2019-11-12 - Another Way To Dive

Dinner is nothing special, and much to the houseboat's relief, Isabella does not attempt to cook, this time. Rather, she is a growing fan of the new Thai restaurant in the strip mall that has just opened and it isn't long until the main living area of her residence is filled with the scent of Asiatic spices and curries that are a little more delicate and harmonious than their Indian counterparts, ladled on top of piping hot coconut rice.

The moon is full and bright, tinged with yellow on the borders by the time their meal is done, the evening's dark fragmented by millions of stars that spill nonsensical patterns across the black canopy, and easily glimpsed through the houseboat's wide, one-way windows. The clatter of plates fills the basin of her kitchen as Isabella deposits them within the bath of hot water that she has prepared. She has a dishwasher, but houseboats are what they are and every day is a struggle to try and keep as much strain off the built-in appliances as possible. She had considered moving back into the Reede family home, as she had told Alexander sometime during their dinnertime conversation, left empty since her father had left to move to New Orleans for a while, but the bathroom was still caked in blood and Isidore's room remains sealed from her prior attempts to get over her fear - she is not ready to go back there, just yet.

Soon, though. She has to get that house ready for her father's return after Thanksgiving.

Her back is to him as she hums; this is probably as domestic as the archaeologist gets while she leaves their utensils to soak, clad warmly for the cold weather in a pair of black shorts and matching knit socks that pull up to mid-thigh, and a wide-necked sweater that clings to her shape, both shoulders bared by the cut save for the straps of the tank top and brassiere that she wears underneath. Her hair is swept up in its typical, fetching disarray, though added by a pair of takeaway chopsticks that keep her dark tresses in place. From behind, he'd be able to glimpse it, the white gold chain that marks Isidore's talisman, possessively encircling his sister's neck like a leash.

"I always meant to ask you what makes a powerful reader," she asks him, finally, through the quiet rush of water from the faucet. "I mean...not just the potential, but...skills. You said Megan, whoever she is, was a powerful one. What made you think that, exactly?"

"You should let me go in and clean it up before you try to go back," Alexander suggests, when the topic of returning to the family home comes up. "I can make sure that things are in order and the worst of the heavy lifting is done." He doesn't elaborate that 'heavy lifting', in this case, means cleaning her mother's blood from the bathroom, but it's not hard to extrapolate. He's sitting at the island, post dinner, his eyes half-lidded with a quiet enjoyment as he watches her from behind.

Her question furrows his brow. "Mm. She was able to impose emotions on me, and take things out of my mind. That's not easy." He taps the counter lightly. "As to specific skills? Um. Commanding animals is one that I associate with being strong. The illusions. The electricity. Being able to reach far with any of those. Or spread it wide, over multiple targets." There's a laugh that has a trace of dark humor to it. "If you can start a riot by yourself, you're probably pretty strong."

Talk about the heavy lifting earns Alexander the briefest of pauses from where she's leaving the dishes to dry on the rack, but Isabella is thankful that her back is turned and he's unable to see her face. "...I should," she tells him, quietly, though she says nothing about whether she would. Afterwards, there's a look over her shoulder at him, her smile angled his way. "I could still use the help packing some things away, though. Plus I'm not going to lie, I'm looking forward to seeing the way you're going to try and snoop around the old family homestead." There's a teasing wink at him there. "It's been around from almost since the town's founding, maybe five years after it officially belonged to the Addingtons?"

Moving towards the granite countertop, she adopts a lean close to where he's sitting, but she doesn't take a seat. Her fingers lift to brush a half-curl away from his brow, smiling faintly as she does nothing but drink him in and his eyes that look like living night.

"What do you mean take things out of your mind?" she wonders, concern simmering underneath delicate sunkissed features, and while he laughs darkly at the idea of starting a riot, there's no answering sound of mirth from her, reminded of what he had said so many nights ago. About grabbing every mind he could find, and unleashing the rage that he had suppressed within the other cultists. That gentle hand shifts, to touch her fingertips lightly on his cheek. She doesn't say anything, but there's a flicker over those expressive green fields of hers.

"I understand that packing and hauling heavy things are about a third of my official duties as a boyfriend, so I'm happy to help." Alexander's amusement is less sharp here than it is about the prospect of starting a riot. "And I'll try to keep my snooping to acceptable parameters. No promises, though. It sounds like the house is a genuine historical treasure, if it's that old." He looks down at the counter. "You know. Once things are cleaned up, if you're going to be moving things, you ought to invite a few people. Sometimes empty houses are easier with friends."

He looks up when she comes to lean in close, and smiles at the touch of her fingers. "I mean exactly that. My fears, insecurities, doubts. Take them out, weaponize them against me." He frowns. "Although I have wondered, in days since, whether that was something she did, or something that the Shadows gave her." He shrugs. "It's hard to say, but I wonder the same about their ability to pull us into a Dream designed to trap us. Is that something that we could do? Or is it just because they had a...patron, or patrons, who could?"

"I'll definitely think about it." And that, at least, she means, Isabella watching him divert his attention to the granite countertop after he mentions having people over, her hand falling from the side of his face to rest against it. "That's new to me, too, you know. Having an...expansive network, as it were, of people who do care about me and what happens to me. When I was younger, I wanted...I knew that I wanted to leave, but I knew myself also, and I knew it would be harder to leave if I had too many of them. Sid made it easy." Her lips tilt upwards faintly. "Most days it was impossible to focus on other things outside of him."

And that was understandable too, wasn't it? When another person is living in the body of another?

Her smile fades as she listens to what Alexander tells her about Megan, displeasure writ across her features and fury leaving her eyes glowing like hot, emerald coals. "I always considered memories to be part of the reader's purview. There are limits, but perhaps they're not as hard as we think they are. As for Dreams..." She chews faintly on her bottom lip. "I'm not sure. When I was growing up, Sid always pulled me into his, though I don't know whether it's because of the connection we share, or because he's actually capable of the method." Her eyes shift away from him, thoughtful now, reminded of what had happened between her and August and how the distance and lack of personal connection, at the time, should have made their shared experience difficult, if not impossible...

But it happened.

"Maybe only powerful readers can do it, also. There's a lot we don't know." After a moment, she smiles. "Anyway, tell me what she looks like, so I can punch her in the face if I ever see her."

"It's very strange," Alexander agrees, quietly. "I don't necessarily know if I like it, all the time. People need so much. But other times, it's nice." He watches her when she speaks of her twin, studying the upwards motion of her lips, weighing it thoughtfully.

The rest, though, he just listens to. Speaking of Megan makes him uncomfortable, that much is clear. His eyes turn away, looking out at what he can see of the ocean. "Not much to tell. She wanted to feed me to monsters. I didn't pay much attention beyond that."

She doesn't address either, the thoughtful look he casts her about her twin, or his avoidance of a topic that disturbs him. That's understandable too, in a way, reminded that she is tied to events that had a few people bringing forward his name as a potential sacrifice to the Shadows. Nails dig into the flesh of her palm at the recollection, Isabella fixing her livid stare somewhere on his shoulder.

It aches, in a way, feeling that same cannonfire slam into the walls of her fortress - the idea of him getting fed upon mingling with the fact that there are parts of him that she's unable to touch in spite of her best efforts. But that is the kind of rejection that she is more accustomed to, and instead of forcing it, she leans over to press her mouth against his cheek. "Well, if she's hoping for an encore performance, I hope you brutally dash her hopes by upstaging her," she tells him, moving to the bar so she could fix herself a drink.

"Did you want to try today?" she asks, finally, looking for the scotch. "Explore what's in here?" She taps the side of her head with her free hand.

Alexander laughs, softly at her loyal response. "We'll see, Isabella. If she actually has hooked up with Alice Whitehouse, and Violet isn't..." he frowns. "If Alice is running around, and Violet isn't, then it may not be Miss Megan I have the most pointed response for." He's far more likely to rage in response to harm done to his friends than to himself.

He dismisses the dark thoughts, though, and stands up to follow her to the bar. His arms slip around her to pull her close, against his hideous sweater that is, nonetheless, soft and cozy and warm. "You know that I'm always interested in linking with you." A flash of a mischievous grin. "However you want to define that. But yes. Just let me know if it gets too much, or anything." He bends his head to press a kiss just below her ear, and at the same time, extends a tendril of power, knocking politely at the door to her mind.

It is loyal, yes, but also a statement made by her faith - just as reckless and just as endless as the rest of her spirit. With the bottle found, Isabella's about to retrieve it, but he's followed her at the bar and she's drawn away from it, pulled into the solid breadth of his chest and the cage his arms make around her. The sweater is hideous, but comfortable and warm, and he's wearing it so the fact that it looks ridiculous on him doesn't even register. His reflection fills the vibrant-gold color of her eyes.

Nothing is left behind when her focus remains on him and the grin he flashes her. "In what way?" she teases back. "Physically? Emotionally...?" Mentally? She's about to say it but his mouth finds the tender point of her pulse and her eyes close at that, nuzzling his hair and wrapping her arms around him.

"I can't guarantee anything," she whispers against his curls, her arms tightening around him and at his psychic knock, she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, burying her face against where his neck and shoulder meet...

...and lifts the portcullis.

"Physically is nice," Alexander murmurs, keeping his mouth close enough so that she can feel his lips moving against her skin. "Emotionally is also nice." Another kiss. "There's no need to guarantee anything, Isabella. This isn't something that has to happen a particular way, or that I'm expecting to go in a certain direction." His hands stroke her sides, soothing and sensual all at the same time. Even as he reaches out and creates the bridge between them.

His mindscape is likely somewhat familiar, the glass stars vaulting overhead in an endless void, light and shadow by turns, sharp and reflective and strangely orderly. Some of them are broken - damage from the fight with her dragon, although the shards are pulling themselves back together, the trauma receding day by day. His mental voice is strong and confident. <<Isabella.>>

But there is an answer in the real world, pressed against his hair. "I'm here," Isabella whispers, her warmth and softness pressing further up against him, steady on her feet. Her head tilts backwards to make room for his mouth, fingers gently stroking his scalp, rolling soothing circles there.

She hasn't been able to talk mind-to-mind for a decade, something that has thankfully slipped Easton's notice. Her face returns to the cradle he makes and she slowly pushes them both down on the couch, if he allows her. Not to do anythingwildly inappropriate - or at least, not yet, but she does curl up against his side and she holds onto the tenuous link and tries to nudge him further within.

<<Hello, beauty,>> Alexander says, addressing the dragon with pleasure and wariness both. It is a beautiful thing to him, all that power. And there's a thin edge of regret; it feels wrong, to him, to keep the power in chains, but until Isabella can feel confident controlling it, then restraint is its fate. He slides his consciousness past the dragon, careful to stay out of 'range' of its ire, if it has. He ventures into that void without hesitation, the stars shedding their hungry, curious light, as if reflected from unseen suns. These beams are his focus, examining the emptiness of Isabella's mindscape with interest.

In the real world, he's still present, although distracted. He follows her guidance, and cuddles with her on the couch. "You're here," he agrees, and kisses her hair.

There is a sadness in Alexander as he sees the darkness here. It's not a darkness of moral spirit, or even the memories of trauma he'd experienced recently in August's shared memories. Instead, it's almost a darkness of potential, which is even more distressing in its way. He sheds what light he can on the darkness, but continues onward, as his body holds hers, his eyes closing and his chin coming to rest on top of her head. His breathing is deep, even, and slow.

When he reaches that hole, he dives without hesitation, in a cascade of sharp-edged stars.

Distracted as he is, Isabella tightens her arms around him, her eyes remaining shut. She must feel the resistance, because she shifts, her discomfiture apparent against him. She presses her face closer against the side of his throat, pressing a kiss there as he breathes evenly and deep.

Like he's asleep.

She lets him nestle into her hair and she murmurs softly, but whatever it is she says is lost by the demands of this manifestation of her younger self, bold and fiery, demanding even back in her past.

Alexander doesn't take a representation that's a copy of his physical form in here; he's freed from the shackles of flesh, and has little interest in trying to conform to such dimensions when his stars are brilliant and sharp and expansive. He spins and floats through the memories, the starlight of his focus lingering on the representations of Isidore; he's never really seen the young man before, outside a couple of photographs, and he's hungry for the knowledge of this person, so important to Isabella that she considers them two halves of one whole - forever broken, now.

There's a start, a shiver of surprise, when he bumps into that glass, and the younger Isabella accosts him. He smiles - this is a shading of the light to gold with the greenish edge of curiosity as he focuses there, on her. <<I'm not Isidore.>> The agreement is gentle. <<But you've given me permission to come and visit you, anyway.>> He shows her, in a reflection from one of the stars, her older self, fierce and vibrant, painted with the colors of affection. <<I'm Alexander.>>

Alexander spins through memory, through mindscape, in a slow but searching dance. He holds no affection for Isidore, but he can feel the affection that was once here, and that, at least, is reflected. The focus of him draws close around the angry girl as she steps out of the shadows. There's no flinch, no withdrawal, as her scars are shown. It's all data to him, damage to be catalogued, filed, explained, and perhaps - one day - soothed and healed as far as it can be felt.

<<Maybe,>> Alexander says. <<But if so, not consciously. And I don't think I can apologize for her, anyway. You and she will have to come to terms with each other in your own way.>> He notably doesn't argue with the girl's point of view. It is, after all, true as far as he can tell. Instead, he says, <<Scars are proof of survival, and we all break along the way, Isabella. And we all have parts of ourselves that we're ashamed of, even when we shouldn't be. I'm sorry that she's hurt you. I'm sorry that she's hurting, too.>> A smile, and a play of light across her scars. <<That's my own apology. Not hers.>>

<<I hurt,>> Alexander agrees, without hesitation. For the first time, he shows some agitation, the light of the stars turning cutting as it rakes over the memory. 'Inheritance', 'birthright', these things turn him sharp towards the memory of Isidore, towards his pushing for things he barely understands, no matter how great his talent for them. If the boy were alive, if the man had him in his grasp, he would be shaken.

Isabella's younger self, for all its hurt and anger, is a welcome distraction from wanting to rattle a child who no longer exists. The light of the stars softens again, as he turns back. <<We all hurt the things we love. And the things we love hurt us. Loving hurts. It leaves its scars. It's difficult to understand, but sometimes we lash out at the ones we love the most, because we don't know how to embrace them. She's scared. You're scared and hurt, too, aren't you?>> He sighs at the anger and agitation, and although the shaking causes a wariness, he tries not to dwell on it. <<She did not banish your brother from this place. He tore himself from her. To protect her.>>

Of all people, Alexander is never going to be one to shy away from blunt questions. It's one of the reasons he likes children; their emotions and what they say and do are more often in alignment. They're less confusing. And then she goes on with her recognition of his name, and laughter shivers out, through and around, warm and filled with appreciation. <<There were some burns, but my hurts go far beyond Isabella. She is more balm than pain. I hurt because of things I have done, and experienced being done to others.>> His amusement is almost like a warm sunbeam on her ruined features. <<Crazy Clayton. That is what they call me. Not incorrectly. Especially at the time that you remember me best. But she loves me. And I love her.>> Is there hurt at being reminded of his state in the town's social structure? Yes. It's flickers of red and orange, fading to dark, sorrowful purples. But he doesn't blame the image of the child for it.

<<No, she doesn't. And holding too tightly will cause her pain. But yes, I have held too tightly in my life, as well. And blamed myself for their loss.>> If a star could ruffle a girl's hair, she might be in danger of that. <<She should listen to you more often. But you should be kinder to her, too. You're both in pain and neither hiding you nor fighting her will help resolve it.>>

<<I don't get it, either,>> Alexander says, bluntly. <<I'm just happy that it is true.>>

<<I'm not super old,>> he is quick to respond. Okay, maybe he can be stung by her bluntness after all, particularly since his age is occasionally a sore spot. <<You're just very young. Practically a baby, at this point.>> It's teasing, with a hint of see how you like it in the playful response. More seriously, he says, <<I rarely lie, Isabella. The world is complicated enough without adding to its deceptions.>>

As she goes on, the stars settle in a close orbit around her, shining gently, her own personal galaxy where she forms the center. <<I came to visit because you invited me. I like to know people, especially people I care about, and she was willing to let me. If you are also willing to let me, then yes, I would like to see. I don't mind letting you in. If you can bear to let me in, as well.>> There's a pause. <<It won't be like it was with Isidore. You and I are separate people, and we will never be the way you and he were. But there are other connections people can form. While still remaining themselves.>>

<<I like to think so.>> Alexander agrees.

Her indignation sparks more laughter. The stars shiver with it, the light dances with it. It's not mocking, at least - if anything, it's charmed and indulgent. <<Your mother was right to say so.>> More shivering laughter as she strikes to the heart of one of the many important differences between Isabella and Alexander's relationship and that she shared with her brother. He doesn't elaborate on that further, and the closest star dips down to meet her touch. It hesitates when she does, hovering bright and sharp-edged just above her hand.

<<No.>> It's blunt. <<Not unless I want you to. And I don't think that would be appropriate for here and now. But yes, I have parents. And people I care about. Those, I will happily share with you.>>

There is a burst of joy when that library unravels around him, beautiful and broken. It's not uncomplicated; Alexander sees the ruins, knows them for the losses and the damage that they are, but at the same time, there's something about this place that draws and speaks to him in a way that the completed mindscape never quite could, perhaps. He knows what it is like to be broken. His stars spread out above the library, shining dozens of spears of starlight across the orbs, the books, all the little nooks and crannies that are Isabella Reede, and he basks in the connection.

Even so, he keeps it a light one. He does not pry into those volumes, and he doesn't share much of his own, deeper thoughts or memories. Even if she is open and raw to him in this moment, he's well aware how 'not enough' can become 'too much' in an instant. Instead, he just radiates love and that appreciation for the heart of her. <<Isabella. Lovely, brilliant Isabella.>>

In the real world, he bends down to kiss her. And perhaps he's not entirely free of leaks, because there's no mistaking that this connection to her mind has put other connections in his mind, and his hands start to rove with more than their usual enjoyment; there's a sharpness to his hunger for her that wasn't there before.

As stars cascade through the broken skylight and shine their motes against the shelves, he would glimpse how everything is also arranged in the state of organized clutter that Isabella favors in the real world. There is some dust on the shelves and the tables, but the areas of knowledge and the memories she often revisits are devoid of them, and as he explores further into what the shattered gallery holds, he'd be able to watch the telescope turn, and turn on its axis to follow the wake of him as he floods this space with the pieces of him that he allows her to see - untouched by another for over a decade. His light explorations would discover numerous volumes, artifacts and memories encased in glass, and portraits of those closest to her; Isidore's section is buried somewhere in the higher levels, corded off by a chain, and Byron's is somewhere on the main level - the portraits of the dark-haired investor range from the time he was a child and through his teens, to what he looks like now, but there's a decided gap in between faces to mark the time when she, and he, were elsewhere - out of touch, and with no contact.

He would find the galleries devoted to him on the main level, too, close to the telescope - neither so far above or below in the uncharted depths of the library that it would take a clever maneuvering through the Escheresque stair-maze to get to it, but in a space where it is freely accessible, each portrait of him capturing not memories, but expressions; how every smile takes away years off his face, how dark his eyes are when he's furious, how he looks in the brief seconds after a kiss, or rather, how he looks at her. The picture captured in the time they had their first serious fight is there, too, the tumult and turbulence in his face captured by the colors of Isabella's fury and frustration - regret and longing, too, touched with her confusion at him and herself, because at the time, she had no idea what it had all meant. But what is stark and obvious as his stars gather over these shelves is how none of his portraits are idealized in any way - he doesn't appear more beautiful, or handsome, or more in any of them.

There's a map of him, too - Alexander Clayton's cartography, and just as incomplete as the rest of the library. There are others of people she knows in this chamber, framed and mounted on the broken walls.

His words, for a moment, have no response. But she doesn't leave him hanging. With the connection established after the journey he has made to discover and find her, he'd hear her, too. Her voice in this place is not a whisper, or anything desiccated or frayed from the lack of use. <<Alexander.>> She is a creature confident in the power of her intellect and memories, and her internal voice radiates a certainty that reflects that in a way that's diamond-clear and even sensuous, caressing over his stars and the four syllables of his name inflected with that terrifying, passionate intensity.

Reflected in the real world with how she accepts his kiss with her heated, unbridled own, and how her body shifts to follow his hands, willingly cutting herself on the sharpened edges of his hunger. She returns it in spades, lips parting underneath his onslaught and her hands finding swaths of skin underneath the softness of his sweater. The lights in her houseboat start to dim, but she doesn't notice it as she returns kisses for kisses. Within the library, he'd glimpse how it changes with every touch and physical indulgence - how light and fire ripple and coruscate over her personal gallery of him, how volumes capture these streamers of fire without burning - only an academic could think of books that do not burn, no matter how hot the flames get.

His map changes, too, when she finds a new scar. Ink curls over the place she finds it.

<<You didn't have to do this for me.>> Diamond clear, diamond focused, confidence and power warmed by heady bliss at being so connected to him. He would feel it, that razor-sharp longing, and how much this actually means to her in ways that words can't adequately quantify, filling his skies with it. <<You didn't have to find me.>> But he did. Perhaps he always would. She hopes, and the colors of that bind over the tomes dedicated to him in ribbons.

<<I love you.>>