2020-01-30 - The Locked Room

The sun barely floats above the separating line between sky and land when Isabella returns from her run.

Thankfully, the chilly sleet that has pelted the city has abated today, and Gray Harbor will later be blessed by a few hours of clear skies until it starts back up again, though there is no helping the frost - bitter to most, but rejuvenating to some, liable to aggravate blood vessels and push color up from underneath one's skin even without the additional encouragements of routine exercise. The persistent fog coats most of Elm's surroundings, leaving neighboring structures cloaked within its haze and looking far away; ultimately deceptive, though those who live here are savvy enough to always realize somewhere within the backs of their minds that ominous objects are always closer than they appear.

Anyone would think that after a few miles, she would be exhausted, considering her state in the last two days - distracted and strangely drained, though she manages to keep her signature, laser-like focus on work; the coffee table would bear signs of her latest endeavors, including the presence of an antiquated scroll left weighed down by a few texts to flatten it and a growing Standard Excursion Pack list, as well as a tabbed printout of her thesis. She's not there now, however, but outside in the backyard, her hands in her pockets and watching the sun rise over the icy arches left behind by his attempts at an ice sculpture still in the backyard. The remains of the shipwreck are still there, albeit it has transformed over the last few weeks - melting snow and the constant rain have left it decimated and misshapen, but crystalized also, drips of moisture clinging to the main mast and leaving icicles everywhere. It's more of a ruin now than when it was first created, but a beautiful one, regardless, and given how easily captured she is by anything that tickles her physical senses, green-gold eyes follow the rich, crimson-and-amber striations the rising sun flits over the mostly-icy construct, surfaces like glass bending them and casting other colors over slushy snow.

Her breaths leave her in white puffs, and she doesn't seem to acknowledge the cold. She's dressed warmly in her gear, goosebumps plucked from her skin as perspiration slowly evaporates, long hair pulled in a dark ponytail at the nape. There's a smile, at least, however faint, gloved fingers reaching out to follow the shape of the largest icicle dripping from the remaining mast.

Alexander may have expected her to be out longer, because when she arrives, he's in the locked room. Which is, for the moment, no longer locked, although it is only a fraction ajar, just enough to let light escape into the hallway. He's retreated to this room a good deal since Isabella returned from her latest excursion, leaving the living room for her own researches as he passes from the office, to the locked room, and back again, occasionally carrying papers or muttering to himself. When he takes breaks, it's usually to grab coffee, or to go out for one of his own long walks through the town, on whatever passes for his business.

Since he hasn't yet been out today, he's dressed in his favorite pair of worn sweats, sitting in the center of the murder-room, looking through papers spread out around him. Music is blaring from the bedroom - Iron Maiden, and turned up loud enough so that he can hear it in the murder room. Blue Bell is hiding under the couch from the sound of it, but Luigi seems to be enjoying himself, trying to sing to compete with it, and bobbing his head as he walks around on the top of the cage.

It's a pretty ordinary day in the Clayton household.

She has always been curious about the locked room, but in deference to his need for privacy whenever he vanishes in there, she's managed to curb it and has given it a wide berth. He can't be blamed, however, for thinking that it's only her reluctance to use her gifts that has saved that room from her presence and invasion. It isn't as if she can't breach any lock.

Isabella eventually returns inside the warm house, peeling off her outerwear and hanging them neatly in the hooks, the boots put in their proper places; she's a very conscientious house guest, her urge for organized clutter confined in one place in the house if she hadn't had the time to clean up after herself - her transient life has left her well-trained, at least, in staying in other people's abodes and abiding by their rules, no matter how protracted the stay. Perhaps it's the cold air and the biochemicals keeping her alert, because she does see that the door to the mysterious space is kept ajar.

She doesn't go there. Not yet. Her curiosity is pulling at her, but what she does first, is properly make some French pressed coffee, using the beans she brought. The scent of it is pleasant from the hazelnuts that have been roasted along with them before they were packaged.

She's even polite enough not to just barge in there! She knocks on the door and waits, and doesn't even peek, and when Alexander ventures out, she holds out a mug of fresh coffee for him as well as a couple of pieces of toast slathered in butter, and an assortment of fresh fruit. "Behold," she tells him dramatically. "I've managed to handle the toaster and it didn't explode. I hope you'll forgive me for not trying to attempt any bacon though. I like tempting fate, but not if it means burning down someone else's house." He's seen the ruined cake pan in the trash, probably.

Alexander hears her come in, not least of which because the animals make it clear; Luigi utters one of his piercing alarm cries (he is still Not Okay with all the new humans who have been traipsing in and out over the last few months), and Blue Bell immediately runs to tangle around Isabella's ankles, meowing pitifully about how tortured she is and how a can of tuna would be much appreciated, thank you. It gives Alexander time to reorganize the papers around him, and think about whether he's going to meet her outside the door, or what.

Or what, seems to be the decision, in the end. Because when she knocks on the door, he opens it a bit cautiously, but without any attempt to hide the contents of the room behind him, with its obsessive, overwhelming information dotted with graphic photography. "Toast and coffee? You are my hero," he claims, watching her rather than reaching for the plate and cup immediately. It's half wariness for what her reaction might be to the room, and half searching her face for that strange disconnection she'd been under for the last couple of days. "I appreciate not burning down the house, though. My renter's insurance only covers so much."

"Blue Bell, I think one of these days you and I are going to have a serious discussion about your shamelessness and how it reminds me too much of my own and you should stop it immediately," Isabella tells the cat, having nearly tripped over her. But the way she looks down at the ragdoll is fond, a hint of a grin playing on her lips. There's a hapless and exasperated glance towards Luigi when he squawks and protests, however. She doesn't address him, though, he's agitated enough.

Still, she's smiling when she keeps the toast and fruit and coffee aloft, clearly expectant until she realizes that he's making absolutely no move to take her lovingly prepared breakfast from her hands, and he would find that she's also staring at him, but the nature of the look she gives him is completely different from his own. There's no wariness and while there's exhaustion there, he is most definitely not the cause, that soft-eyed look sweeping over his features laden with its usual affection. While she certainly hasn't tried to jump him with her usual zest the last few days, her usual passionate tokens muted into quiet hugs and the occasional brush of her lips on his cheek, it certainly isn't out of the lack of love, or even desire - not when she looks at him that way.

Finally, though, he'd see her shift, her vibrant stare moving from his darker own and somewhere past her shoulder. "Toast and coffee," she confirms. "If that gets me heroic status every time, I might just do this every day. Though speaking of renter's insurance, you look like you've got a lot of paper in there." There's curiosity in her expression, but no censure. "I always wondered what was in here, but I didn't want to pry too hard." The line of her mouth turns upwards, teasing in its overall bent. "It looks like more work, though. New case?"

Blue Bell just looks guilelessly upwards, her blue eyes wide. She is the best kitty, so put upon and long-suffering. Now give her the fish, damn it. When none is forthcoming, she returns to the couch, hopping up onto one cushion and curling up, a starving, lonely, despondent creature. Woe. Woe is her.

Meanwhile, Alexander is watching Isabella's face, and what he finds there makes him smile, and lean in, and offer a brief kiss, still toothpaste fresh. Only then does he take the toast and coffee, and step back, a wordless invitation for her to come in as she likes. "It's research. Sort of. Sometimes it's hard to stop thinking about something, so if I put it on paper, it's easier to...look at. Making it real stops me from fretting. I guess." He smiles, a bit tentatively. "Definitely wouldn't want it to catch on fire, though. And it's not any one thing in particular. It's just...things." He frowns, looking at one section of a wall where newspaper articles seem to feature a lot of the word 'Baxter', as well as reproductions about Gohl's arrest and trial. "I've been looking into the Baxters, more. There's no temporal pattern on disasters and Baxters, but Baxters are associated with disasters. If you go by official records, Gray Harbor is a pretty nice place when there are none of us around."

His offerance of a kiss is one that she returns softly and warmly, but briefly, though once relieved of her twin burdens, Isabella takes several steps inside of the murder room. He'd bear witness to the way those inquisitive eyes widen when she is given leave to peruse the room, in full view of the amount of death that it actually contains - Gray Harbor's gory, bloody history splashed over its walls and maps. There's a shiver that crawls down her spine, hearing the slurping, wet sounds of Things feasting in the back of her mind; it's not out of disgust for the man who collected this for his own research in what may be a futile bid to stop all of this, but as Yule had told her - it is different when it is looking at someone in the face.

Instead of leaving the room, though, she's drawn in further, carefully maneuvering around the piles of paper on the floor to get to the first murder map on display. Her hand comes up and hovers over the pins, but doesn't touch them, her drifting steps slowly taking her to the board that has been transformed into a paper mausoleum for her mother's family....their family.

"I'm in the middle of trying to dig deeper into this, also," she tells him quietly. She needs to touch, ever a tactile creature, so her finger finds the head of one of the pins. "I hear most logical thinkers are visual ones, too, so I'm not surprised to hear that it's easier when it's in front of you." There's a look over her shoulder at him, smiling ruefully. "I go by inspiration and imagination, these days." They have many differences, but that might be one of the key ones. "Most of my breakthroughs lately happened while my eyes are closed. Definitely not keen on all of this catching on fire, too. Have you thought about maybe putting all this in a database? Anne might be willing to help."

Alexander moves aside, pivoting so that he can watch her take in the room. His shoulders are tense, his expression wary, even as he juggles the plate and cup in his hands until he can find a way to hold both that lets him nibble at the corner of a slice of toast. His head comes up at the suggestion. "No." It's flat. Uncompromising. He only realizes just how rejecting it sounds in the next moment, and clears his throat. "I'm sorry. I just...I don't show it to many people, and I don't want it electronic. It doesn't help me when it's electronic. I need to be able to, um, move things. Around." He looks embarrassed and clears his throat before looking away.

If he manages to stab at her with that open rejection, it hardly registers on Isabella's features. There's a shake of her head though, her smile if nothing else lifting up higher on the corners. "It's fine," she tells him, angling her head to look further into the room. Her restless wanderings take her away from the Baxter board to the others, and despite the initial shiver, she doesn't shy away from looking at the dark and terrible spread on his walls - there's no shrinking away from the truth, this is the place in which she grew up and the place where Alexander will live the rest of his life, and probably die. At least she has a strong stomach.

"Besides, you're right. I think the most interesting aspect of this room to me is that I can actually, visually track the way you think, without having to sit inside of your mind," she tells him, a pinky finding one colored thread attached to a post-it note, smiling as she sees his neat, masculine scrawl on the paper. "As always, it's an impressive machine - and completely different from the way mine operates. I only brought it up because I don't want you to lose all of this hard work. This must've taken years to collect." She takes a knee by one of the boxes, to inspect the labels. "Am I going to find notebooks here written by Alexander Clayton, ten year old detective?" There's a full-blown grin this time, though by the way her brows lift to her hairline suggests that is a serious question.

"No," Alexander says, but softer this time, with an edge of amusement. "Actual case files go in my filing cabinets. And pretty much everything from before I came back to town is in my parents' attic. None of it was very good detective work, comparatively," he claims, with a quick, dismissive wave of the coffee cup at the efforts of adolescent Alexander. "Mostly, that's just supplemental materials that I've gotten from estate sales, auctions, and the like. Before about the eighties, rules about records keeping tended to be a lot more lax, especially in smaller jurisdictions, so there's a surprising number of former police who kept all sorts of weird shit in their home offices. When they die, a lot of it gets boxed up and sent to estate sales - or, these days, put on Craigslist or other message boards for true crime fans. You can get some decent deals, especially here, since Gray Harbor...people don't look at Gray Harbor."

His features start to warm with enthusiasm, and he moves to sit down near the boxes so he can put his plate and cup down - there's no furniture in this room, and it's clear from the faint wear of the carpet that most of the time in here, he's pacing. He reaches for a box. "For example, here's a treasure trove on union-related murders and disappearance of the early nineteen hundreds. I actually went back through it when we identified William. There was a lot I'd forgotten."

"I know you started early, I just didn't know if your current methods now were influenced by what you learned then," Isabella remarks, straightening up from the box that she was kneeling by, and in the doing takes in the state of the carpet. But she does listen with obvious interest as to how most of his information was procured. "I didn't know that about the eighties, obviously things have changed now regarding those sorts of records." There's a faint flattening of her expression. "Interesting to me that police files can be procured that way when you can't even access Church records that the rest of the world decreed you can peruse for research purposes. Gray Harbor really is a strange place. Then again..." She lifts her shoulders in a faint shrug. "I heard from Father Daniel that all Addingtons go through the Church so it stands to reason that their patronage gives them some control also, nevermind if they aren't actually religious."

The spark of enthusiasm on his sleepless, but handsome features softens her own face, and she follows him to where he sits, easing down next to him and following his gestures to the boxes. "I was wondering why your Unsolved Crimes posts in Friendzone seem to be focused on that era," she remarks. "A way to remember some of it, also?" She nudges her shoulder at his own playfully. "I was a fan of your second-to-last one." About the ship. "Maybe I should go diving around that area and see if there's anything people missed, over the summer." She winks at him. "Try to find you a spent bullet. Not that there aren't a lot of opportunities for actual treasure hunting in my career but I suppose it depends on what someone considers a treasure."

Alexander makes an 'oh', and shakes his head. "I don't mean the police case files, exactly. But sometimes people would keep things. Photos, documents, trophies. Their own notebooks about cases, that sort of thing. You do have some old case files going rogue, at times, but more it tends to be unofficial documentation. If that makes sense?" He smiles. "And the church tends to keep its secrets better than most institutions, Isabella. And I gather that most of the Addingtons attend service quite regularly, and more importantly, donate to the church quite regularly. You might have better traction if you persuaded Byron to make a substantial charitable donation towards something Father Daniel desires for the parish, and then had him ask." He clears his throat. "Not that I'm suggesting trading on the friendship of a wealthy friend, or anything."

When she sits down, he leans over to bump her gently with a shoulder, before picking up his coffee to nurse. "And you're right. I was going through the files, and pulled out a couple of the more interesting ones for my last few posts. And there are a lot of bullets in that harbor," he says, voice dry. "And skeletons, too. There was a point in time when local news talked about 'shoals of floaters' in the harbor, and they meant corpses." Cheerful thought for her to take with her when she starts swimming again.

The way he clears his throat on that point regarding Byron has Isabella laughing openly. "I try not to drag him into all of this if I can help it," she says, reaching over so she could open the box he has pulled out to peer into the papers within. Fingers drift over the tops of whatever file folders there are, pulling one out if he allows so she can take a look at its contents. "Though I'm familiar with that enough, I think it might be the best and worst eventuality of my career that I've not been invited in any way to peruse the Vatican archives just yet. Could you imagine? Forget getting lost in the way we Harborites do, I'll simply step in there and never be seen ever again. The pontiff's agents will find my dessicated corpse eventually, clutching at the original transcripts of Galileo's trial."

She reads through the paper-sheaf in her hand; an incredibly fast typist, she also appears to be a fast reader, because it only takes her several seconds to read the first page before starting on the second. "As for skeletons, those would hardly be the strangest things I've encountered in a dive - especially in older military wrecks, you tend to find the captains submerged along with their secrets. Though it's absolutely different when the bodies are bloated." She wrinkles her nose as she looks up at him. "The Pond on the other side is full of them and they try to escape. The angel fish make sure that they return to where they belong and apparently they're in perpetual danger of the devil fish, so take that as you will."

The papers are, unsurprisingly, neatly organized with several categories of dividers - first by year, and then within year, the files are labeled with what are probably initials, and then dates. When she pulls some out, Alexander tenses a little but doesn't argue against it. She's got hold of a disappearance of three labor organizers who were last seen heading for one of the logging camps to try to organize the lumberjacks. As it is a disappearance, the grainy photo is of the three of them alive, at some labor event or another, rather than a gory crime scene. There's a small, yellowed notebook filled with terrible handwriting, and then transcriptions in Alexander's handwriting of pertinent bits - mostly that the police investigating felt it likely that the loggers had killed the organizers and hid their bodies.

"Bloated bodies are the worst," Alexander agrees, with a nod. "The gasses are unpleasant. While I don't mind the evidence of death as much as most people, I don't think I'd be happy doing what Yule does." At the mention of the angel and devil fish, a smile lifts the corners of his mouth. "It's weird, over there."

She scrutinizes the photograph with that same intense focus she often gives her other projects, though her touch is light - dated documents tend to be finicky, and Isabella is experienced enough in handling such things without harming them in any way, and she does this by not overly touching them, somehow curbing her tendency to experience the world by touch in the doing. She'd be more comfortable with paper tweezers and gloves, but since neither are within reach at the moment, she keeps the notebook and photograph in the main folder. This leaves her concentrating on the account and his notes, more interested in his conclusions than anything else. There's a quiet and contemplative noise from her, but otherwise she doesn't say much; she hardly has any expertise in crime to be able to opine in any knowledgeable way, though this bit of Gray Harbor history is also interesting to her. She folds everything back up carefully, and hands it back to him so he could situate it back in its proper place in the box.

"Yule can be as reckless as we are," she tells him. "Just in a different way. I mean, it's a given that looks are deceiving in Gray Harbor, but I think in his case, it's especially true. Mild mannered scientist, my shapely rear end." There's a hint of grousing there, but a growing hint of affection also. Smoothing down the cuff of her long sleeved shirt down her arm, her fingers find and toy with the dandelion glass ball charm on her left wrist. "What he's trying to do, imbuing nullification qualities on a physical object - it's possible, by the way." She ventures into that vein tentatively. "...it's just that you or I are going to need to have a serious discussion with him about the costs, because while success would bring some considerable advantages, the consequences of failure are just as great." Her eyes fall onto the beloved bracelet. "And dangerous for reasons other than the fact that any item that fails to carry the charge explodes within five minutes of the attempt."

Alexander takes the offered papers back, and refiles them neatly, tenderly, as if putting a child back into bed after it's been unexpectedly awoken. The lid on the box is a blanket, carefully fitted back into place, before he turns back to her with a smile. "He does seem to be mild mannered. Just stubborn. And we talked a little bit about what he discovered. He's going to work on the exploding issue. Although, honestly, that's not the part that worries me the most." He grimaces. "I'm worried about the attention it might attract from the Shadows. Just being on fire could be a relief, comparatively speaking." There's a low chuckle. "Although, while we can advise, Yule is as much an adult as you or I, and just as capable of telling us to fuck off and go do what he wants."

There's a flicker of a smile directed at him, Isabella meeting his eyes there though her fingers don't stop their fiddling. That expression only grows in visibility as she observes him put the file away so gently, she might actually be a touch jealous over a box. But when that fades and his grimace replaces it, she leans backwards enough to rest her shoulders against the wall behind them, her head tilting up to look at the ceiling.

"It worked, but not in the way we expected it to. It removed our abilities for a time - much like what happened to us during flu season." The last words said a touch dryly. "It was how we knew what he was planning to do was actually possible, but I think the effects were confined to the people who were manipulating the object to produce that effect. It was strange...it felt like being in a room that's been nullified, only more...localized. To the body. And when the object..." She gestures with her fingers to pantomime an explosion. "...it was clear to us that destruction of the object didn't remove the effect. Or it did, it just takes a while to return once the catalyst is gone, which would parse with what we learned over the summer. It took us a week after the fever broke for our full use to return again. As for the Shadows..."

Her jaw tightens at the hinge. "The experiment did call Them. I don't know whether it was because of what is being performed, or because we were marginally successful. Ultimately, I don't think it matters. They came while we were vulnerable. Or at least, I'm certain the worst would have happened if we were less equipped to think through a problem. Minerva's a little angry with herself." The last is said softly. "Her protections didn't work."

There's a thoughtful noise. "That would be very useful if we needed to nullify a person, someone like Gohl, without crippling everyone in the same room with him - if it could be directed and harnessed. Even if it was short term." Alexander's eyes go distant, thinking over the implications, even as his hand reaches out for one of her fiddling ones, to caress and soothe. "How long did it last? Your boat...that lasted about a day, didn't it? Was it that long, or shorter? When he tried to make 'gluminol', it only lasted a few minutes." He adds, with a smile, "I advised him to focus on that - being able to detect and measure whatever it is we do when we use our abilities is a good place to start with developing a coherent theory. And less likely to explode." A pause. "Then again, his last experiment did dissolve metal. So, risks all around."

The mention of Minerva brings his eyebrows up. "Why would she be? Most of the time, ritual magic doesn't work. I think with Gohl might have been the only time I've really seen it work at all - and I'm grateful - but that may have been as much because Gohl was a ghost-like entity. Whatever They are, nothing I've ever seen stands against them. She shouldn't feel bad about that."

"That's precisely what I was thinking," Isabella tells Alexander with a smile; there's both awe and pride there, because the way he thinks through a problem is one aspect about him that never fails to fascinate her - and how they could often tread on the same vein regardless of how different their processes actually are. "It's whether it can be directed or harnessed that we're still working on." That fond expression grows when he visibly appears as if he's working on the possibilities in his head, though it tempers only slightly when his hand reaches for her own. She doesn't resist, her fingers threading into his, gripping securely. Her other hand shifts to rest lightly on his knuckles, absently tracing the faded scars she finds with her thumb. "....it lasted about as long as the Dream was active, I think. Maybe a little longer. So shorter than what a reader can do with physical space. Or at least, not having it was shorter. I can feel my abilities returning, but I'm...it feels sluggish. Weak. So the nullification effect might not last as long, but the weakening after-effect can last for days."

His confusion earns him a quiet chuckle. "Probably because she was determined to protect us and the situation was so harrowing that guilt was something she couldn't help. Were I in her position, I'd probably feel the same. When the wall was breached and They all started spilling in, we all saw things in the growing darkness, and you know very well Their propensity to go after open wounds." She glances down at their intertwined hands. "In my case, I didn't just see...I felt. Also." She takes a breath and lifts her head to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, about my...." She falls quiet, but only briefly. "...it felt like being bonded to the Thing that was pretending to be Sid, and when Minerva hurt it, it felt like my skin was burning, also. I felt..." She makes a face. "Tainted. I didn't...you told me before that if you ever touched me, you would always want it to come from a good place. I was just trying....I didn't want you to feel it, also."

"Great minds," Alexander says, with a quick little grin, and a squeeze of her hand. There's a reluctant fascination in his eyes as she goes on, his brow crinkling into folds as he thinks. "I wonder how much of that was being in a Dream, though. If the act of passing from one world to the other might...affect the effect in some fashion. Then again, the nullification during the snowglobe thing seemed to work just fine, and didn't fade when we returned to the real world, that I saw. So perhaps it doesn't." He shakes his head. "There's still so little we understand about the real and the Veil and Dreams, and how all three of them intersect. It's like trying to make a map when you haven't seen a river or a mountain or a road before."

When she goes on, his expression softens. "Don't be sorry. I was worried, Isabella, but I wasn't angry. I know things over there can be...awful, and that things over there happen that you don't want to talk about, or that you need time to process on your own." His voice gentles further. "But you know that's not what I meant, when I said that. I didn't want to touch you in anger or for the wrong reasons. It's okay if you hurt me, as long as that wasn't your intent."

"With ours? Always." There's a hint of puffery there - Isabella has never shared Alexander's predisposition towards humility, the kind to strut over every victory instead of taking it with the mature grace that her lover does. Her hand returns his squeeze, and she lifts his own so she could quietly, fervently, press a kiss at the tender space between the knuckles of his index and middle fingers before lowering them again. Her head shifts, so it could rest against his nearest shoulder, instead, the hard curve braced against her temple as her ever-curious eyes wander his murder room, finding another piece of Gray Harbor history that she didn't know somewhere on his walls. "We might need to turn some efforts towards discovering what the connection between the Dream and the Veil is," she tells him after a pause. "I feel as if it's part of the Veil's geography that operates under a completely different set of rules - something more malleable to our experiences. If we're right in that events over here can affect what happens there, and vice-versa, if they shake whatever tenuous fabric keeps them together hard enough, the same principle might apply - maybe the Dream...space...is just a point in the Veil that has a more amplified sensitivity to our thoughts and emotions. And if that's the case then...if every person's mind and heart works in tandem with the others trapped within it, focusing on the same intent - usually to get out alive - maybe that's how they end. Or how we escape them. Maybe that's why cooperation works so well. Anne already thinks intention has something to do with...transportation. Could you imagine if we could just find a sure and certain way to get out of them?"

Her eyes find his gentle expression - and it's enough to get her swallowing against a hard knot at the back of her throat. Her attention shifts away from him, then. What did you ever do to deserve it? "I don't think it's okay to hurt you," she tells him, finally. "Even if I didn't intend for it. You know I never would, deliberately, but that doesn't mean it's something that I shouldn't be sorry for if it happens on accident." She turns her cheek against his shoulder, closing her eyes. "That isn't to say I don't think you're resilient. You are. But you have so many scars already and I don't necessarily want to add onto them."

Alexander makes an amused sound at her immediate embrace of the implied praise, and he smiles over his coffee cup as he takes a sip. He moves to be a better resting place for her head, letting his other shoulder rest against the wall of boxes. "I don't even know how we would make that distinction," Alexander points out, quietly. "Much less invoke Dreams on our terms in order to examine them for differences. I think the relevant part of a Dream's definition is that it seems to be under Their control, which means it is typically inimical to us." He slips his hand from hers, to stroke her arm, instead, light and slow. "Although that's an interesting thought. If it is vice versa. We don't yet have any evidence that something large over there has a lingering effect here. But, yes, being able to escape from them reliably would be...a relief."

His hand moves up to stroke her hair as she closes her eyes. "I'd rather be there for you than have you cutting me out because you're worried about hurting me, Isabella. And yes, I realize that makes me a giant hypocrite. It's not the only thing that does, so you'll just have to deal with it."

"I don't know," Isabella tells him quietly; there's no resistance when he removes his hand from hers, but when his touch returns to the other side of her, she inches closer until she's tucked against his side, almost hiding with him behind his tower of boxes in the murder room. "But I think to accept so easily that anything is under Their complete control would be giving them too much power as it is." But of course she would say that, she's young, and doesn't have the breadth of his own horrific experiences with Them and what They can do - then again, her rebellious streak gives into the distinct effect of making her more optimistic than she should, so maybe it's not always a terrible thing. "I think it can be wrested away." She pauses, and her contralto slips lower as she adds, "I hope it can."

If it is vice-versa, he reminds. "Something we'll have to test, I think," she tells him. "But one thing at a time. We've already got a list a mile long."

She does like it, too, when he touches her hair, and as longer, rougher digits tangle into her disheveled ponytail, she drops a kiss against his shoulder. "It does make you a giant hypocrite," she tells him with a poke against his open side. "But I think I made that observation just recently, also. We get dumb over Love, hypocrisy included. I mean, look how the Trojan War started, supposedly." She pauses. "...well, I don't mean the golden apple part, but there is some archaeological evidence out there that suggests that Helen did exist. Either way, it's...not as if you weren't, or aren't, there for me. You are, even now you're giving me what I need. I'm just..." And she lets out a breathless laugh. "Very familiar with my tendency to make things worse and I'm trying to improve."

"Mm." It's not a yes. It's not a no, either, although it's probably more skeptical than encouraging on the balance of it. Alexander's face certainly reflects a healthy dose of that feeling at the idea that they might take control from Them. "I think it's best to focus, yes. Baby steps - think of it as Egyptology before the finding of the Rosetta Stone. Right now, we don't even have the tools to decode a mass of information we don't have a context for. Except, in this case, the tombs really are cursed, and the mummies will definitely murder us if we get it wrong. And possibly if we get it right."

He chuckles under his breath at the poke in his side, and his hand makes a tickling gesture against the side of her neck in petty revenge. "You do alright," he says, lightly. "I like your enthusiasm. I less like your tendency to rush into dangerous situations, but," he grins, "I knew that was a thing as soon as I met you. So. Don't second guess yourself too much, Isabella."

His analogy earns him that brilliant flashfire grin. "I've fallen in the right profession, then. The Mummy's Curse in Carter's day was mold, you know," Isabella tells him. "But once pathologists figured that out, it completely changed safety procedures for official archaeological digs so if we die in the process of discovering our own Rosetta Stone, hopefully future generations will learn from it. And while I doubt very much that we'll ever see these solutions in our lifetime, that doesn't mean we can't try."

His tickling has her shifting, a light squirm before she wiggles her fingers against his ribs. "But I'm so enthusiastic when I act on my tendency to rush into dangerous situations, though, so how do you balance out those interests, Mister Clayton?" Wicked mischief sets her eyes alight. "And I don't know if I...wait. Did you just call me predictable?" There's a low gasp of mock-outrage - her tickling intensifies into a full on attack, unable to suppress a grin at this juncture. "How dare you. Ohhhhhhhhh, you're lucky you're cute!"

"And Marie Curie died of radiation poisoning," Alexander points out. "It's good that you're optimistic about future generations learning from us, because the history of scientific pioneers does not speak well to their long and happy lives." Still as she grows more playful, not even the talk of their almost certain impending doom and possibly death can stop him from laughing and squirming against her. "Well. You are a little predictable," he points out, trying for bland, but with the humor deepening and softening his voice. "I can pretty much guess you're going to leap forward into the well whenever a mystery presents itself. And you're right - enthusiasm leads inevitably to danger, so you are lucky that I am tolerant of your lack of self-preservation." He grins, and puts his coffee cup down so that he can give her a fierce hug. "And I'm not cute."

"Charles Darwin died at the ripe old age of seventy-three," Isabella counters. "Which was ancient in the turn of the century, by the way, and I humbly postulate that we were more like him in life than Madame Curie, as brilliant as she was. Constantly under pressure, perpetually overworked and yet can't help but find himself stumbling in strange places and finding strange things and picking them apart constantly no matter where he ended up." For all that she's humbly postulating she looks very pleased with herself with remembering all of this about the man who basically authored one of Science's most foundational concepts. Regardless, she doesn't seem all that disturbed about almost certain and impending doom - it could simply be her youth; perhaps the fact that she isn't invincible, a persistent affliction most prevalent in people in their twenties, hasn't sunk in yet. Or it might just be that she isn't all that afraid of death or dying.

Or maybe she is, like any ordinary human being, but much like fear, it isn't much of a deterrent.

His rich, deep laughter does nothing but inspire more of her mischief, and she outright gasps when he tells her that she is predictable. But his pleasant baritone fills her ears and his expression takes up most of her attention - it may be a sentiment unshared by everyone else, but to her, his presence and all that he is fills the room, takes up space and makes it difficult to focus on anything but him. This reminder, of how enraptured and besotted she actually is, slows her fingers and softens the look in her eyes.

"Something something hypocrisy," she points out, still laughing, because the way he describes her describes himself, though when he reaches for her, she opens her arms and tries to envelope those broad shoulders with them, tightening her grip. She doesn't know what it is - perhaps it is the ferocity of his embrace and the memory of his grin, the absolute insistence that he isn't cute, that aggravates enough of that well to sting her lashes with moisture, sinking into the uncomplicated happiness of being held...and the relief that floods into her when the act of pulling her into his arms seems so unhesitating. Metaphysically weakened and bleeding, vulnerable in very significant ways, he manages to know how not to make her feel less about all of it.

For a while, she does nothing but embrace him, blinking it all back. "I am," she tells him, quietly, finally, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "Lucky." Her head turns, pressing a burning kiss into the hollow of his cheek, lashes brushing his skin as they shutter.

"God, I love you." The last a quiet whisper.

"I think that if the Galapagos turtles had fed on human misery, Darwin would have died much sooner. But," he raises a hand, "I concede the point that some pioneers live to a ripe old age, and I further concede that you will attempt to argue Death back into the grave if it should come for us." Alexander smiles warmly at her. "And I love you for that, among other things. You remind me of what it is to look forward to something." He nuzzles into her neck. "So thank you, for that. And everything else, we'll take as it comes."

He leans back his head on the boxes, and seems content to just hold her, even in the decidedly non-romantic surroundings.

"Could you imagine what those turtles would look like if they did?" Isabella wonders, that colorful, ridiculous imagination drifting off towards uncharted waters. How was it that she can be so artistic in her brain, but absolutely terrible at it in execution? "They would be huge. And they can live forever, depending on the species. If they fed on decades of human suffering, they'd look so wrong." That isn't to say he's utterly inaccurate as to what would happen to Death if she ever found him. She chuffs a quiet laugh. "Please. I'd just let you distract him before I kicked him back in, and we both sealed it up." She's all feigned innocence when she bats her lashes at him. "You won't love me less for that, right? I mean, I think it'd be hilarious."

His nuzzling has her choking back a rare giggle - much like his more lasting smiles, these sounds are her unicorns, she's simply not prone to it unless his scruff scrapes it out of her, tickled by coarser bristles, and she adjusts her position as she nestles further into his lean, his bigger body cradling her own. "So does that mean you're looking forward to something now? What is it? The summer? Wait....a bigger bed. Did you finally decide to get a bigger bed? Or the day I manage to actually bake a decent cake, because the last attempt was an absolute disaster that I'm thankful that you didn't witness. I think I've embarrassed myself enough living with you this entire time."

Her green eyes wander over the crime memorabilia and files all over the room, and Death unfurled in all of his horrific creativity. "How long did it take you to compile all of this?" she murmurs.

"No, no, I wouldn't love you less. I admire a healthy amount of ruthlessness in my loved ones." Alexander grins at her, and there's a bit of sharpness to it. "I would do my best to be a suitable stalking horse for the Grim Reaper, should it ever come up. Unless Death takes the form of a giant turtle," he adds, after a moment. "Then you're on your own," he claims.

"And I'm not getting a bigger bed. I sort of enjoy watching you try to find a comfy position that isn't just sprawling all over me," he adds, with a wink. "And I like it even more when you fail. And you have not embarrassed yourself. Those cookies were quite good." He still remembers the taste of them - just right for Christmas goodness. "And if you're really interested...have you considered getting someone to give you a lesson? In cooking?"

To the question, he looks up and around, studying the room. "Thirteen years, give or take a year. Ever sense I came back to Gray Harbor, minus a few months contemplating whether I should try to leave or get myself committed somewhere."

"What's wrong with turtles? I love turtles!" Oh god, she does. Most of the nature documentary shows she watches tend to be about turtles, though she's a fan of all marine life, even the ugliest and most poisonous ones (and there's quite a few of them, but this is something she's not telling him until after his first dive). "Unless they're gigantic Galapagos turtles that spent a few decades feeding on human suffering - in that case, I think we can easily outrun them." Isabella winks at him at that.

Therefore jinxing them in their next trip to the Veil, where any misery-fed turtles they'll come across in those strange wilds are as fast as cheetahs.

His reasons for not getting a bigger bed earn him a gasp; the look is so exaggerated that she absolutely can't be serious, and she even reaches up with a spare hand to clutch at her necklace, because she doesn't have any pearls. "Mister Clayton, I don't think I'm drunk enough for this kind of talk," she declares, but she clearly must be endeared by this confession for she frames his face within both her hands and presses an insistent kiss on his mouth. "As for me learning anything, once I manage to find some time to learn, I just might. You're adorable when you're eating something you actually enjoy, or are about to. You were so enthusiastic the last time I made you anything that tasted good."

Her lover's answer at the last is a sobering one - it causes her to table most of her mischief, looking up at the ceiling and the colorful threads that tie one set of facts to another. "You ended up doing neither, though," she observes, looking up at his profile. "What made you decide?"

"Turtles look like angry old men in badly fitting armor. I feel like they're judging me." It's not even half-serious, judging by Alexander's grin, but knowing she loves turtles means he can't resist slinging a bit of mud in that direction to tease her. "I expect them to yell for me to get off their lawn, only super slow."

The kiss rather thoroughly distracts him from teasing her, and he returns it with great enthusiasm, his hands sliding down to squeeze her hips and keep her close during it. When it ends, he's half-lidded and it takes a moment or two to remember what they were talking about. "Mm. I'll eat anything you feed me, if you enjoy watching it." Then he remembers something, and his eyes widen. "Except sandwiches. At least, not without being able to vet them first." And for him, at least, the mischief doesn't entirely fade. He answers without hesitation, "Where would I go? And being committed would only put me around people whose minds would torment me. Same reason I didn't just turn myself in to the cops after...after Zachary. In prison, someone would be dead within a month. Maybe me, maybe not."

"They do," Isabella agrees enthusiastically. "That's why they're adorable!" Laughter brightens the green in her eyes. "It's like...I don't know. Bulldogs. They're so ugly they're cute, even though you know if you hit them over the head just right, their eyeballs pop out and it's probably a horrifying experience trying to put them back in, but you'll do it anyway because you love them and yes, I know, it sounds like I have thought about this before." She's a dog person, she can't help it. The mirth that didn't escape her, earlier, does so now when he quips about turtles yelling at him v e r y s l o w l y about getting off their lawns. She tilts her head back and laughs, and tugs him closer for another kiss.

She doesn't seem to mind him anchoring her hips within his grip, marveling, if not just privately, how big his hands always seem when they're touching other parts of her. A set of fingers have wound their way into his hair, most of her weight on her knees and framed between his. "I seem to have better luck making sweet things in the oven, or the blender. Maybe that's the secret, except I ruined my cake pan last night. I wonder if I can pester Vyv for a few tips. I know you love chocolate, maybe I should start there. What's so hard about making chocolate?"

Oh god.

She listens to his explanation, smoothing out a curl from his forehead, and while her expression is a little more serious now, her smile remains. "Between you and me, I'm glad you decided on neither," she tells him quietly, leaning in to nuzzle the tip of her nose with his own. "Who else would I sprawl on when I try to get in a comfortable position on a small bed? Though..." Her own eyes hood, their color turning darker. "...I won't lie, part of the appeal with that are all the interesting consequences that I encounter in the attempt."

Alexander snorts. "You have strange tastes, Isabella Reede." He grins. "Although I suppose I knew that, considering." The shacking up with me is implied, not openly stated. He kisses back with enthusiasm, and knows so little about chocolate making that his enthusiasm is immediate and genuine as he says, "That sounds great. Chocolates seem simple enough, so that's probably a good place to start. Easier than cakes."

May God have mercy on their innocent souls.

"I'm glad I didn't, either. For the most part." He shrugs. "The place over there aside, an asylum isn't necessarily a horror show. Talking to Vivian, when she was here, helped me realize that maybe if I'd gotten some...aid sooner, I might have done better. If I'd known anyone who could be spoken to openly." And then his eyes gleam. "Mmm. Consequences. Those can be fun." Then his eyes widen, and he curses. "...although, speaking of beds. I should change the linens on ours. Bennie is going to come over soon, and she should have clean sheets." He gives her a fierce squeeze, and grins. "And then we can find out the consequences that come from both us being forced to sleep on a couch."

"What gave you that idea?" she wonders between laughter and kisses. "Was it just the turtle thing? Not...you know, the high school mascot, or..." Isabella detects the implication easily, she's a perceptive creature, but with the two of them trading an increasing number of affectionate tokens inside of his murder room, she probably can't be faulted for her visible and growing distraction. "Mm. I think I can easily turn chocolate into chocolate. It's just melting one thing and turning it into a different shape and flavor, right? Should be something anyone can do blindfold."

Thankfully a certain master confectioner can't hear this blasphemous conversation.

His observations about an asylum does have her nodding. "It isn't as if you knew who to trust back then," she tells him quietly - she knows how broken that had been, and she doesn't even know how long anyone could recover from that sort of misstep, that kind of betrayal, if it was even possible at all. But with the way his dark eyes gleam, she angles a slow look around the murder room and then towards the open doorway. Her contemplative perusal is aborted, not prematurely, by the renewed tightness of his embrace, which she returns with her comparatively more meager strength. "If we're exploring those consequences, we're going to have to be very quiet," she tells him, the devil's own smile playing on her lips. "I think you're going to have to kiss me plenty. And thoroughly." Another squeeze. "Though if you're going to do that, and since we're going to be without the bed for a while..." She nips his bottom lip. "I think we should make doubly sure those linens need changing."