2019-12-31 - Within The Threads of Unforgiving History

Alexander has been busy while Isabella was out. It's past Christmas, so the tree is down, neatly packed away. And the soup was a disaster, so the enticing smell that's filling the kitchen is not, as it happens, anything that Alexander has tried to cook. Instead, it's been ordered from the local Thai place, and it smells spicy and delicious - he splurged on the spiced duck. But Alexander himself isn't in the kitchen. Instead, he can be seen out the back door, sculpting...something out of snow. It's hard to see what it is, because he's deliberately hung up a sheet that blocks the view of what he's working on, even though she can see him leave the sheet, grab more snow, go back behind it.

Isabella had gone about her business early in the morning, exchanging messages with a few acquaintances while eating the piping hot soup that Alexander had made for her for breakfast, before planting a solid kiss on him and heading out for her doctor's appointment. It has taken her out of the house for most of the day, and while she is grateful for the activity, moving around in the state she's in is cumbersome at best - she bulls through it with all the tenacity he's come to expect from her, but that has taken a toll. By the time she returns to 13 Elm, she is exhausted, entering through the door with her crutch wedged underneath an arm, doing her level best to keep her weight off her left foot.

"Oh, god, everything hurts," she groans. She has been repeating the same phrase all day.

The Arctic-expedition grade jacket set aside in favor of warmer, but more home-worthy gear, she's busily drawing her arms through the soft, absurdly warm rose wrap that Lilith had gifted her for Christmas, before adding onto it a scarf, a knit cap (yes she is wearing one indoors, it's cold), fuzzy slippers in the shape of rabbit heads (shut up, they're all she's got), mittens and another more comfortable jacket. Something drops from it and she picks it up, squinting at the copy of the Flame and the Flower that she mysteriously acquired from somewhere. Tucking it under her arm, she moseys within, turning her eyes to the workspace she has secured for herself on the coffee table. The lack of a desk hasn't been much of a deterrent; on top of it is the spike Alexander pulled from the woods, set over a thin rubber sheet, with her field kit next to it as well as an eyeglasses case. She makes a note to start on that later.

It's largely the smell that snatches her attention, though, and like a mighty (???) hunter, Isabella half-limps towards the kitchen to investigate what dinner looks like. "Oh my god, my favorite," she murmurs, taking a deep whiff of the food when she gets there, and carefully covers the spiced duck back up. "Alexander?" she calls out, furrowing her brows at the sheet.

What on earth?

Alexander is bundled up like some sort of Eskimo, except for his hands, which only have their thin leather gloves to protect them. He sticks his head out from behind the sheet when she calls out, and grins at her, his nose and cheeks reddened from the cold. He waves. "Isabella! Can you manage the stairs? I've made something for you!" He doesn't wait for her answer, instead moving - still limping from his own frostbitten foot - towards her. He stops just outside the door, and beckons.

"What are you doing outside?" Isabella wonders, concern creasing over her brow. "It's like you haven't had enough of winter." But there's amusement in her expression, warring with that worry, especially with the way he limps, that fades into a curious look when he claims that he made something for her. "Didn't you already make me soup today?" She's teasing him, clearly, but when he asks her about the stairs, she eases towards the back door. "I think so." It's not like he'd expect her to say no, she can't manage some bit of physical activity, her (stupid) reckless pride habitually pressing her into taking on more than her slender body can allow.

Thankfully, she means it this time.

She reaches out to draw the sheet aside, and decides to abandon the crutch for the time being and steps towards him when she emerges from the kitchen and through the door leading into the backard. Her breath plumes immediately when she steps outside, half her face turtling into the scarf wrapped securely around her neck.

"I'm going to be cold inside. So I might as well come outside and enjoy it." Alexander grins and when she steps out, he enfolds her in his arms and draws her close to be hugged fiercely. But briefly. There's no warming to his embrace right now, so he doesn't inflict it for very long. But then he grabs her arms, and tries to (gently!) lead her out into the snow, over the path he's already made trudging back and forth. He's looking FAR too pleased with himself as he draws her through the sheet.

On the other side, there's a snow sculpture...landscape. He's tried to make a fanciful 'undersea' scene with a couple of snow blocks with shaky renditions of seaweed, some brain coral (that maybe looks a bit too much like human brains), a couple of oversized fish. And the centerpiece - a very sketchy but recognizable broken ship. It's not to scale. There's not enough snow in the yard, and Alexander isn't THAT good. But you can still tell what it is. "I know it's a bit cold to dive, but..." he says, with a grin."

"Well, no use tempting fate even further!" Isabella exclaims in protest, laughing as she's seized in his arms, her own draping over his shoulders and sinking into all the padding that is donning him at the moment, lifted slightly at its ferocity. While there's no warmth, it does alleviate the pressure off her foot, just a little and there's a sense of relief that pervades her, too potent to be denied, because as stated earlier, everything hurts.

It is pain that is forgotten, though, when he draws her through the sheet and moves carefully down the steps, her fuzzy slippers getting somewhat wet from all the ice, but she doesn't seem to care. The seascape made out of snow has her pausing, blinking in surprise at the production - and the hours of work that must've come from it. The shipwreck might not be to scale, and the fish might be too large, and the brain coral might be too human like, but affection is clearly writ on the tableau spread before her. She nearly forgets that she's injured, though his support helps.

"You made all of this?!" she wonders, clearly endeared, her face lit with adoration as she turns on her feet and nearly keels over on a snowbank in the doing. Her arms throw around him enthusiastically as she laughs again. "Braving all that cold and compounding your frostbite just for me? Oh, Mister Clayton, you really do like me!" She stares up at him, still grinning, girlish mischief mercilessly lanced upwards at his hard, but handsome profile. "It's almost enough to make me fall in love all over again," she tells him with an exaggerated sort of drama. "And I want you to know that the spiced duck in the kitchen definitely sealed the deal on that end."

"I'm a little bit fond of you, Miss Reede," Alexander says, quietly. He keeps an arm around her as they stand there, just to give her a little extra support off her foot. "And I thought this might be a nice surprise. And it isn't as if I wanted to venture far from the house." Not on his own foot, and with that chilling cold rooted deep into him. "I'm glad you like it." He smiles, studying that girlish mischief as if memorizing it for the rest of his life. "How was your trip out? Was Dr. Stevenson helpful?" He does notice the hearing aid in one ear, and reaches up to trail a gloved finger along the outer edge of her ear, expression flashing fretful for a moment. "Has that been healing, do you think?"

"Well, no point in holding back or anything," Isabella jests, her grin's wattage turning up at her return fire. She turns sideways, nestled into his side and accepting the support he provides, emerald eyes and their gold shards taking in the ice sculpture and pressing her lips gently against his cold cheek. "This is the sweetest thing," she tells him softly. "I'd keep it forever if the weather allowed." It feels like the cold would never end, especially at the moment, but the world will continue to turn, and the wheel of the seasons will shift along with it.

In spite of her aches and pains, she remains responsive to his every gesture and touch, her face tilting slightly towards his trailing hand and eyes hooding in the slightest increments. "Well, she examined my ears, and my foot. She's relatively confident I'm going to live, and she gave me a tetanus booster just in case. And then she referred me to Doctor Multine, who saw me today and he prescribed me some antibiotics to prevent any ear infections, but he confirmed what she said - my ears will heal on their own, unless I want to tempt fate." He's probably seen her eye the chicken soup packets with some deliberation. So far, she has not succumbed. "Apparently she's thinking of switching from whatever she specializes now to pathology."

Her head tilts, to lean against his shoulder. "...I asked her some uncomfortable questions," she murmurs as she drinks in the snow ship; she, too, is determined to commit this sweet gesture to memory. "We should talk about those, when you're inclined." She nuzzles her face into his collar, closing her eyes. "I haven't used crutches since I was a teenager, it takes some getting used to."

"I could never hold back, when it's you," Alexander says, with a warm smile. He pulls her in close as she settles into his side - although with all that padding, it's hard to tell. He practically glows with happiness at her words. "It won't last. But it's yours to enjoy while it does. Even if 'enjoy' mostly means standing and staring at it. I'd suggest we just plow into it and knock it down, but..." He looks ruefully at HIS foot and then HER foot.

Speaking of. He quiets to listen to the diagnosis, expression grave, but a flicker of relief as she mentions that the ears will heal. His eyebrows quirk upwards. "That might not be the worst idea. Dr. Stevenson is not particularly good with patients," he says, as if he isn't a VERY DIFFICULT patient. When she mentions uncomfortable questions, his eyes skitter away. "Hmm. All right. We'll make time for that." And then he just enjoys the feel of her pressed against him, even through the layers. "Crutches suck. But you make them look surprisingly sexy."

I could never hold back, when it's you.

"I'm definitely holding you to that, by the way." Isabella reaches to poke at his side, though the attempt to give him a tickle is an exercise in futility at best, when he's under so many layers. There's a brief shiver, regardless, as they huddle together in the cold, but it's plainly evident that at the moment, the archaeologist can't bring herself to walk into the house just yet. The ice sculpture is hardly a work of art, but it was wrought from his hands, after God-knows how many hours. By the way she's looking at it, it's almost as if she's in the Met, admiring a Botticelli. "And no way. Don't you dare." She laughs, nudging her hip against his. "This ought to stay as long as possible. Besides, this is the only way I can enjoy the sea at the moment without killing myself."

She listens to his own contributions there. "Her bedside manner isn't the best," she agrees, her own arm winding around him and burrowing further in; all of his layers make for a comfortable leaning post. "And if you keep flirting with me that way, I might have to do something absolutely inadvisable. Don't think ruptured eardrums and a stigmata'd foot will stop me from jumping you." Eyes lift, the devil dancing within them as she peers at him from the eclipse his face casts over her own.

"Is it bad that I'm dreaming about the summer already?" she wonders, apropos of nothing. "I owe you a diving lesson. I was thinking of taking you out to see the whales when the season hits. See if you'd like to 'talk' to them. Be prepared for Aquaman jokes if you're successful, though."

Alexander snuggles in closer to her, at that shiver, although it's not going to help. He's been out here in the cold most of the day to make this for her, but also because at least out here he's freezing legitimately. Whereas, being inside with the heat turned up and still his teeth chatter just felt...wrong. More wrong than it should. He chuckles at the attempt to tickle, even thoughhe can't even feel it.

He grins at the threat. "You promise? I'm more than willing to see how much of the snow we can endure when sufficiently...distracted. Although explaining to the doctor where we got the frostburns might be a little awkward, later on." A playful waggle of his eyebrows. Then, though, his expression softens to something wistful. "Do you know, I've never really tried to talk to sea animals before. Odd, being on the coast, maybe. But I mostly use it in my investigations, and fish don't know much about murders."

It's the thought that counts. At his burrowing closer, Isabella turns her body, twining into him, her gloved fingers finding his hair - enough to defy the boundaries between their physical forms, but it is less out of the desire for warmth and more out of the sudden need to scent the snow and ice on his skin and the spices left over from his handling of the duck. The smile she turns up at him afterwards is a blissful, almost dreamy thing - Elm Street is what it is, but at the moment, it might as well be a snow-laden wonderland pulled out of the Russian and Germanic fairy tales she read as a child. It prevents her from admiring his ice sculpture any further, but much like his creation, she can watch his face for hours.

His grin prompts an answering one, eyebrows winging upwards towards the hem of her ski cap. "If that's a challenge, I hope you're ready to see it through," Isabella tells him. "I'm already less-than-intact, and if you think I won't look at a doctor in the eye and tell him precisely how I got said frostburns, you don't know me at all." A pause, before she continues, inflection laden with quiet tenderness underscored with heat: "It's always worth it, with you."

The wistful tone has her smiling. "I only thought of it because you told me you liked walking on the beach precisely for that reason - animal thoughts aren't complicated, and you found it calming. That and whales are some of the smartest animals in the world, maybe they'll surprise you. Tell all their secrets and juicy undersea gossip."

Alexander nods, slowly. "Yes. I mean, I can hear them. Feel them. But it's like a hum, or a subtle blue-gray haze in my mind. Not like the emotions of humans. I never pay much attention to it beyond that. It's like distant music." He smiles at her dreamy expression, and runs a gloved finger down the line of her nose. "You're beautiful," he says, abruptly. "And I would proudly bear any frostbite scars you cared to help me acquire."

But at that, he starts to steer them back towards the house. "We should probably let the hospital's time be taken up with more pressing injuries, though - and while I don't mind explaining to a doctor how those injuries were acquired, I would shudder to explain to your father." He supports her and her bum foot, and moves to open the door for her when they get there, letting the wash of warm air and Thai spices comfort them.

"I wonder what that's like," Isabella murmurs, curiosity sharpening the faraway look in her eyes as it was often wont to do. "Hearing their music that way." She means it, but it's not a thought that she dwells upon too deeply; that road is a precipitous one. She has no desire to be a reader, bitten so harshly by her experience in her family home that the idea of deliberately exercising that aspect of her gifts is one that puts a twist in her stomach, unable, still, to wrap her head around the idea of doing it regularly. For a living, in Alexander's case. But she's prevented from further contemplations there, when his finger drifts down the bridge of her nose. The sudden compliment coaxes a blink, and that smile, comparable to a solar flare and just as deadly. "So are you," she tell him simply, shamelessly.

Snow crunches under their tandem steps, following the path he has made towards the back door and the sheet that he had draped on it, to keep his toils a surprise. The sudden brunt of heat stirs more color on her cheeks, and she groans softly in appreciation. It helps a little - not as much as it should, but at the moment, beggars can't be choosers.

"You're the one who immediately thought about snowscapades," she points out with a sudden laugh, the line of her mouth shifting to a more wicked bent. "I was thinking of dragging you indoors first. Honestly, I didn't even consider the frostburns, I was more amusing myself with the thought of your scandalized neighbors calling the police and forcing them to fine us for public indecency. I won't lie to you, my darling, if that ever happened to us at some point, I am framing that ticket."

Once inside, she pulls the sheet down, so she can fold it, and lets him close the door. It's done so neatly, taking great care - a rare demonstration of deference, considering this is his house, and so she should treat his things the way he does (the disastrous cat chase notwithstanding), setting it on the nearest flat surface. Her sodden slippers are also set aside, so she won't track water everywhere. Her bandaged toes find the linoleum, while the bunny ears droop a little under the weight of the snow.

"Would you like to hear?" Alexander asks, a bit tentatively. "I don't mean you listening for it--but I can share it with you. My memory of it, anyway. If you want." Quick to offer the out, especially with anything regarding abilities, and more particularly, his mental abilities, that tend to cause people distress. Even with that flicker of a warm smile as he shakes his head to the return compliment. "I'm not. But it's kind of you to say so."

Once they're inside, he points at the couch. "Go. Sit. Under the blanket. I'll bring you some food." Then he snickers. "It's Elm, Isabella. No one's gonna call the cops. They'd be more likely to start charging admission, or use the distraction to toss the house for valuables." There's a wry amusement to the idea; whatever the crime-solving investigator thinks about living among the various criminals and hard luck cases who share this side of town with him, it doesn't appear particularly angry or contemptuous. Exasperated and a little fond, perhaps.

He limps his way over to the kitchen counter, his teeth set against the urge to chatter against themselves, even as the tips of his fingers are starting to tingle and thaw. He pulls off his gloves, shoves them in a pocket, and starts to serve them both a plate of jasmine rice, topped with duck, veggies, and spicy sauce. A little dollop of chili sauce is added to the side of each plate, and he balances the cheap wooden chopsticks that came with the take-out on each plate.

"Sure, I'd love to know what it's like." There's no hesitation in Isabella's acceptance, and even a slightly furrow-browed look in his direction at Alexander's tentative tone. But there's a gleam in her eye that suggests that she's looking forward to it, smiling at him openly while they make it into the house. Were she more capable of linking with someone mentally, sharing of the kind that he suggests would be occurring more often. As it stands, these days, she relies on his mastery in that aspect to form a stable enough link so they could communicate mentally, share things beyond the flesh even while said flesh is doing the talking. For over half her life, that was the norm for her.

"And you are." She is willing to argue the point, even when she does this playfully; she sticks her tongue out at him and grins before she skitters into the house in full.

That familiar stubborn look surfaces at the directive to get off her feet, though it duels visibly with relief, also, and in the end, she doesn't fight it terribly much; her hobbling motions take her to the couch, sinking her body into the cushions and groaning audibly - heard all the way in the kitchen. An inquisitive glance finds him there, as he bustles around the kitchen despite his own limp, frowning when she sees it, but she's largely taken up by the sight of him in this brief moment preparing dinner, even if he didn't cook it himself, unable to suppress the urge to marvel at it. She has never had this before, and watching him move around doing menial tasks around a space they are sharing temporarily doesn't fail to remind her of the fact. Many would take it for granted - such a thing is commonplace, in the modern world, but after years of living out of a suitcase, to her, this is novel, and something to be savored.

"It never gets old, watching you move around in your kitchen, or mine." Said without thinking.

"....uh." She does try to stop staring at him, though, proceeding instead to spread out the blanket against at the back of the couch so they can share it once they're settled down with the food, fussing over it. "I don't know. I've never experienced it before, so sometimes it catches me unaware when it's actually happening. Not that I didn't enjoy traveling and bouncing from place to place, it's just...it's new. I mean, this isn't the first time I thought that, or...you know." She's babbling, she knows it, but that train has left the station and she's not Superman, she can't stop it. And it isn't as if she doesn't try, and she frantically looks for something else to do once their couch-fort is set up. Her hands reach for the wicked lumberjack's spike on the coffee table and starts examining it very intensely.

Brows lift when she finds the maker's stamp, brushing her fingers lightly over it.

Alexander just snorts at the argument, shakes his head a little, but declines to defend his non-beauty any further. When she sticks her tongue out, he makes a playful swipe at it with pinchy fingers, but lets them pinch shut well short of her mouth. He watches her go back to the couch, his eyes slightly narrowed on her foot as she settles in with that groan. "Have you been taking pain medication for the foot?" he asks, with the slightest hint of a frown. "I've got some codeine, if you need it."

He's bringing the plates over when she makes that remark. It stops him in his tracks, for just a moment. He stares at her, eyes dark and expression unreadable, before the smile blooms across his face. "I guess it would be new," he muses, after some thought, his journey to the couch resumed. He places the plates down on the coffee table, and gently sits down beside her. "It's been a while for me, too. And it was usually more communal. Dorms, group settings. One on one is also a bit new. For me." He gratefully accepts the blanket; although he's doing his best to hide it, he's shivering. Which doesn't go away when he tucks his part of the blanket around himself, but at least it sort of makes him feel better.

He settles back and watches her examining the spike. "Find anything interesting?"

"I don't like medicating unless I absolutely have to," Isabella reminds, which in her own vernacular meant she only does if she's putting other people at risk, or she has little choice in the matter. But with how her foot is throbbing, she groans as she adds, "I'll take some when it gets unbearable. You know what they say about pain - it's just weakness leaving the body." She is absolutely not serious, nobody actually believes that. She sneaks him a quick wink.

She makes room for him in the couch, grateful for the food, but her earlier foot-in-mouth moment has her eyes fixed on the spike, turning the item around her hand with growing interest. Like any artifact that comes within breathing distance of her, she treats it as if it was fashioned out of blown glass, or the most delicate china, but now that he's shifted closer, he'd be able to detect that growing interest the longer her inspection continues. She doesn't say anything about it yet, but she does extend a hand to help push some things aside, and even draw out her glasses from the case by her kit, fitting it over her nose - black frames that enable her to better see something while it's up close.

It gives her something to focus on other than that growing sense of self-consciousness. Thankfully she was looking elsewhere; it would have only worsened seeing that unreadable look. But she does eventually lift her gaze to look at him once he has settled, her smile returned and her green-eyed stare peering at him through thin lenses. "The communal thing is more normal for me," she confesses. "In dig sites, especially in my early years - out in the deserts. There are expeditions that feel more like extended camping trips, when people would just cook and eat outside, and around a fire. It's different, when out at sea. More cramped - I loved it, but it definitely isn't for everyone. The lack of privacy certainly turned off a few other masters students that accompanied Richard and me and...you can hear everything through the walls, even in an exploration vessel. Everything." She laughs. "Nothing was sacred, or safe. People had to be prepared to get ribbed over whatever steamy affairs they tried to hide on the boat." It explains much of her relatively shameless behavior anyway. "Is it strange to feel relieved that it's new for you, too?" She can't resist wondering. "It would probably sound weird to others who have led more stable lives."

She inspects the spike one more time, shifting to get closer to him on the cushions - not just to snuggle into him for added warmth, cognizant of his state more than hers, but also so she can show him the maker's stamp she had found. "Sears and Roebuck, turn of the century. For something that's been out in the elements for at least several decades, the trunk it was buried in kept it preserved. This looks biological..." She delicately points out the very tip of the spike, where there is visible discoloration that isn't just rust. "If you're intent on unraveling this, take samples to Yule, maybe." She nibbles on her bottom lip in thought. "If I'm right about the dating, it puts you in a good place to start for crime research. 12-25-19, Forgive My Love." She quotes the strange message written in blood from memory. "With this, I don't think it means Christmas Day this year, but Christmas Day 1919."

Alexander gives her a skeptical look, that only fades when he picks up that she's not serious. "There's no shame in taking away a bit of the hurt, you know. You're not going to get addicted, if you're careful. And I think you will be." And if she's not, then she probably will find herself tied to a bed while she sweats out the withdrawals; but Alexander doesn't see the need to bring that up. Although some of it might be read in his face and the tone of his voice when he says 'addicted': an edge of exasperation and sadness and steel, as if too many people he knows have fallen down that pit.

Other than that, he doesn't interrupt her study. One of the advantages of two giant nerds is that Alexander is well aware when someone's doing research, and that it's important that they have the opportunity to focus and study as they need to. So he attends to his food, eating mechanically. He smiles at the recollections. "That's familiar to me. The lack of privacy. Although mostly cults try to exercise more control over who's having sex with who, rather than just teasing people about it. Most argue that physical lusts are distracting from spiritual purpose, or that it's mean to lead people astray outside of cult-prescribed couplings. But most of the time, it's just out of a need to control, and to remain the primary relationship in the cultists' lives." A crooked smile. "And a lot of cult leaders are horny and want to sleep with followers."

He leans into her warmth when she snuggles in, and he peers with interest at her findings. "I could do that. And that would make sense - I've never known of any ability, or ghost, who predicts the future. That seems to be one area that, to my knowledge is closed to us." A pause. "I haven't read it, yet. I should do that, soon."

"I know," Isabella murmurs. "You're sweet, to want to take care of me." And adamant enough in his desire to alleviate her continued suffering. She presses her mouth gently on the hollow of his cheek, gratitude there, and sympathy at the threads of emotion unspooling out of his wiry frame, meant to reassure him there, though he's a grown man and, as he pointed out before, not a child. There's only so much someone can do for a person who doesn't want any help in that regard. She has to get used to this, too, occasionally picking up the emotions of the people around her. Lips undertake a brief nuzzle, before she withdraws.

She sets the spike carefully down on the rubber sheet, reaching out to pluck the plate he had prepared for her, dexterous fingers exhibiting the mastery over the chopsticks that one could expect from a person who habitually orders takeaway. The other topic is fascinating to her, also - communal living in a cult setting. She's studied them, at least their more ancient counterparts. "I've honestly never come across anyone close to me who's experienced that life," she confesses to him, fishing a piece of duck from her plate and offering it to him with a quick grin, though this tempers in the corners. "So what's the purpose of cult-prescribed couplings? Is that common? Or is it for....uh. Breeding purposes? Raising children into the cult?" The control issue has her grimacing faintly. "I suppose that hasn't changed through the course of human history," she observes dryly, nudging her shoulder against his. "And its multitude of penises made out of stone and baked clay."

Green-and-gold eyes narrow faintly. "We could always ask Aunt Mary while she's here if she's ever come across ghosts that predict the future, though..." And her discomfiture pushes up from underneath the fine lines of her visage. "...I'm not sure how I'd feel about that, if it was at all possible. I don't like the idea that the future could be predicted to that extent." With a shrug, she chews on her food, lashes kissing her cheeks; as always, she is a contrasting image to him whenever they eat, when she puts her whole self in what she's doing no matter what it is, drawing in the scent of spices and meat, the fragrance of sauce and rice and relishing the explosion of flavors on her tongue.

Whatever exasperation Alexander might have at her stubbornness, it melts away at the kiss on his cheek, and he lets the topic go. Although not without a brief kiss back, tasting of Thai spice. He bends forward to snag the piece of duck she offers with his teeth, eating it in a quick, efficient movement. "The key to a cult is to keep the adherents isolated, controlled, and looking to the leaders for the ultimate authority on all things. So exercising some level of sexual control is pretty common. Mostly it's negative control - you're not allowed to have sex or relationships without approval from the leader or the cult. That can be strict celibacy outside of cult-approved marriages, for example. And depending on the cult, previous marriages might not be recognized when you join, and once followers are well-indoctrinated, they might be married to different members, or married to the cult leader, if he's - and it's almost always a he for this particular variation - interested in forming a harem."

He takes another bite. "Sometimes it's positive control. Like, in college, the Brotherhood's rituals included sex. The inner circle didn't really care who you had relationships with outside of those, but if you wanted to participate in the rituals, you had to be prepared to have sex. Which was fine," he grins, "most of the members were there for the sex. It was a very loose control, as cults went. So nothing really changes in that regard." As she goes on, though, his expression echoes her own discomfiture. "I like to believe the future isn't written. For any of us. So I'm just as happy not to know. But if I were offered the opportunity to see a prediction...I probably would." He knows his own ceaseless curiosity well enough for that.

The face she makes as she pictures a seedy Charles Manson-type surrounded by women and men in a modern-day harem is so revelatory that it's downright comical, Isabella turning her attention to her plate and tucking into it. It's her favorite, or at least, from the place that she generally orders Thai from, so it's probably not surprising to watch her demolish her meal with the gusto of a young woman who engages in an active lifestyle with an incredible appetite - possibly something she inherited from her other family members. She enjoys every bite, clearly, as she turns everything else that she's learning from someone older and who has led a completely different life from her own. "I don't think I'd do well in a cult," is her conclusory statement in all of it. Everything cult leaders seem to do with their constituents runs anathema against certain qualities ingrained deeply in her physical and psychological makeup. She doesn't even like being told how she should take her coffee, and that is advice that barristas routinely give in artisanal coffeehouses in the Pacific Northwest.

"Though it's not as if I can't see the appeal. Everyone needs a place to belong." She sets her empty plate aside, chopsticks neatly placed across the surface. "And it's interesting to hear about, since the experience of living in that kind of environment is extremely different from what you normally see every day." A mischievous look angled his way at the mention of the sex cult. "And it's not as if I could complain there, I'm sure I'm benefiting from your intense and regular experiences engaging in rituals." She waggles her eyebrows playfully at him.

At least they agree about the prospects of ghost and predictions, though she does laugh when he confesses his curiosity. "I would, also," she replies - she can be just as curious as he is. "Though I have to wonder about that, sometimes. If you hear a prediction of the future, is it guaranteed to happen now because you'll be doing your power to fulfill it or stop it? Because it stands to reason that an accurate prediction would account for you knowing about it, wouldn't it?" She sighs, shifting so she could bend her legs at the knee, tucking them sideways into the cushions to further burrow herself into the blanket they're sharing. "This town," she mutters, exasperation evident.

Glancing at the spike, she's unable to hide the concern in her features. "I know you want to read it, and you probably know that whatever you'll pull from it won't be pretty." Judging from what she had seen, anyway, in the woods. "And I know that you're accustomed to it, but I worry anyway," she confesses quietly.

She reaches out to take The Flame and the Flower from next to her kit, and hands it to him. "I found that in the pocket of my jacket," she tells him. "I had absolutely no idea where I got it, at first, but I flipped through the pages because I was...uh. Curious." There's a telling shift of her eyes sideways. "And then I saw the front page."

If he does flip through it, he'd see it, scrawled legibly: Property of Alice Whitehouse

Alexander can't help it; he openly snickers at the face she makes. After her comment, though, he sighs, and leans back into the embrace of the couch. "You might be surprised. Some of the strongest-willed people make the best converts, because if you can get them to choose to invest their belief, they're unshakable ambassadors and usually the last ones to lose faith. But they can be troublesome, because they're charismatic; leaders often come into conflict with them and if they're gonna rebel, it'll probably be due to that, and not due to a crisis of faith. Then, all too often, they splinter off and form their own group."

He laughs at the waggled eyebrows. "Well. I'm glad it's been of some use. And if Isolde ever gives us an odd looking chair, don't question it. Just enjoy it." His expression is as close as he ever gets to innocent. The concept of predictions has him thinking, though. "If you buy the theory that every different choice in the universe creates a potential other universe until all choices are expressed, then it would make sense if 'predictions of the future' were based on a possible future, given that certain choices were made. And, yes, by that metric, the prediction WOULD come true, in SOME universe - but not necessarily in the universe that you and I are experiencing in the moment. That path could be interfered with."

He takes the book, with some surprise, and his eyes widen. "Oh. This is a classic. Or so I've heard." His eyes flick up to her at the hesitation, and he grins. Then he opens the book when she mentions the front page, and his body stills. "Isabella. Where did you get this?"

"Did you ever come across those types?" Isabella wonders curiously. "Converts who ended up challenging the leader of a cult? What happened with those?" Or does Alexander only know because he's a meticulous researcher? She attempts to carefully delineate what he knows with what he has lived, as always interested in the details of his life. She isn't certain as to who he's talked to about his experiences in the cults he had joined when he was younger, but at the very least she's confident that not many knew about Zachary, or what he had done for the love of him. There's a slight knotting of her stomach, there, at the thought of it, but one she attempts to curb. She shifts so she's sitting sideways, so she can look at her lover directly, and observe the play of emotions and thoughts over the planes and angles of his face, the coal-darkness of his eyes.

His laugh never fails to pull a smile from her, though it takes on a more puzzled quality when he brings up a chair. "What, like....sex furniture?" she asks when what he's saying finally triggers one of those reminders that they live in the twenty-first century, and there's a legitimate market for such things. "Well, I don't know about you, but I find it intensely flattering that you actually gave this sex dungeon thing some thought before you met my father!" The last said with a laugh, tilting a sly, sidelong look at him. "Though I think my favorite apparatus for those activities will always be you. You'll always be the best...platform."

She leaves the discussion on parallel universes alone, for now - she's no quantum physicist, certainly a subject that she'll probably circle back to later. The identification of The Flame and the Flower as being a classic has her brows arching again. "It is?" Said with all of the befuddlement of a woman who prefers reading the adventures of Alan Quartermain or "Lucky" Jack Aubrey if she had the time to read fiction at all. But not one to abide by being an ignoramus for long, she reaches for her phone to Google the title. "The first modern 'bodice ripper' romance novel, the book revolutionized the historical romance genre," she reads out loud from the first search hit result. "...huh. Well, now I have to read the whole thing." She pauses, catching herself. "Er...not that I...I only skimmed..." She eyes the grin he flashes her direction. "Oh, shut up."

The stiffened line of his shoulders has her hesitating more openly, but not for long. "I think I got it in the Asylum," she tells him quietly. "I don't...actually....remember being there, but I was told by Dr. Stevenson, or at least she inferred that the fact that I don't recall being there when I can remember the journey leading up to it is telling enough, so I'm as certain as I could be, given the circumstances." She searches his features, the strain visible there. "Do you remember...? Us going?"

Alexander nods, slowly. "The first cult I joined fell apart within the first six months because of that sort of quarreling. Although, in that case, it was more that the co-founders each believed that they were the senior leader, and the other was the junior leader. People chose sides. There were arguments, power plays, and then eventually, the group dissolved." He frowns. "It was...upsetting, at the time. I found it peaceful, in the beginning. A clear set of expectations. Acceptance. A willingness to believe in my distress and to try to help me work through it." A shrug. "But most cults do fall apart. It's hard to build a sustainable isolated structure just based on a leader's charisma and ability to control."

His eyes twinkle. "Not...deliberately sex furniture. But I'll have you know that I can be creative when the mood strikes." And then he lets out a little groan. "I cannot believe that happened. That entire conversation. Your grandfather is a menace." Although he sounds fond of the old man. He also admits, "Your father wants to, uh, get to know me better. So that's a thing." And there's another chuckle at her attempt to shut down his amusement at her expense. Spoiler: It does not work. "It's a historically significant artifact, Isabella. You should study it. In depth. Take your time."

Even so, his fingers are stroking the spine of the book, and he frowns at the information. "Yeah. Same for me. I remember going to the morgue. And there was...a corpse..." His eyes narrow, and he tries to focus on what happened next. It's hard, the memories as slippery as fish. In the end, he's only able to grab a fragment. "I think we saw a nurse. And that's," a soft, sad laugh, "that's all I can recall. Um. I had a couple of notes in my notebook that I must have taken there, but they're not relevant."

It provides her with some context, also - Alexander had mentioned that Actress Megan was a survivor of the Heaven's Gate incident, or that she may have possibly been born into it, so the insight that the investigator provides regarding the hierarchy of power within a cult, and how it is sustained, is one that she drinks in with her sharp attention. But the diamond-clear scrutiny fades when he includes his personal views on the matter, and how it has affected him. If he is finished with his food, she reaches out to gently touch the back of his knuckles, her thumb tracing the faded scars there that she finds in quiet, absent patterns, though her emerald attention doesn't shift from him at all. "I'm sorry that it was upsetting," she tells him softly. "I know you told me before that you wouldn't trade any of your experiences away, even the difficult ones." Her gaze drops to where she's touching him. "Because they made you who you are, now. It doesn't change the fact that some part of me wishes it helped, even just a little, for your sake."

His comments about his own creativity does draw her smile back out, mirth writ large over her sunkissed mien. "It isn't as if you haven't been creative," she returns, teasing him with word and deed, the normally secret dimple on her left cheek manifesting. Her mouth returns to his cheek. "Besides, I find the way you approach such things extremely compelling. If you're not careful, I'll simply elect to skip the codeine altogether and have you keep threading your psychic fingers into my skull while it happens. You're my favorite addiction, also." This murmured against the side of his face. Words about her grandfather and father have her drawing back, large catlike eyes blinking faintly at him. "Dad does?" she wonders. "Um....that sounds...good? It's a good thing, right?" She thinks so, but considering it's an arrangement between the two men, she's more interested in what he thinks. "And...what does that entail, exactly? Fishing trips?" Definitely not hunting - they talked about Alexander's lack of love for firearms for a good portion of the evening.

Studying this piece of historical romantic fiction has her making a noise at him. "I think I will," she tells him, lifting her chin in her signature defiant angle. "Maybe I'll turn the tables and rip your bodice, in the doing. Smartass." But ultimately, she's unable to quell a grin.

The last is a more difficult subject, and after a quietly expelled breath, she leans her head against the hard curve of his shoulder. "I keep hearing a clock," she confesses at last, after a long moment of silence after his last words. "Ticking at the back of my head, after we supposedly went. I met someone the last time I stopped by the houseboat, he helped me with my things and we got to talking. He's like us, and asked about my injury and I told him, that's how I found out that he was a former Asylum patient, but only for half a year. He said that...he tries to forget the place. Tries not to think about it, because thinking about it was corrosive. His term for it. That doing so taints other memories, in some fashion. Corrupts them, somehow? It seems to parse what Dr. Stevenson told me when I tried asking her. She doesn't want to even think about the place - said that it wouldn't make anyone happy, and that nothing good would come out of it. That the Asylum wants to be forgotten. She also seems to believe its existence is necessary and that...it's not what people think it is."

After several more heartbeats, she tilts her head to look up at his profile. "Alexander, maybe..." She hesitates, but not for long. "...maybe we should leave this one alone."

"It was a long time ago, Isabella. And in my current historical list of upsetting events, it barely breaks the top twenty," Alexander admits. But still, the touch and the softly spoken words draw an equally soft, "Thank you, though. For wanting." His eyes spark with interest. "Mmm. Glad to know I'm not disappointing in that regard. I seem to recall that you, yourself, have a wickedly clever mind, filled with all sorts of ideas. So," his voice is studiously innocent, "if you feel moved to dress up my bedroom as a seraglio and play demanding desert prince to my blushing, innocent maiden, well...I will do my best to accommodate you." It's totally bland and serious.

"I think that's good. I suspect that if your father didn't want to see me again, he'd tell me to my face." Dismay flits across Alexander's face at the thought of fishing trips, though. He can barely sit still normally - fishing has never, ever been his forte. But he says, "Maybe? We didn't really discuss details. I should probably clarify. At some point."

But her faint memory of the Asylum is listened to, as is the rest. He frowns. "This man. Was he tall, thin, maybe a bit older than me? I think his name is...Joseph? He heard Yule and I talking in the diner, and asked to go. To the Asylum. Dr. Stevenson was there. I sort of freaked out. Ran away. I should go and apologize to him." He looks down at the book in his hands. "And I have to find Alice. I promised. I have to see if Violet found Alice. If she's okay. If they're okay, then I don't need to do anything else."

In the end, it's the studiously innocent tone that has Isabella looking up to gawk at him. Lips part, then close, then part again, shutting for a long moment with a click as she simply studies his face - her immobility doesn't last, much like any brief bout of hesitation that she entertains, before she turns away from him, to drop her face helplessly in the vacant side of her end of the couch. "Oh, no, that's not fair," she moans, her words muffled against the cushions. "I don't even know what to react to first, the fact that you know what a seraglio is in the first place, which is incredibly sexy to me." Because of course it is - anyone could say brothel, not many would use a very specific term to mean the women's apartments in the palaces of the Ottoman Empire. "Or the fact that even if I wanted to do that, I can't! I mean, I'm not even...Exhibit A!" She straightens up and points to Blue Bell's new bed, where the scarf she had made him is now a black-and-blue cushion of yarn for a stubborn cat who refuses to relinquish her ownership of it. "And my piss-poor snowman! If I even tried to make your bedroom look like one, it'd be...oh god. I can't...it'd be horrific, and you keep things so tidy."

She's laughing, though; her eyes are as bright as stars in the throes of it. "If it's just ultimately about blowing your mind, though..." Her grin turns openly lascivious. "I'm not going to lie to you, darling, I didn't think we would get to the roleplaying stage of our sexcapades so quickly. Especially while we're also talking about my father wanting to get to know you better." Amusement continues to simmer at the flash of dismay on his well-loved features. "That would probably help, some clarification. For all you know maybe it's just talking and drinking."

When they ultimately go back to the Asylum, she nods. "...well, I think so? Joe Cavanaugh, from Georgia. In his fifties, lives in Bayside 303, has a ship also called Surprise docked near mine. He's desperate for the help, and considering I don't have remotely the kind of background to advise on his burdens, I referred him to Yule. But he's the one who told me about some of his experiences there. Ex-navy, got into an accident four years ago - it was either his recovery or the wreck itself that may have triggered the emergence of his gifts, which is one of the reasons I tried to send him to Yule, so he can start collecting data on certain things he wanted to look into."

The dark, downcast stare inspires the lull in her conversation, her jaw setting at their hinges. In the end, however, she relents. "...okay," she tells him softly, leaning forward to kiss his shoulder and close her eyes. "Okay. In the event that they're not, though...we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

"I should think that a proper seraglio would be incredibly sexy to most people," Alexander says, teasing and arch. "And I would be delighted to see your attempt, Isabella. Absolutely delighted." Note that he doesn't even attempt to reassure her that it would be GOOD - even besotted, he's recognized that handicrafts are not his love's greatest strength. He does add, "Blue Bell loves what you made, you know. And I thought the snowman was adorable."

"And I'll talk to him. About bonding. Not our sexcapades." And then, with deliberate innocence, "Unless you think he needs to know. He did mention something about a certain mascot in high school, so he seems to be dedicated to open lines of communication..."

The rest is listened to, and he leans in to give her a kiss between her closed eyes. "We will." A pause. "In somewhat lighter news, Anne and I investigated the carousel's history. Turns out the first operator of it was a Baxter." A long pause. "And his daughter disappeared while riding on it. Want to guess what day that was?"

"Well, the medieval Turks were absolutely decadent when it came to keeping their women," Isabella informs him with a grin, her earlier laughter brimming in her eyes and leaving them as lustrous as virid glass. "And Suleiman I's harem in the sixteenth century was especially grand. The political jockeying that occurred within those halls were the dramatic, cutthroat sorts and when you consider that these are women from different walks of life competing for the privilege of becoming the sultan's legal wife, it's even more intense, so yes. A proper seraglio is incredibly sexy, though I might find it so for entirely different reasons than some others would. And it does not change the fact that if I tried to emulate the draperies and the cushions and those absolutely gorgeous lamps and incense holders they used to keep, I'd probably only ruin your boudoir, and possibly set it on fire that smells suspiciously like lavender and sandalwood. I don't know if we should be tempting fate this way." The last said mock-solemnly. "But if you're issuing a challenge, I accept."

Reminded that the cat loves her (terrible) handiwork, she groans. "I can't believe she did that to me." She flashes the cat a pointed look as she rolls around the scarf. "And I can't believe you found it adorable. You know why I opted for a hitchhiker monstrosity? So that it would find some way to escape me and die with dignity in a place like Cancun. I have a feeling even if I ended up attempting to draw you a picture and you went absolutely mad looking at whatever Lovecraftian disaster I've managed to create on paper, you'd still find some way to say it's cute."

Bringing up the high school mascot draws a gasp from her. "My Dad mentioned....oh my god! No. On second thought, you and my father are not allowed to hang out ever again!" Her arm swings, in a gentle attempt to smack him with one of the nearby pillows. She is only very slightly mollified by his kiss on her brow.

The Baxter information does pull her out of her verbal and physical flailing. "Wait...really? Which Baxter?" she wonders, curiously. "And...oh, no. Tell me she vanished on a Tuesday." Her attention sharpens there, fixed on his face like a homing missile.

Alexander's eyes go half-lidded and he just watches her with pure pleasure. "I love when you talk history to me," he murmurs, the pitch of his voice suggesting that he loves it so much, he's considering scandalizing the cat and bird right here and now, seraglio or no seraglio. "You have to clean up whatever you make, though. So." A playful waggle of his finger. "I suggest not setting anything on fire."

Her other fretfulness, culminating in hitting him with pillows, is met just with laughter. He takes the vicious beating without complaint - but not without revenge. There are more pillows on the couch, and soon one is being bopped right on the top of her head. Bop! "She did, in fact, vanish on a Tuesday. The day Elvis died, actually."

His expression at the moment is enough to abort whatever gentle beatings Isabella might have planned for him, and is in fact ready to reach out for another pillow when it catches her within its deliciously insidious net. As silence stretches on endlessly, her eyes on his, she's all too aware of the intense, bladed effect he has on her whenever she isn't anticipating it; how blood rushes a mile a minute through her veins and the way her heart slams against her bones in a pitiful attempt to escape the heated trap her body makes, the tingle of electricity that thrums down the length of her spine. She can't even begin to describe how exhilarating and galling that really is, when he can arrest her breathing with a single look and the quiet pitch his baritone adopts when he doesn't bother to hide that he likes what he sees.

"...I think you're already in trouble, then, Mister Clayton," she tells him, her voice soft, and the pitch of her own contralto wreathed with smoke.

The bop on her head earns him another one of those flashfire grins, which fades only slightly when he brings up that the disappearance of the Baxter girl coincided with the King's death. "What, really?" she wonders. "That's interesting - did the girl have a name?" Something else seems to trigger her thoughts, however, the pearly edges of her teeth capturing the cushion of her lower lip. "So we have a Baxter-operated carousel, whose daughter disappeared riding on it....and didn't you show me an old photograph before, too, with....the dead children, from a ferris wheel accident. Do you think that might be connected? It could be circumstantial, but both involved children as victims and recreational rides."

"Jill. Jill Baxter. I'm going to see if Javier, or someone, will let me check out the cold cases in the police department, to see if she was ever found. The newspaper didn't say...but, honestly, I feel like the newspaper doesn't ever report anything to do with the Baxters if it doesn't have to. And it might be. It might just be that disasters and Baxters go together," Alexander admits. He reaches out for her, playfully trying to draw her in his arms and wave the book in front of her. "You know. I just had an excellent idea. You need to research how to build a seraglio, and I need to learn how I'm supposed to properly behave for my beloved captor. But you've been reading a lot for your thesis. Your eyes must be tired. What if I read it to you, hmm?"

"Oh, god, is this seraglio thing really happening? It's happening, isn't it?" Isabella groans playfully, but she doesn't protest when he pulls her into his arms, the blanket they're sharing twisting at the shifting of their bodies. Her arms come around his shoulders, a set of fingers finding his hair, as it usually does, unable to resist the siren's song of those midnight half-curls and the way they slip through those long delicate appendages. He's still talking about her mother's family, but she's suddenly more interested in pressing insistent kisses on his mouth the moment he draws her close, lashes lifting only partially when the book presses against her side on the way to lifting it up. There's a glance at it and the surprisingly innocuous cover of a book that apparently revolutionized the historical romance genre. Brows lift faintly as she considers it.

"Alright," she tells him in a low, sing-song tone, turning those hooded eyes back to him, the color of them wicked and velvet. "But only if you allow me creative license to produce a better version with you later. What do you think, Mister Clayton?" Her lips find the top of his head, murmuring against it. "Will you let me play with you?"

"It's sort of up to you. I'm not gonna turn my bedroom into a seraglio. So if I come home one day, and discover that it's happened, I'm going to be duly shocked, surprised, and intrigued," Alexander says, lazily, in between kisses. He lets out a soft groan when her fingers find his hair, and nibbles lightly on her lower lip. He grins up at her, then leans in to nuzzle her neck. "Any time, Miss Reede. Any time at all." Then he tosses the book aside, towards the table, barely missing their plates of Thai, so that he can hold her more firmly and kiss her with a thoroughness meant to distract them both from the fact that as warm as the food was, as warm as the house is (and it is stifling), and as warm as the FEELINGS are...

...they're still freezing cold.

She's unable to repress quiet, feminine laughter when he puts the ball squarely in her court there. "Alright," Isabella tells him, her voice carrying a warning edge that is more jesting than any serious designs to saving him, and his bedroom, from himself. "I can't promise it'll be a pleasant surprise, but at the very least you'll laugh." He seems perfectly amenable to undertaking the risk, and she feels no need to dissuade him from the matter as he's clearly determined to suffer from his poor decisions. Those pleasurable electric sensations only intensify, however, at the pitch of that quiet, drawling lazy tone, the groan from the back of his throat. His own responsiveness to her touch motivates her further, her other hand moving to join its pair in sinking her fingertips into the riot of black tresses at the back and top of his head, massaging a soothing circle somewhere at the base of his skull, the tender point where the first vertebra meets it.

Every word on the brink of submersion by each kiss, her smile frames the clip of his teeth against its bottom half, her green gaze following the wake of the book when she tilts her head back to make room for his beloved face and the warmth of his breath - a temperature that does little to quell the chill clinging persistently to her bones and blood, but a welcome distraction from its unnatural vise all the same. "Abandoning the plan already?" she teases him in the midst of a more thorough kiss, returning it with a hungry slant, fingers twisting further into his hair as she leans forward to taste his breath and the fragrance of the spices lingering there. "Or are certain other things taking priority?"

Her mouth drifts away, but not very far, lidded, darkened eyes watching the fathomless depths of his own, her own heart pounding so insistently, so rapidly, so loudly that some part of her is legitimately terrified that he would hear it. A hand slips lower, her thumb silently describing the shape of his lower lip with a butterfly touch. He may be an empath, but especially in moments like these, she can't help but wonder how much he knows about the inner landscapes of her whenever she's overrun by the intensity of him, the cumulative effect of his eyes, and mouth and hands...and the touch of his glassine stars in blackened heavens split by beautiful, terrifying lightning. And if he doesn't know, he'd find the hints easily enough by the expression her face carries; passionate and dreamy, toeing the line between rapture and anguish, as if he had found the precise point in which to slide the blade between her ribs, and twist it against bone.

"You drive me crazy," she whispers - words she's told him over and over since the first time he kissed her, and they've not become any less true since then; a ritual, now, and uttered with the delicate stress of unashamed intimacy. "I love you."