2019-12-06 - Take Your Girlfriend To Work Day

It is approaching the Devil's Hour by the time Alexander manages to extricate himself from whatever he has been doing to return to The Surprise; underneath the fat, blue-silver light of the crescent moon above his head, it gleams like a white beacon in the dark. Nothing appears to be out of place once he steps into the front threshold - he'd see the familiar basin full of water where boatshoes and sturdy hiking boots are kept in a thin layer of water to eradicate the silt, and the door is thankfully locked when he tries it. The spare key is at its usual place within the well-camouflaged smuggler's hole close to said basin, crammed along with a few personal items that belong to George Reede.

The interior is dark when he steps inside and he might note that the pile of textbooks, scholastic articles and other references only seems to get bigger every time he visits; Isabella is steadily running out of room around her coffee table, her laptop lying flat and shut next to a notepad covered with her flourishing script. The air within is still - maybe his exhausted mind detects something faintly floral in the air, but that might very well be his imagination. It is late, after all, and he has had a very long day.

She is whole and unharmed, though, when he gets to the bedroom, turned away from the door, ambient light limning the curve of her hip and the bare line of her shoulder, absorbed by the dark strap of her tanktop. She is an unapologetic side sleeper, her arms thrown around a pillow, her cheek pressed against it and her hair making dark, swirling patterns against her pale linens, and unlike him, she tends to sleep like the dead. So completely, so deeply it's as if she would never abide putting in any less than the whole of herself no matter what she is doing, even unconscious. It also means that it is normally impossible to determine whether she is dreaming - though he would know that she does. More and more often, these days; the nights in which she actually sleeps through the dark hours are becoming increasingly rare, most especially after Halloween.

At least, tonight, she's getting some rest. The thesis certainly helps with that - now that she's in the home stretch of completing it, she's touched the document every day.

Alexander's hands have picked up a few new band-aids - these with festive Christmas tree decorations, and he's covered with dust and that peculiar sort of attic smell that comes from decaying cloth and gently aging wood. He lets himself in quietly, makes his way towards the bedroom, stopping only briefly to examine the growing pile of thesis materials. He doesn't cut on any lights, so he can't read any of what she's working on, but he smiles to see it, nonetheless. He makes his way to the bedroom, and sheds his clothes but for his briefs (comfort aside, with the preponderance of Dreams in his life, he has no desire to end up entirely nude in some sort of fantasy hellscape). Despite the poor quality of his wardrobe, he treats it gently; pieces are removed, and hung or folded as space permits. And then he slides into the bed beside her, not trying to wake her. He doesn't cuddle up close, but does stretch himself out near her, head pillowed on his arm, watching her sleep with a faint smile on his face.

There is plenty of space on the bedside table where he can fold his clothes, occupied by just a single lamp; the alarm clock, an ugly, bulky but functional and efficient thing that displays 3:00 AM in bold, red letters, is situated on the table the closest to Isabella. Every time he sleeps over, he is always on the side of the bed closest to the door - a rare demonstration of deference in the young woman's part, if not just recognizing his occasional need to embark on a quick escape, or the fact that he's more physically capable than she is in a fight (though she would never admit this) in the event that something threatening jumps into her bedroom.

By the time he slips into her covers, she's already awake. She doesn't make this obvious for a few moments until he's settled in. He's not a cuddler by nature but her body turns, as if magnetized by the warmth he emanates, shifting to press against his side and her cheek finding the side of his right pectoral, instead. Her hand immediately gravitates, slowly and sleepily, to one of his hands. Her fingers are still bandaged.

"Elf put up a fight?" she murmurs, her voice low and husky with sleep, though she doesn't open her eyes. "I can feel the cuts and the burns...you okay?"

"Honestly? Yes. I was outwitted and out-fought by a four-inch high madman, almost dropped through a ceiling, pelted with ornaments and magical ceramic angels, and the little fucker almost set me on fire, too. If Bennie and Miss Washburn hadn't been there, I would probably be in the hospital due to elf." Alexander appears to be at least half-joking about this...but only about half. As she shifts to get closer, he reaches out and pulls her close, pressing a couple of kisses to her hair. "And then we were disarming traps. But I will say this: Patrick pays well, and without complaint." He yawns, his eyes drifting closed for a moment. "How are you, my dear?" His hands drift over her body, down her arms to skim those bandages, then back up. "And how goes writing?"

"Anne was there? Why was she-- " Isabella's eyes open at that, hazy, green-gold eyes lifting to regard his profile before lashes drape heavily over them once more. "Wonder if she and Patrick managed to make up, after all. World might be on the verge of balancing itself out to compensate for the lack of Bennie and Easton." It isn't a joke, judging by the lack of humor on her sleepy voice. She presses her lips gently on his shoulder, before drawing in further and sinking into the warmth that he generously provides, marveling silently at the changes in him. It didn't seem all that long ago when he wouldn't even humor a pinky swear from her. "How is she doing?"

A single eye cracks open before long. "I'm glad you're alright and that a four-inch madman hadn't gotten the best of you. I'd never let you live it down, you know." He'd feel her smile curl against his chest. "Might have to measure your percentage of success in a case depending on how many midgets are involved..."

Asked how she is, her hand shifts, index and middle finger drawing lightly up his center line, blindly following the network of faded scars she finds there. "Restless. Sid keeps calling me, always the same dream." Her voice is absent and drifting, there; she might not be fully conscious of the words. "Writing is almost finished. Maybe a thousand words left or so? I think I'm on fire."

Alexander chuckles, low and soft. He makes a pleased sound as she sinks into him, but shakes his head at the idea of those two 'making up'. "They got into a physical fight over the magical ceramic angels, and then she went to go steal his wine, and that's the last I heard of them. I don't think any of it qualifies as 'making up', but if it works for them? Good luck, well met, and all of that. Miss Washburn's leg got cut by one of the impromptu shuriken the elf created, but luckily Bennie was on hand. Taking a paramedic was an excellent idea," he adds, with a hint of self-congratulation, "and she wore the most adorable outfit that Patrick hated. It was a good night." He doesn't dignify the comments about his success rates with an answer.

His back arches a little as she draws those fingers down his middle line, pressing into her touch. But her words make him go still; even his breathing stops. Then restarts, as his hand finds her hair and he strokes, gently. "Tell me about your dream," he asks, quiet and prompting.

The idea of Anne and Patrick physically scuffling over magical ceramic angels coalesces into a cartoon-like rendition somewhere within her skull, dust clouds and flailing limbs; it's enough to prompt soft laughter from Isabella. "I'm glad Bennie was on hand to look after her, especially if she's going to keep continuing to explore the Veil," she murmurs quietly in reply. "What did she wear?" There's some amusement there, palpable from her languid aura, of Alexander's casual delight in anything that irritates Patrick Addington. In the investigator's defense, though, the man most definitely brings it on himself.

"I'm glad it was a good night," she replies after a pause. "We need more of those come winter." Lashes shutter over her eyes again when her head tilts at his arching, nuzzling absently along the line of his jaw, teeth nipping delicately through scruff.

The query about her dream prompts a long silence, doing nothing but focus on the physicality of the moment - as if he could stroke the answers out of her through the way digits thread through her hair. "It's always variations of the same dream," she says softly. "I had it on the plane, on the way to Seattle when I first came in. And then again when I was on the operating table after Sheriff Addington shot me, and then a few more times after Halloween. I'm standing over the marker Daddy put for him in the cemetery. Sometimes Sid would be there, telling me about how it's a lie. But there's always stairs...stairs leading down from the grave." Her face turns further against him. "There's always voices encouraging me to follow it."

"An amazingly ugly sweater, and other accessories. It was festive." Alexander grins in remembered amusement, which is only slightly dented by talk of continued Veil explorations. His arm tightens around her for a moment, before it loosens. "I think she'll be ready to go when you are. I don't see Patrick managing to talk her out of it. Or out of anything else, if I'm honest." He bares his throat to her nips, his breath catching a couple of times. But it doesn't distract him from his query, and his focus on her words can be felt in the way his whole body seems to turn towards and into her. "Do you think he's trying to call to you? Or that the Shadows are trying to call to you, using his voice?"

"It's almost Christmas, ugly sweaters are tradition. Shame on Patrick Addington," comes the humored murmur. "Anne always gave me the impression that she believes she's meant to do this," Isabella tells him after a long and contemplative silence, levying the usual attempt by her to dig through her memories and form a conclusion based on what she knows and experienced - difficult, really, coming from after the throes of a very deep sleep. "And if it's a torch she intends to take up, I don't think anything in the world would be able to stop her. Even when we were on the other side, it felt like..." She pauses. "...like she has something to prove." It is a comment borne out of observation and not censure, and if nothing else only speaks further to the commonalities shared by the women and why they struck up a friendship so quickly.

Her kisses are sleepy and slow, and with his head tilting back against the pillows, they meander, warm and soft, over his skin and the sturdy lines of sinew framing his throat. Distracted, momentarily, by the way he turns towards and into her.

Do you think he's trying to call to you?

She hesitates, eyes lowering to look down at his collarbone. "...if he's alive...?" Her voice trails off and while she says little else in the ensuing minutes, her silence, perhaps, speaks louder than any word she could utter. "I've tried not to think about it too much. I don't want to hope, and I know that a decade is too long to recover what I knew before."

"Maybe," Alexander murmurs, regarding Anne. "Don't know her all that well." He falls silent, enjoying the feel of her lips on his skin. But as she goes on, he rouses, shifting and sliding down her body so that he can reach for her face, and tilt it up to receive a long, lingering kiss on the mouth, before he stares into her eyes. "You can't ever recover what's past, Isabella. But...if you ever decide to see if," he takes a breath, "to see what's there? Don't go alone. Take me, take someone else. I don't care, so long as you don't go alone. I want you to be safe. And if you can't be safe, I at least want you to be smart." A flicker of a smile, before he glances at the clock. "Now. Time for sleep. After several hours climbing over the detritus of Addingtons past, I'm ready for it even if you aren't."

He's able to move her easily, her arms coming up in a limp drape around his shoulders and her head pressed into her pillows, lips parting for his kiss - these tokens are more affectionate than anything keyed towards her usual passion, too exhausted by the cerebral demands of her day to muster anything more carnal. But when he pulls away to look down directly at her eyes...

Can she make that promise? Conflict wars over her features, some part of her recoiling at the idea of involving others in something so personal. Not just the fact that anything regarding her twin tends to be something that she jealously hoards, but to burden anyone else with it is...

But he's looking at her so seriously, her face cradled between his larger, rougher hands that even if she wanted to refuse him, she finds that she can't. It's pragmatic advice. "Okay," Isabella tells him quietly, before turtling further into him again, eyes closing. It doesn't take her long until she drifts to sleep. She had been half-in, half-out since he had crawled into the bed, anyway.

She is wide-awake in the early morning, though she will never beat him in that regard; she doesn't really know how long he actually sleeps, but she has never seen him unconscious for more than two hours at the very most. She's dressed for the day - they have an errand to run, after all, and after checking her reflection in the mirror of the bathroom, wanders into the kitchen and gravitating, immediately, to the promise of coffee. She has elected to skip her usual morning run, deciding to do so in the afternoon, instead.

"So you never told me why we're going to a nursing home in the first place," she tells him curiously. "This is connected to the case with the ghost girl and the secret room?" The last comes out in a grumble; she wants to find secret rooms. How is it that she's spent her entire career looking for secret passages only for her boyfriend to stumble upon one by happenstance? It wasn't fair!

There's a sad sweet smile from Alexander when she makes that reply: happy that she was willing to say it, but all too aware that it's along the lines of 'if you ever decide to delve into your own personal Hell, don't forget to take a life guard' in practical usefulness. But it does make him feel better, just to hear it, and when she turtles, this time he does wrap himself around her, all sheltering warmth and quiet, protective affection until she falls asleep. And he does, as well, shortly thereafter.

Mind you, his sleep is restless, as it usually is, but when she awakens, she catches him in one of his sleeping periods, so she gets a glimpse of him at what passes for rest: sprawled out on his side of the bed, the near perpetual anxiety and strain on his face smoothed out to something less stressed, his breathing slow and even. It doesn't last, of course - he twitches awake almost as soon as she gets out of the bed, that moment of potential violent reaction until he remembers where he is, and then his eyes seek her out and he smiles. He slides out of the bed, and coffee is ready by the time she's dressed. He's already had his, so he kisses her a bitter kiss good morning, and says, "Meet with a former groundskeeper of the place where we found the secret room. The little girl--Robbins found a cameo under the bed in the secret room, and I read it." A pause. "I had a vision of the father of my client strangling the girl to death. And maybe killing a maid, too. Hard to say. I don't know why, though."

She had watched him for a bit - it's rare that she ever sees him sleeping, but she's loath to touch him given that he wakes so quickly at the slightest jostling. The temptation was very much there, however, and he will never know (and neither will she admit) just how herculean the effort had been to prevent herself from reaching out to push her fingers through the riot of tousled black curls on his forehead, while drinking in his face. It is the most peaceful she has ever seen him - at least, outside of a post-coital haze.

Isabella can always count on him to have coffee ready, at least, by the time she is finished with whatever passes off as primping for her - it never takes her longer than half an hour to get ready when it's not a special occasion, and the bitter kiss is savored when she receives it, returning it with interest. Retrieving her cup, one of the labeled ones she collects (today's is one misshapen by design, to look crushed, with the words I FLUNKED ANGER MANAGEMENT on it). Cradling it between her bandaged fingers, she leans against the counter, attention focused on him as she takes testing sips of the hot brew.

Shadows flicker over her expression when he mentions he read the cameo, her eyes lowering to her cup and unable to help the frown that's there; she knows he's used to it, but she can't wrap her head around getting accustomed to the fact that he downloads grisly images inside of his head at a regular basis and hasn't developed an aversion to the practice. She certainly has. "...have you told your client?" she wonders. "I mean, if I were him or her, I'd be very skeptical about the idea of my father committing a murder." But that's not surprising - she adores her father.

And if he remembers their one and only face-to-face meeting, Catherine Levenson did, also.

Alexander doesn't miss that look downward, and he tries to soften the frown by stepping forward and kissing her again, on the cheek this time. And then he sneaks an arm around to try and playfully steal a sip from her coffee. "No," he admits. "I don't have any proof except a psychic vision, which even I recognize isn't going to be very compelling evidence. And I don't even have a name for the girl, or a motive, or the circumstances around the whole miserable thing. I don't particularly mind telling someone news they don't want to hear, but I won't do it without being certain of my facts. And right now, I'm not." He frowns, thoughtfully. "And...the girl herself, she's not screaming about being killed. She's screaming about something being given back to her. I don't know what that is, but if it's possible to reunite her with it, I want to do that. Then, whether my client believes any of my crazy shit or not," he shrugs, "at least I'll have done that. But the first step is grabbing a shower, so." He winks, and steps away from her to head in that direction.

He's able to mollify her slightly with that cheek-kiss; seventy-five percent of the time, it works, hoarding affection like a dragon to gold, and Isabella's smile returns in a way that's meant to be reassuring; she can accept it, but she doesn't have to like it, her expression says. She doesn't seem to mind him being a dirty thief while stealing a sip from her coffee, though, and once he's close enough, she plants a warmer kiss on his cheek, unable to suppress some good-humored grousing at herself wondering what just happened when having these soft, quiet exchanges with him have become second nature, now. She didn't used to be this way! Ah, c'est l'amour.

What he says about the circumstances around the girl's murder, though, plants a contemplative look from her there. "If it's an object, do you think you'll be able to find it? This is a very cold case, isn't it? Did Missus Robbins find anything else that could speak to that while she was in the room?"

Questions that she'll have to pester him later; for the time being, she allows herself a mischievous grin, her hip cocking into the edge of her granite island and wiggling her brows at him. "Should I ask you if you want company in there?" she wonders playfully, lasciviously. "You know, for those hard to reach places?"

"I don't know." Alexander shrugs at that question. "I hope so. I can't promise anything, but I can hope. And so I choose to." He grimaces and ducks his head at the mention of Clarissa. "Uh. I don't...she saw the ghost, and it sort of freaked her out. Not sort of. It did freak her out. I've been afraid to really bring up the issue since then. But she still wants to know what I find, so maybe that'll give me a way to bring it up. Gently." Because Alexander is so very good at the gentle broaching of difficult or provocative subjects. "Anyway," he grins at the offer, "I would love company, but if you do, then we'll probably miss visiting hours. So, just give me a few." And he's off.

In a sort of quiet acknowledgement of the more-than-transient nature of their acknowledgement, Alexander's cautiously stored a couple of outfits and some toiletries here, so he doesn't have to change back into his dusty attic clothes after his shower, and he smells like he usually does, and not like Isabella. He's dressed...okay, just about normal for him. The sweater is black, and so are the jeans, but the battered and overworn army jacket save the outfit from any sort of respectability.

Gently, he says, and the most skeptical expression she is capable of falls over Isabella's lightly-tanned mien. "Well, if nothing else, you can always lure her in by curiosity alone," she says simply, and the words regarding the shower draws a peal of genuine laughter from her. "In retrospect, I should have thought about how thorough you are," she tells him with a wink, watching him with lowered lashes as he moves out of her living room area, taking a quiet sip of her coffee. Green-and-gold eyes find the mess on her coffee table again after that, and groans quietly.

"Right," she mutters, draining the rest and putting her cup into her sink. "Running out of room. If only Kindles felt like books."

It's only in instances such as these that she's reminded that he has items in her houseboat that belong to him when he emerges from her shower in a black sweater, jeans and oversized army jacket that would call to anyone's mind homeless veterans who have lived through far-flung battles. Convenience has a funny way of making milestones in interpersonal relationships seem so natural that they barely register to even her, she who is usually so aware of the physical space she lives in that the slightest deviation would ring her internal alarms with the clamor of air raid sirens. She's on her couch obsessively picking at the wording of the last few sentences she has typed out on her laptop when he finally emerges from it, blinking at the change of clothes only to remember that traces of his presence have been slowly permeating her residence for a couple of months now.

"...do you need a drawer?" she wonders, rising from the couch so she can grab her keys and satchel, moving over so she could indulge in her habit of sniff-nuzzling his freshly washed self by the cheek. It's brief, however, they have places to be. "And this place is on...Spruce?"

"To be thorough in an investigation is the only way to know that you've actually got it right. And if I'm going to tell a client that her dad killed a kid, maybe even a kid related to her? You bet I'm going to be thorough about it." And that's it until he emerges again, clean. Although the jacket still smells a little of attic dust when she nuzzles him. And kerosene. Fucking elf.

"A drawer?" He blinks at her. Surprised, then wary. "...do you want me to have a drawer?" There's a nod for the street, and he mutters the name of the care facility, but his eyes are still on her for the other question.

To her, that's a confusing answer to a relatively straightforward question and Isabella furrows her brow at him, her smile remaining but somewhat perplexed as she leads the way out of the houseboat and towards her cherry-red Jeep. Keys jingle in her hand as quick, businesslike steps take her to her vehicle, opening the backseat door first before tossing her satchel in, and then unlocking their doors and clambering in.

"...that's...sort of...up to you, isn't it?" she wonders, her tone carrying hints that maybe she's missing something, and she's unsure what it is. "I mean, you're the only one who can tell me if you need one."

The engine starts, the gears shift and soon, they're on their way to the address of the nursing home, with the young woman checking her mirrors every so often. At the very least, she is not a crazy driver within the city limits - Gray Harbor was dangerous normally, she's not about to floor the gas when some eldritch monstrosity can leap out at them at any time. Traffic, at least, is minimal - it's a work day, and well into the morning hours at that, those who do have loved ones in the facility would all be at work. She turns the vehicle to the designated street.

"So what's your prevailing theory based on what you know?" she wonders as she looks for parking. "Her father murdered a bastard half-sister, or cousin?"

"It's your place," Alexander points out. He looks confused that she looks confused, which means this conversation is likely to end well. "I don't need one. I mean. I can just bring an outfit if I need one. Drawers are...um." A pause. "I think drawers tend to mean a thing. In relationships. And I don't know if that's what you want."

He climbs into the car after her, and straps himself in. He seems to trust her driving pretty well, or at least, he doesn't look like he's going to bail at the slightest jump from the car. "I don't really have a firm theory. I know that my client's father and his brother, her uncle, had a rivalry of some sort, and that the uncle had a drinking problem. At some point, the will was changed, then changed back - I haven't had a chance to find a copy of that will in the middle, but I think it might be important. My client was sickly as a child, and at some point was sent away to Europe. This child, the ghost girl, seems to have been put into a room sometime around then - at least, the client doesn't seem to have any awareness of her, and the rooms are right next to each other. Which suggests either my client wasn't there - or things are even weirder than they seem and someone has been playing with her memory." He's not ruling that out. The cameo suggests that, at some point, the ghost girl was killed by Charles. This would suggest a bastard of some sort - there was a crutch in the room, so perhaps the child was born with disabilities. Back in the day, wealthy families had a tendency to hide such people away, and...maybe the girl became inconvenient at some point."

"...they do?" Isabella wonders, looking genuinely perplexed; she's unable to directly face him so he could clearly gauge the depth and level of her confusion, and while the question sounds incredibly naive and disconnected from the social norms of the twenty-first century, it's probably somewhat understandable in her case. She has lived most of her life abroad, traveling into different countries and keeping basic essentials in a suitcase or backpack as she embarked on months of temporary lodgings and tossing her things in other people's homes for however long an expedition takes. And with Alexander's helpful elucidation on the subject, now she's clearly thinking about it, backtracking from the start of the conversation to now.

"I didn't think it was a big deal," she begins, slowly, when she parks into a parking space and shuts off the engine. "It's a physical compartment where a person can keep all of their things in one place so they don't lose them while they're staying in a location that doesn't belong to them. Is this one of those simple things that Cosmo suddenly turned complicated?" She grins at him impishly, her dimple creasing on her left cheek. "Should I subscribe?"

As Alexander mulls over the case in his head, her dimpled expression eases into a prouder one. "It fits, or most of it does. But you know what I'm going to say to that, I think." She clambers out of the Jeep and closes the door. "Don't leave anything to chance and find a copy of that will. Rich families fight over inheritance all the time. The tricky part is finding a lawyer who would be willing to give up that information, and given my own experience with the Foster case and Pursley's legal team, I know that attorney-client privilege extends post-mortem. But I am talking to the man who managed to get into the impound lot to read a car that's involved in the pending investigation of a dangerous accident." She shoots him a look there.

"It doesn't have to be a big deal," Alexander says hastily. "It's just a drawer. It doesn't have to mean anything at all." His hands fidget at his thighs and the hem of his jacket, playing back and forth with the fabric in a fairly clear indication that these are uncertain waters for him. "I've never read Cosmo," he admits. "If you subscribe, I'll give it a shot, though." Yeah, he's serious.

He grimaces at the mention of his more 'resourceful' endeavors. "Yeah, but...filing cabinets. I still don't know how to pick locks. I need to learn." And yes, that's what worries him - not the fact that he's committing a felony by breaking into a lawyer's office. Or might. If he did that. Which he totally isn't going to do. (But if he does, he'll have to bring a friend to do all the lockpicking, until he learns how.) He hops out and closes the door behind him, following her up and into the building. "Either way, you're right: I need a copy of the will."

He's uncertain, and she's uncertain as to why he's uncertain in the first place. The conversation about what she thought was just a simple act of convenience and consideration has suddenly fallen into one of those relationship traps that she had absolutely no idea existed, and Isabella keeps watching him, utterly fascinated in spite it all, as he fidgets. "...so...I...shouldn't ask you how it's a thing?" Because she's both extremely curious and terribly hesitant, now, given his present state of discomfiture.

It's his serious declaration about reading one of the most dubious sources of relationship advice out there that has her grin breaking out again, shaking her head as she laughs. "Absolutely not!" she tells him. "I'd be doing you a disservice if I place your gorgeous brain within breathing distance of those magazines. You know we used to play a drinking game about its infamous sex tips back in college? They're all ridiculous! How is pineapple ever a good idea in all of that, it's acidic!"

She falls in a step next to him, his taller shadow moving astride her own as they take up the quick walk on the front steps leading to the entrance of the nursing home, looking up at the nondescript, but well-maintained building. "I hear plenty of horror stories about these kinds of places," she tells him quietly, and while she doesn't elaborate, given he is who he is, and has seen plenty of shit throughout his career as an unlicensed private investigator, he probably knows what she means; poor living conditions, elderly abuse, loneliness and abandonment and the general reminder of one's own mortality lurking in every corner.

"I don't mind if you ask. I just don't...quite understand it, myself." Alexander frowns. "I believe the idea is that the drawer is a symbol of a growing sort of permanence. It's not moving in, but it's sort of like a foot in the door towards moving in." He gives her a sideways look. "So sometimes people are a bit reluctant. Because it means that someone is leaving something in your space. Makes the space less you, and more...our." Then he ducks his head, and shrugs. "It's nonsense, really. Doesn't matter."

His mouth stretches again in a smile as she laughs, like he can't help it. "Okay, now I'm curious. I'll have to pick one up and check it out." Although the talk of pineapple gives him a bit of a grimace. "Okay. Yeah. That's dubious. A bit dubious." He chuckles. "But I'm still curious."

He heads towards the building, and nods a little at her commentary on it. "Some of them are fine. Most are tolerable. Some are terrible." He takes a deep breath, and tries to decide which category this falls into - he reaches out with his mind, she might feel the Glimmer stir, as he tries to determine the overall sense of the emotions in the building before them, whether it's lonely or hurting or angry.

"Oh. Well, I don't mind if you share my space." Isabella nudges her shoulder against his while they walk. "If not just because you spend more time in my place than I do yours and I don't want to intrude on Isolde, too, and she's still living with you. Besides..." She angles a glance in his direction, smiling faintly. "If we ever get to that point, first of all, it would be our decision and not just mine. Second of all..." And here, she breaks out into a laugh again. "We would not be living in a place my father owns. I mean, it'll be rent free and everything but between you and me, it's a tall order asking my father to put us up while we live in sin. Not that we aren't already, I could think of a few things we've done together that are downright felonious." She winks at him teasingly.

Her mirth only intensifies when he expresses his curiosity about questionable reading materials, which earns him a long-suffering groan. "I knew I shouldn't have said that, human beings are innately drawn to things that are terrible for them and you're definitely no exception."

She does feel his power extend, and she stops to regard him curiously. While she doesn't precisely know what he's doing, he proves himself once more to be an interesting subject. She can't help it, reaching out herself, though she doesn't read the place - she simply follows the pulse and beat of his own power, acclimating herself to how it feels. The intense focus of it, the familiarity of it, the fact that it's his, causes her to close her eyes. If it's ever possible for someone to be studious and savoring over a particular thing, she's certainly demonstrating that at the moment, her hands in her pockets as she observes with her other senses.

Alexander stops moving, and his eyes closed as he skims his mind over the building. His shoulders tense up; the pain and loneliness always strikes deep into him. But this? It's not bad. Comparatively, and when his eyes open, they're barely shadowed by that reflected pain. "It's not a bad place, this one." He caresses her cheek with the back of his knuckles as he catches that look, that stir of her own power. "And you're never going to intrude on my home, Isabella. You're as welcome as I am. Isolde won't object, either - I think she'd like to hang out, some time." He coughs. "No threesomes, I promise." A flicker of teasing there."

Then he starts to walk into the building. And despite his not exactly professional demeanor, his voice is calm and professional as he asks for permission to see the right patient, and he tries to project harmlessness, so that they don't have any problem getting waved through.

She opens her eyes only when she feels him stroke her cheek, lashes lifting to regard him with a quick smile, though it still looks concerned (and somewhat displeased) at seeing those shards of vestigial pain move past his dark stare. Isabella parts her lips - she means to ask, but she switches tracks instead in the last minute, her apprehensions tabled by a serious effort levied to trust him when he says this is part of the job that he can handle. His teasing brings that grin back up, turning her face to peck lightly at his knuckles. "Alright, if you don't think she'll mind. I am curious about your house, the debacle with Byron's medicine cabinets had me looking into the history of the properties in Elm Street and..."

They get to the front desk, and she mouths Later silently to him. He's working now, and she's an eager observer and student.

The young nurse in the front counter flashes Alexander a beaming smile, before she checks her electronic clipboard. "Joseph Humboldt? Ah, yes, his son called a week ago and let us know that a couple of people might be visiting him. You're Alexander Clayton? May I see some identification?"

Once shown, the nurse makes a note of it and waves towards one of the nearby orderlies over. "Hey, Jesse. You mind taking these nice folks up to Old Joe's room?" She looks over at Alexander and his companion curiously. "Jesse'll be on hand, in case he needs it. Residence rules."

Alexander expected the request for ID, and takes out an old, battered leather wallet and displays his driver's licence. The photo in there is obviously old, and...it's a DMV photo, so not flattering at all, but it's just as obviously him. A nod at the mention of Humboldt's name, and he murmurs his thanks before following the orderly towards the room. He doesn't talk about his purpose for being here - not to the desk, and not to the orderly, but he does ask Jesse, "I understand Mr. Humboldt has good days and less good days, memory wise. How is today, so far?"

Alexander smiles. "Nothing wrong with an interesting story told again," he allows, easily enough. "Thanks," he tells the man, and steps inside. The room is examined with a critical eye, like he might be tested on this, later, and when he's done with that, Joseph faces the same scrutiny. "Mr. Humboldt, my name is Alexander Clayton. This is Isabella Reede," he draws her closer so that the elderly man can get a good look at them both. His voice is clear, but gentle. "Thank you for seeing us. We were hoping to ask you some questions about your job, and the Blackwood family. Would that be all right?"

Alexander moves closer, quietly pulling a chair to where he can sit next to the man, although not quite within reaching distance. He shakes his head at Isabella, but it's a brief, absent movement. As he moves into 'work mode' his expressive face is smoothing out into that lizard-like blankness that means that all available focus is shifting to other priorities, and looking human is no longer one of the major ones. "Tell me about Anne," he prompts the old man, gently. And not just with his words; dementia is a disease of the mind, and Alexander possesses formidable gifts in that area. Now, he tries to reach out to Joseph, and gently feed the man focus.

"I'm sorry," Alexander says. If he were a more charming man, there'd be a smile and some witty but plausible explanation to put the man at ease. Byron's Warm Cuddliness might come in handy, here. Instead, he's just blank faced and concentrating. He has enough of the healing gifts and enough medical knowledge to know that this won't last, so he says, quietly, "Catherine has asked me to look into something that happened to her, long ago, on her estate. My name is Alexander Clayton. This is Isabella Reede." There's no indication that he's said this before on his face, which is still blank. "I'm sorry that we're disturbing you, and bringing up bad memories, but I want to see that no one gets hidden or forgotten." A pause. "Will you tell me about your sister? Please?"

"To cover over the inconvenient is always the first response of the wealthy and the powerful," Alexander says, blunt in turn. His eyes remain fixed on Joseph, although he quiets to let Isabella try to break the man's stubbornness. "They don't often consider the hurt it causes others." He glances down at his feet, then back up at the older man. He's still trying to hold that lucidity for him. "I'm sorry. For disturbing you. But I think it needs to be heard. What happened. What was covered over." The type of his influence changes, a little. Instead of just focus, he adds a trickle of trust, of yearning. Of want.

Alexander listens. His hands clench, slowly, turning to fists, then releasing with effort. His eyes are dark and intent, with the feeling of satisfaction that comes from feeding that hungry curiosity within him. He's not without compassion, and that too shows on his face as the man explains his sister's death. "I'm sorry, Mr. Humboldt." He takes a breath. "Your sister, did she look like," and here he describes the girl he saw in the vision from the cameo, the one that Charles had chased at the end of it all. And after that, he asks, as if in afterthought, "At that time, who were the children in the house?" Because kids noticed kids, even when adults studiously refused to.

Alexander reaches up and rubs wearily at his temple. He shakes his head at the question. "Just an investigator, Mr. Humboldt. One who is very good at their job." His smile is brief, wan. "I'm sorry if it has caused you distress." It would be more reassuring if his voice was less toneless. There's a quick, sidelong glance towards Isabella, but his attention returns quickly to Joseph. "Sarah was difficult," he echoes, repeating it more to keep the man focused; he can feel the dementia on the edges of his power, eating away at the focus he's imposing like a terrifying and hungry void. The less work he has to make the man's mind do, the better for both of them. "How was Sarah difficult?"

"I see." Alexander frowns, slightly. It's not directed at Joseph, but rather his attention has turned internal for a moment as he thinks. "Thank you, Mr. Humboldt. I'm sorry for having brought up such a difficult time." He refocuses on the older man. "One more question, if I can. Elizabeth and Sarah - did either of them pass away shortly around the same time as we've been discussing, to to the best of your recollection?"

"Unsurprising," Alexander murmurs. "Considering everything." His lips stretch in a faint, sad smile. "Thank you, Joseph, for being willing to talk to me about something that I know was painful. My condolences for the loss of your sister." A pause, as he recognizes that once he draws back his power, the man's dementia would reassert itself. "Are there any messages that you'd like me to pass on to your son, or anyone else? Or anything you'd like?" He offers an awkward sort of shrug. "Since I'm here. No point in not being useful, right?"

"I'll tell him," Alexander promises. He stands, then. "Have a good rest of the day, and thank you, again." There's a pause; he stares down at the older man, then gently withdraws his power from his mind, closing his eyes as he leaves only a sense of peace and well-being in its place. A final gift, for the help. Then his shoulders slump, and he turns to Isabella. The smile he offers is brief, but sincere, although his eyes look distant as he moves to join her and step outside. There's a pleasant nod to the orderly, but otherwise, he's quiet and thoughtful as they leave.

The distant look doesn't escape her notice, though Isabella says very little else. She takes the silence in due course; largely out of necessity, but also out of concern - she is aware that Alexander had influenced the man to maintain clarity of mind throughout the interview, but considering her decided lack of experience in the reading aspect, in general, she doesn't know how much of a toll that actually takes on her lover's mind. Her own horrific experience with it has had her stepping back, these days, with a hard eye cast perpetually on the costs.

The open air whips color in her cheeks when they venture out of the building, the sharp bite of the northern tundras made present by the season. It's only then that she winds her fingers through a set of his, if he permits, lifting his hand once she has it captured to press her mouth warmly, gently, on the back of his battered knuckles.

"You did very well," she tells him quietly. She is not telling him anything he doesn't already know - much of his confidence seems rooted on the efficiency and skill he demonstrates plying his trade, but she knows how rarely he hears that, also. "What are you thinking?"

Alexander always permits, when it's Isabella. His hands are rough and warm with hers, and he squeezes her hand lightly as they step out into the cold. He's still distant, although it seems less of a deliberate withdrawal from his companion, and more just being in that thoughtful, processing mode. There's the flash of a smile at the compliment, and a teasing, "I'm glad you think so." But her question makes him shake his head. "Just processing some of the information. And wondering where I might get an artist at a reasonable price. I think I'll send him a small picture of his sister. As thanks."

He takes a breath, lets it out, and shrugs. "Anyway. A bit of sordid information, it seems, but useful. Poor child, to have gotten caught up in the machinations of powerful people. It's likely that the murdered child was this Sarah - but we're no closer to understanding why the girl was murdered, particularly murdered by Charles. If she was." He grimaces. "Visions aren't always comprehensive."

"I do," she replies confidently. "Think so."

His hand is squeezed in return, her other hand coming down to absently rub at his fingers in an attempt to banish the growing chill. "An artist?" Isabella thinks on that for a moment as they start to step down the building, and cross the street to where the Jeep is parked. "I'm afraid I don't have a lot of contacts in the artistic community, but I did meet a gallery owner recently named Diana Foster. She can probably make a referral?" She does not know that she goes by another name, considering she has an official business card from the place. "I stopped by Vivid Dreams the other day while I was doing some Christmas shopping, for ideas if nothing else. That, and I like art." She must, considering all the art history courses that she had to take to obtain her degrees. "Have you ever been? I honestly wasn't expecting it, but she's got an impressive collection for such a small town. A couple of Monets, Van Goghs...I was half-expecting a Caravaggio in her store room by that point."

She thinks about his hypothesis before supplying: "Maybe Sarah wasn't Edward's, but Charles'? I mean, you never know, right? Joseph said that the siblings squabbled constantly about the family fortune, if there was an extramarital affair involved and a will that got changed, maybe the number of heirs would have determined just how big the fortune was passed onto each son." She turns up a smile at his direction. "It's all speculation, mind, but you're already determined to find a copy of the will, anyway." And here, she gives him a look. "Even if it does mean yet another late night taco delivery."

Alexander arches an eyebrow. "A Monet and a Van Gogh in this town." He sounds a bit skeptical. "I don't think I could afford anyone who might be displayed in a gallery next to such lights, but it's worth looking into. Or Miss Liven. I believe she's an artist; I'll have to swing by the Cabaret one of the nights she's working and see if it would interest her at all." He walks with her to the Jeep, but rather than separate so that they can both get in, he smiles and leans in to kiss her, slow and sweet. "Thank you. It was interesting having company on one of these endeavors." His eyes twinkle a little as he straightens.

"And that's not a bad theory. It's entirely possible. But yes, finding a copy of the will in all its revisions is the next step." He attempts to look innocent at the accusation of delivery. "Mm. Well, we'll see. I doubt my client actually wants to bail me out of jail if I get caught, so we'll have to explore the options." He squeezes her hand once more before letting it drop. "At any rate, I'm going to walk home, I think. Some things I wish to consider. Be safe, Isabella. And keep an eye out for," a grimace, "whatever might be out there."

"I know, and I don't know whether she's an artist herself, she majored in Business. But she might know local artists," Isabella points out, though when he mentions Miss Liven, there's a smile. "The one developing properties? The cabins? Javier mentioned he was looking into getting one, might be a good thing for him." She makes a face. "Get out of the Sea View." Whatever else she says there, however, fades when she stops by the vehicle. His face draws closer, the intent upon it clear, and she tilts her head back to savor the lock of his mouth on hers, returning it with the same, unbridled youthful enthusiasm she always demonstrates. Her hand comes up to brush the back of her knuckles against his cheek.

Once they separate, she's still somewhat disgruntled at the idea of him breaking and entering again, but she knows what tenacity is like; her smile returns. "You make a fascinating subject, by the way. If you keep this up, you're never going to be rid of me, just following you to work and watching you shake answers out of random folks." She winks at him then, planting another kiss on his cheek, replying to the squeeze on her fingers with one of her own before letting go, with some overt reluctance. Eyebrows shoot upwards at the last.

"You didn't tell me not to die," she points out with a sudden incandescent laugh. "Ohhhh, Mister Clayton. I really do have you now." She leans forward to press her mouth on his again, before she steps back, still grinning as she opens the door. "Be careful, darling, if you're walking. I'll talk to you soon."