds, and reaches out to draw her down for a kiss. "Hush, you. I'll intellectualize as a coping mechanism all I want." He's not a cuddler, generally speaking, but exhaustion and worry and affection make him clingy, so his arms wrap securely around her and he holds just short of painfully tight. Like he can somehow protect her from all the dangers of the world just by hanging on.

And yet, her flustered words manage draw a tired chuckle from him. "That's not generally the philosophy I follow. Or maybe not in the same way. I'd rather be water than stone, I suppose. Stone is cracked and broken eventually. Water flows around any assault and reforms. I usually try to absorb and disperse attacks rather than stand directly against them." Then he smiles. "Although it's really not common. To be attacked, mentally. Usually, if something fucks me up, it's something I've done to myself - reading a corpse and getting to experience the joys of having my skull smashed in, something like that." A shrug. "And Isabella - it's natural to be nervous. If you're going to ask me to link with you, I mean. You have nothing to be afraid of, but I know that knowing that doesn't always help." He kisses her again. "And there's no pressure."

His chastisement blasts that faint smile into a full-blown grin, scything the half-light of dawn filtering through her one-way bedroom windows. Anchored by how his fingers thread into her hair as he pulls her down, Isabella savors the press of his mouth, her arm slipping fully around him and molds her softer, more slender frame against the unyielding wall he makes, her face hidden against the shadows his jaw casts over his collarbone. "Tighter," she whispers, so softly that he'd barely be able to hear it - perhaps the only sign in the last few hours that hints at whatever trepidations she still harbors about being used as a battery.

"They're not walls," she finally says after that brief moment of youthful, quiet fragility. "It's difficult to explain, it'd be easier to show you but..." Her tentative pause is brief, as it always is; whenever she makes a decision, she is normally undeterred in spite of half-formed reasonable misgivings. "...no one's been in there for over a decade, after what happened. I don't know what state it's in and I can't...I can't guarantee it'll be pleasant." Her green-gold gaze finds the hollow of his throat, where shadows gather and tighten every time he swallows. "I want to know, believe me. No piece of knowledge or information would be so scary to me that I'd balk at discovering it, I just...I'd be worried, about you."

The kiss stops the rest of it, and her hand comes up to cup the side of his face, her mouth slanting hard against his at an angle and pouring into him the traces of the last few hours - passion spiced with relief, complicated by the tangle of apprehensions buried within her and heated by the intensity of everything that she is. She's breathless when she eventually breaks away.

"...though that makes sense, too," she tells him. "It affects you more in those moments because you let it in willingly." Her hand lowers to splay lightly over where his heart beats. "There are no barriers of any kind, but that doesn't mean no one will ever try." If anything, the morning demonstrated just that.

Alexander obliges that whispered desire, his arms tightening further, until it's almost suffocating. The rest he listens to, quiet and solemn. His heart beats steady beneath her hand, although more quickly than usual, a sign of the stress and worry that he's trying to keep off of his face. "You don't need to worry about me, Isabella," he tells her, with a crooked smile. "You're fierce and formidable, but I can hold my own, usually." He's totally trying to forget getting slapped around by her mental dragon.

But he does sigh, and adjust his head on the pillow. "You know that linking with you is something I want. But...and I cannot believe that I am going to use the most cliched of excuses and have it be entirely true...not right now, as my head actually is killing me. I don't want to read a newspaper, much less anything else. Until I've had some sleep and a few days of rest." Rest is broken out different than 'sleep', which is not a thing he gets much of, anyway.

"Yeah, but you always say that and you're not exactly the most credible source on that end." Not worry? Who the hell was he kidding?

His reminder as to the state of his head leaves Isabella groaning, because that had already gone poorly, how could she possibly think the rest of it was going to go swimmingly? She drops her forehead against his shoulder, though she makes no move to retract herself from the near-suffocating bind he makes around her. It only encourages her to return it in kind. "I was definitely not pressing for today," she tells him, a resigned expression there - not at him, but at herself, and the state of her ridiculous self. "My head feels like an overripe tomato, still and I feel..." She grimaces emphatically. "Lit up." She even looks nauseated at the thought of it, her distaste for it a visceral thing - how can anyone miss it but feel like vomiting every time she thinks about using it?

"I feel like you're besmirching my reputation, Miss Reede. Or I would, if I had any reputation for credibility at all." The humor is gentle, and he definitely doesn't seem to mind the tight grip she's got around him. He tucks his chin on the top of her head, making a pleased and tired sound in the back of his throat. "Good. Two people with headaches linking up just seem like it's a recipe for triggering migraines." He seems to sense a bit of her distress, and nuzzles her hair. "Just relax, Isabella. Get some real sleep, and let yourself recover, hmm? I'll be here until you wake up again." And probably also asleep, because now that the adrenaline is wearing off, the lassitude is settling into his muscles with a palpable ache.