2020-03-07 - The Things We Miss

Gray Harbor's terribly long winter seems determined to cling to the city with icy, skeletal fingers even by the end of the first week of March; winds howl outside, scattering drops of rain and flecks of frost against windows fogged by whatever heating apparatus there are in the residences of Elm Street. The perpetual flooding leaves the avenue caked in questionable smelling muck, keeping concrete slick - it's miraculous, really, that there haven't been too many car accidents reported throughout the darker months.

The days after her defense had come and gone. Isabella had called Alexander at least once a day in the hours leading up to her defense, but there had been nothing after that but brief text conversations that chart her course from Oxfordshire, to London, to Wales and then back to London. She had been extremely busy over the last few days, but she isn't so far away that she neglects to tell him that she's alive, relatively safe, and the fact that she loves him, but for some reason, she has been tight-lipped about the results of her defense, or what the committee said to her in her viva voce.

She was slated to return tomorrow, but in the late evening of March 7, 2020, there is a knock on Alexander's door.

For those who don't know Alexander very well, it's likely seemed that he's managed the separation well, and returned almost without pause back to his mostly-solitary life on 13 Elm Street. For those who do know him better, though - he's been unusually terse on the phone, not asking about the defense after the first, immediate question on the day of. Keeping the calls as short and unmemorable as possible, as if afraid to provoke any sort of emotional tie. And when she arrives, she can see that the lights are on in the living room, and the yard? The yard is immaculate, since he needs something to focus on when his mind is racing and other distractions aren't as useful.

Although he's careful to keep the windows covered (it's Elm), it's not hard to recognize where he is, sitting on the couch with Luigi chuckling and playing with his hair as he plays the old Nintendo system. Blue Bell is nearby, curled up into a neat little ball with her tail just covering her nose. From the bedroom, music can be heard playing: Ripping Me Apart by Nothing More. Alexander's idea of soothing night time music. When he hears the knock on the door, she immediately feels the brush of his mind against hers, that feeling of warm pressure probing at her outer defenses, before the door opens and he stares at her, eyes dark and wary. "...Isabella?"

He doesn't invite her inside immediately. Unexpected visits from familiar faces are how a lot of Alexander's Dreams start.

The mental defenses he presses upon before he even opens the door are familiar enough - it's less a fortress and more a maze, fashioned with an MC Escher-type design that leaves any attempted invasions to start on one end and confusingly end up in a different area entirely until he or she falls off altogether. And when the door opens to reveal Isabella standing there, the weather has managed to keep her in its grasp, half-drenched with glittering drops of water and ice clinging to the line of her jaw, her hastily swept up hair clinging to her cheeks in dark, swirling whorls. Typical of a creature of impulse, chances were that she had a hastily constructed plan that enabled her to reach from Point A to Point B with absolutely no thought as to what she would actually say to him the moment she sees him again.

So for a moment she stands there frozen, green-and-gold eyes fixed on his features and her expression twisting in a reflection that ripples with relief, uncertainty and uncomplicated joy - as if she hadn't seen him for a decade instead of just sporadic bits of contact for close to a month. Her jaw works in an attempt to loosen her vocal cords, to say something instead of standing there.

"I'm sorry," is what she elects to say first, the words coming out in a rush. "I wanted to call - tried to call after it was all over, but something stupid and ridiculous happened and I nearly burned down my flat, and then I had to drive to London while my head felt like a goddamn melon about to explode, and then there was that incident in the Natural History Museum and I ended up running into Hyacinth and Vyv, and they both sort of just invited themselves to Wales with me and so we went, and more ridiculousness happened there, so once that was over I just decided to drive all the way to Heathrow and I know I'm early, but I thought if my entire trip was ridiculous enough, I ought to just embrace that it probably won't stop being ridiculous and it didn't because the flight I took bounced me around through New York and Texas and god knows where else, and I'm honestly surprised I didn't kill anyone because I just wanted to see you and TSA was being ridiculous-- !"

She shuts her jaw with a click when she realizes that she's launched into rambling rant.

"....I did it, Alexander," she tells him, rendered breathless by the torrent of words. "And I think some part of me is actually glad I nearly set my apartment on fire because I wanted to look you in the eye and tell you I did it. I did it."

Well.

If Alexander had doubts about her identity, they seem to fade away with each repetition of the word 'ridiculous', with his smile growing wider moment by moment, brightening into that wide, unrestrained grin that is his rarest of expression, the one that takes ten years at least off of his face. And when she gets to 'I did it', he still says nothing, just steps forward, sweeps her into his arms, and spins her around in the foyer, as much as the tiny space will allow spinning. Luigi takes off for his cage, and Blue Bell watches this with that 'humans are weird' expression on her regal features.

His embrace is tight, but careful not to trip over to painful, and he whispers in her ear, "I had no doubt, Isabella."

It might be her favorite word, just edging out the one she had just invented after twelve hours of drinking.

Isabella would say more, but when that blazing grin overtakes his sleepless, but handsome profile, she feels a hard knot manifest at the back of her throat, hooking into it and threatening grievous injury if she attempts to force it down. Unable to help it, her hands are already coming up - she would have moved further, to cup his face in between them, but she's suddenly swept up in his arms. Feet lifted, what escapes from her is a sudden and surprised laugh as the world tilts in a quick and dizzying loop, her own arms thrown over the broad, hardened line of his shoulders. She'd greet the animals, if she had a mind to, but he's always had a way of commanding the lion's share of her attention whenever he occupies the same space, and breathes the same air.

Fingers grip the back of his shirt. "Tighter," she whispers - a familiar enough mantra, because she finds herself clinging to him like a lifeline before he even returns the gesture, her mouth finding his and pouring the intensity of all that she is against him; she burns like a star normally, today she is its core given flesh, trapped in a vessel too fragile and corporeal to contain it.

"You won't believe...it was just..." Absent syllables escaping her frantic kisses, like plumes of smoke, quickly forgotten once they escape her whispers. "I wanted to surprise you and you'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now, but I just...I love you. I love you. I love you."

Alexander obliges her, his grip tightening like if he lets up, she might disappear like smoke, or a dream, or an illusion. His face is buried in the side of her neck until she kisses him - at which point he pushes them both against the wall, heedless of the cold winter air coming in from the front door he didn't bother to close, and kisses her fiercely, over and over again.

When breath becomes a need rather than just a nice thing to share, he pulls back only enough to let her speak, his dark eyes warm and bright. "I don't like surprises. I do like you," he allows. "I love you. I thought...I thought you might stay. I told myself it was good, and that I should be happy if you did. But it wasn't, and I wasn't, and I'm glad you didn't, Isabella. I am glad." And he kisses her again, before adding, low but playful. "Wait. Not Isabella. Dr. Reede. Should use your correct title."

She's spun another way, her hand flailing comically sideways - but it finds the side of the door and it slams shut at her push, fingers finding his hair when he returns ferocity with ferocity. For a few, breathless minutes, Isabella gladly drowns herself in the experience of him, reacquainting herself with the taste and shape of his mouth when her back finds the cold wall. The weather drips from her clothes, soaks into his - in his grip, her skin is cold to the touch, but the heat of their exchange makes quick work of it and by the time they disengage, with his face hovering above her own, color has flushed her cheeks, the green of her eyes softer and darker and leaving their golden filaments burning like lamplight.

She looks up at him in that way, the delicate lines of her sunkissed face nearly sick with longing and relief, her fingers framing his own and thumbs tracing the rugged slant of his cheekbones. Her lips part, as if to address the rest, but the words are smothered momentarily by another kiss and she says nothing else for a while, tugging him closer and unmindful of the damp, threatening to blur the lines that define them as two separate people.

"...only when you're feeling particularly cheeky, Mister Clayton," she murmurs, her contralto low and husky with emotion and need. That softened look sweeps over his face to linger in dark eyes lit like embers. "I said I would come back...I didn't want to..." She swallows, the passionate moment blasting further cracks into her bravado, exposing her softer underbelly and leaving her looking young and vulnerable. "...I don't regret the last ten years, Alexander, but they were lonely. They were lonely."

"I'm always feeling a certain amount of cheek when I'm with you," Alexander muses, his lips so close to her skin that she can feel the soft heat of his breath with each word. "So I might end up using the title fairly often. Dr. Reede. That's fine, isn't it?" A teasing grin, and then he bends his head that one fraction of an inch needed to press his lips against her skin. "I missed you," he murmurs, right there against the fact of her presence, and he sighs to feel her skin warming his lips.

He pulls back to look into her eyes. "I know, Isabella." And then he hugs her again, fierce and strong.

"That's perfectly fine," Isabella whispers - there's a hint of laughter there, euphoria of a different and more existential kind spiking her blood and running through her veins like magma. "You can call me Dr. Reede as much as you want. It's sexy, actually, I'm..." Lashes flutter against her cheeks, melting into the wall when he closes the distance. Her hand cups the back of his head, as if she could pin him there while he banishes more of the winter from her skin.

When he gathers her up, she bands her limbs around his shoulders and tightens her grip, her face burying into where his throat meets his shoulder. He knows. Of course he does, how many times has he been inside of her head? Of course he knows.

"I missed you, too." Said hoarsely. "I was...I knew you wanted me to stay," she tells him, her words muffled against his shoulder. "I think anyone who cared about anyone would want them away from Gray Harbor. You told me before. You weren't shy." She tilts her head back to meet his eyes, her smile mercilessly bright and sharp. "But it behooves me to tell you that dragons and monsters won't keep me away and that I'm glad you didn't...I'm glad you didn't want me to stay gone. Not really." There may have been some associated apprehension that he would say that, but ever the confrontational person, she shows up at his door to take the spear to the heart if she had to.

Alexander laughs, low and delighted against her, his whole body shaking a bit with it. "Sexy, hmm? I guess that I should tell Dr. Reede that I've been a naughty boy, and need special lessons if I'm ever going to make something of myself, then?" He waggles his eyebrows at her, playfully. Without letting go of her, he starts walking them carefully back towards the couch. "I never want you away from me - even if I sometimes want you to leave this town and never look back. I'm a creature of contradictions."

His eyes twinkle. "I'm glad you're back." A pause. "But you said something about setting your flat on fire? How did you manage that? And Hyacinth and the patissier went to meet you in Wales? What happened?"

"It depends, do you want special lessons, or extra credit?" A single dark eyebrow quirks upwards in an imperious fashion, chin tilting in that defiant angle. Were Isabella wearing the glasses she sometimes uses, it gives her the look of a very young (and attractive) professor. "Both?" The clasp of his arms around her has her returning it in kind, refusing to let him go for even a moment, though she does say, apologetically, "The sleet was terrible...and your clothes..." She's able to wiggle out of her jacket at least, leaving it and her boots in a dripping pile by the door - underneath the layers, she has a wide-necked sweater and her moonstone pendant, the dandelion bracelet on her left wrist.

The under-layers are dry, at least, but cold, and she burrows further into his warmth. She does playfully push him into the cushions though, the devil in her eyes before she clambers on, opening her arms for him again.

"Uh...well..." There's a quiet grumble. "It...I can't believe I'm telling you this. But I'm so happy to see you that I guess I can't not. I tried to call you that night, and I was absolutely inebriated, and...I was definitely drunk enough to try and seduce you long distance so I lit a bunch of candles in my flat and...and..."

"You should have called me. I'd have come and picked you up from the airport," Alexander chides, gently, ignoring for the moment that he has no car, and so would have had to borrow one. He helps her wiggle out of her cold, sodden outerwear, and when pushed back into the cushions, seems content to be warm and beneath her, his hands roving over her body as he might have forgotten some details. His eyebrows go up. "And I was often a good student. I think I'd want both. To be thorough."

At the grumble, though, his head tilts to one side. "I never received a call." And yet, his lips twitch, because there's a picture being created in his head, painted as much by her grumbly expression as by the words she's using.

"Yes, well, surprise?" Isabella grins unapologetically, lashes half-lid when he touches her and reaffirms his knowledge of the lines and curves of her. Perched above, hands shifting to brace on either sides of his head against the back of the couch, she dips her head to press another kiss on his mouth. "I'll teach you to enjoy some surprises yet, Mister Clayton. But yes, thorough. We'll negotiate the terms of your naughtiness in a bit." Said after another kiss.

His growing smile, though, is given the wary eye, and after a few more grousing noises, she seems to give up the ghost. She laughs, turning her head to bury her face against his hair. "I dialed the wrong person, and what made it worse was that it was Easton, except I didn't recognize him because he had the most terrible handlebar mustache, and I didn't realize it until my sweater was off, because I was dancing badly for the phone and I thought...look, anyone would think someone stole your phone in my position! So I screamed, he screamed, I accused him of being your stalker and demanded that he give your phone back to you, I was backpedaling and flailing, the candles fell, a curtain went up in flames and I tried to put it out with my sweater but it caught on fire...Easton tried to be helpful by not helping, by the way! Yelling at me to put it out as if that wasn't what I was already doing!"

She groans at the memory, tilting her head back. "He was all 'Iz you drunk slut, put your clothes back on!' or something similar and I was so stressed out that I took offense and said I wasn't a slut, I was Alexanderotic, and he looked so terrified when the word left my mouth that I think I'm going to use it from now on."

Alexander stares at her as she elaborates, his eyes growing wider and wider as she goes on. His hands go still on her body, and when she gets to Alexanderotic, it's clear that it is taking EVERYTHING HE HAS not to just burst out laughing in her poor, disgruntled face. He actually looks a bit constipated, because his lips are pressed so tightly together on the laughter that wants to explode out that it's like he's holding back a tidal wave with sheer will.

He can't say anything. Opening his mouth is only going to send him into hysterics. He can only stare at her, rigid and silent, his eyes glimmering with the mirth that threatens to spill forth at any moment.

The poor man looks like a balloon about to burst. Isabella eyeballs him with that helplessly resigned look that she really ought to give some serious consideration to patenting, since she's only perfected it throughout the near one-year they've been together.

"Oh, just do it!" she cries, exasperated and amused - now that it's been a few days since The Incident, she's able to laugh at it, the color in her cheeks intensifying in remembrance. She even attempts to help this by dropping her hands, finding the spots she knows are sensitive, and tickles his ribs.

And that's all it takes. Alexander's laughter bursts from him in a wave, his body shaking under hers as his hands bat weakly at her tickling fingers. In between unrestrained bursts, he tries to wheeze out, "...Easton?" and "strip tease" and "stalker" and, finally, he tries Alexanderotic, but he can't even get it out. When he tries to shape the first syllable, he loses his composure completely and just howls until actual tears are squeezing themselves out of his eyes.

The poor animals in the house have absolutely no idea what's going on.

Blue Bell continues to stare at the humans in the house with that imperious, judgmental way that all cats seem to have perfected from the womb, tail flicking lazily behind her. Luigi squawks from his cage, because he was having a quiet night watching videogames being played only for the brown-haired one invading his territory again and causing all sorts of noise and ruckus.

Isabella lets it happen, an embarrassed grin curling on her flushed face. This is simply yet another thing that delineates their differences at people, with enough good-humor and confidence to make herself the most ridiculous thing in the room if it makes someone laugh, and after the winter, some part of her was irrationally afraid that she would never get to see him like this again; in stitches, convulsing with free-flowing mirth. "See this?" She reaches out to grab a pillow and thwaps him with it lightly with a laugh. "This is what happens when you're not around. I get bored, and I get into trouble - I striptease for the wrong person, and I set things on fire, and I pair your name with sex things, because it's been nearly a month and maybe I'm a little fixated, but the point is, this is what happens, Mister Clayton. Chaos. Alcohol-induced, fiery chaos."

Alexander laughs until he just physically can't anymore, until he's gasping for breath and limp beneath her. He can only weakly pet her around the hips and the waist while his face is red with exertion. "You...you..." he can't finish the sentence he starts, so he just shakes his head and says, "I love you, Isabella. I love you and your chaos, and your stripteases and your," he tries, he tries, but he can't get the word out without his diaphragm attempting to convulse into laughter once again.

"I will never say that word," he tells her, all fake solemnity. "I don't think the world is ready for it. But I love you."

"Alexanderotic," Isabella repeats with a huff, nevermind that saying it out loud may very well kill her lover where he sits, especially when he appears to be clinging so limply to life as it is. "It's an absolutely terrible word which happens to describe me perfectly, but it's mine, god damn it!" He does get an A for effort though in his attempts to actually say it out loud, when she curls her arms around his neck and presses her lips against his forehead, past the curls draped over his brow.

I will never say that word.

"I don't even know if you can, are you even still alive?!" she exclaims, before she laughs. "And yes, I love you too, despite the fact that one of the first things you did upon my homecoming is laugh at the idea of me clumsily, drunkenly attempting to seduce you long distance. I honestly don't know why I keep trying, any attempts in that direction only amounts to some kind of insanity. I'm never going to be the Mata Hari type, just so you know. I hope you're not disappointed."

"I'm alive. I think. If I'm dead, then the after life is far kinder than I have ever deserved, to be here with you, hearing about your attempted seductions," Alexander says, moving from playful to solemn without hesitation. He presses a kiss on her chin just after the kiss on his forehead, and wraps his arms around her to draw her close. "And if you'd managed to dial the right number, I would have been enthralled by you, you know." His lips twitch - maybe the enthrallment would have been for reasons other than erotic fascination, but he would have been enthralled damn it. "And Easton has no taste if he wasn't likewise enthralled."

"I'm pretty sure he was horrified rather than enthralled. He was screaming at me to put my clothes back on. My drunken attempt at a sexy dance might be something nightmares may be spun from," Isabella quips; she doesn't seem to mind the idea of a man finding her less than attractive, however - her preferences have been fixed on a single target for months. That and Easton was, these days, the closest thing she has to a brother.

Pulled close, she re-settles on his lap, arms curling more securely around him and fingers luxuriating in his mass of dark half-curls, watching them slip between her digits in a manner that suggests that she hasn't done this in years, and she's presently reacquainting herself with the pieces of him that she missed. His twitching lips has her planting a kiss on them in an effort to stay the growing smile. "I'd like to say that was the only moment when I got into trouble that entire trip." There's a hint of apology on her features. "But it wasn't. Even if I'd much rather hear about you being relatively okay with spending the afterlife with me."

"No taste," Alexander repeats, firmly. He makes a sound deep in his throat, pleased and yearning all at once, when her fingers run through his hair. It's no longer tender, although new scars can be felt under there from the chair, his bruises and soreness have all faded, and he's able to focus on her without difficulty. Time might not heal all wounds, but it at least does a decent job of healing these. At the mention of trouble, though, he gives her a careful look over. "What happened? I assume you mean in Wales? Or were there more stripping incidents?"

The firm rebuttal has Isabella smiling, and even treats it as gentle encouragement especially when paired with the sounds he makes. There's a return of that bone-deep relief, palpable and easily sensed when her fingers detect those new scars, but otherwise finds his scalp devoid of its earlier tenderness. Physically, he is fully mended, and she gently rolls her fingertips through his hair; she missed this, too, soaking further into the pleasure of simply being able to touch him whenever she wants, and most importantly, him being receptive to it - even enjoy it.

"I tried to do Yule a favor while I was in London," she says - it's the phrasing that makes it strange, an attempt at something instead of performing it fully. "He wanted me to visit the mineralogy collection in the Natural History Museum - it's one of the best of its kind, see if there are any metals or minerals that can hold or are especially resistant to our gifts. I thought it was a good idea, I'd be able to test plenty of samples just by sitting in the same room." Dark brows furrow as she revisits the moment. "I was weaker away from here," she confesses. "I never really noticed the first time I left, because I was actively avoiding its use, but now that I wasn't, the fluctuation was noticeable. Worse, despite the distance, I felt Them, still. Watching me." He'd feel it, with how closely he's holding her - she's an expert at masking her fear, but she's unable to hide it when he's got hands on her, the tremor raking down her spine. "I could have pressed it, but it didn't seem wise. I was alone and not at my full power."

"Yeah," Alexander says, softly. "Away from the town, it gets stronger and weaker. I don't know why, but I noticed it when I was wandering." He shudders, lightly - as much as his abilities have caused him pain, he relies on them too much to be comfortable when they're faded or constrained. The rest, he listens to with his eyes half-lidded with pleasure from her caresses. When that tremor shivers down her spine, his hands are there, to comfort and soothe. "I'm glad that you were wise. And that's useful information to know - that they watch everywhere, not just here." His voice turns dry. "Nowhere to run."

He shifts under her, just a little, settling into the old cushions in something closer to a comfortable angle. "And Wales?"

"Somehow, I knew that if I pushed it, They would come," Isabella confesses quietly, her eyes wandering away from him to stare somewhere at the wall behind his head, though he easily draws her attention back to himself at the stroking motions of his hands. Looking down at him from where she is perched, she gives him a reassuring smile. "I wasn't about to die the day after my defense," she tells him lightly. "And being successful at it. The university's even printing new cards out for me to reflect my new title, so long as I keep assisting Richard." Her mentor, the Lincoln Professor for its school of archaeology. "It would be a kick in the arse, if they ended up delivering them to my funeral." The last is quite dry.

His body shifts, and she follows where he leads - apparently, he can arrange her however he wants, at the moment, provided that she's still entangled with him and when he asks about Wales, her lashes lid, a contemplative sound escaping her.

"The actual thin point was impossible to get to, it would have required blasting through a few cave ins and tunneling in deep into the earth. Not that I wasn't up for the challenge, but we were lacking in actual equipment to get to it, not to mention all the permits required - it would have been a crazy undertaking in a day trip and Addington influence doesn't extend that far. But we opened a doorway anyway directly on top of where we could sense it." Her fingers keep stroking through his hair, thumb and index fingers rolling strands between them. "We fell right into the Dreamscape, not unlike what happened in the gravesite." Falling quiet for a few minutes, she shifts herself so she could look into his eyes. "Do you remember when August went to Portland? He said that our old ranges were still in effect after the funeral, but when I went...they weren't. It's the same here as it is there. I feel as if....whatever happens here does cause some kind of ripple effect, it just takes a while for it to permeate through the rest of the world."

Alexander isn't normally a cuddly sort of person - he's often more comfortable with just being nearby, or resting a single hand on or near her. But now he seems entirely comfortable with being entangled. "Death would be tremendously inconvenient for your career plans," he agrees, just as dry as she. "So let's avoid it, if possible." A flicker of a smile, before he falls silent to listen further.

"Interesting. I wonder what makes thin points, then. I have been thinking that they might be created phenomenon - but if so, then buried beneath the earth sounds unlikely. So maybe they're natural. But if what you're saying is correct, and I've no reason to doubt you, then the whole 'fabric' for lack of a better word of the Veil is interconnected." He rests his head against the arm of the couch and groans. "It's complex and confusing. Interesting, but complex. I can understand why opening a door away from a thin point might catapult you into a dreamscape...but I still don't know why the gravesite did. That should have gone to the Veil. I'd think."

"Your biases are showing, Mister Clayton," Isabella tells him in a manner that's half-teasing, and half-content; it makes her sound drowsy. Sprawled lengthwise on the couch with him, her head turns to press her lips lightly on the underside of his jaw, the ends of her lashes tickling his skin.

His first question is a sound one, and she contemplates that for just a moment. Now that their positions have shifted, her touch, too, has wandered, fingers in a loose array over where his heart would be and soothed by the strength of its beating, lulled by the assurance that he is presently vital and alive. "That would require travel and testing. I know the Wales thin point is connected to a particularly horrific mining tragedy back in the 30's. Over two hundred men lost their lives. It used to be a large coal mining town, much like how Gray Harbor was known for wood and lumber back in the day. I'm not sure about the history surrounding the Portland thin point, but August's told me where he was going specifically, I could always look it up and pass on the information to the rest of the group."

She falls quiet again when she gathers her thoughts about the gravesite. "Agree that one was strange," she tells him softly. "We're going to have to test that also. Anne and I were thinking of attempting to open a Door again once everyone's recovered, near the area but not at the area, to see whether it connects properly this time."

"What, do you think death would not be inconvenient to your career plans?" Alexander counters playfully, lifting a hand to stroke her hair, let the dark strands run through his fingers. His heartbeat is, indeed, strong - it's slowed from the moment he saw her, and is now a steady, calm regularity in his chest. "Okay, so...mass death. Portland had a lot of riots and violence in its early days, so I wouldn't be surprised if one of them triggered something. But so did Seattle, and so have New York, Los Angeles...hell, pretty much any major city. And lots of places that aren't. Just about any industrial town should be a Gray Harbor, if death is all it takes. But they're not. So, while mass death may be a necessary component, it can't be a sufficient one." He thinks for a moment. "Maybe the production has something to do with it, too. A tension between creation and destruction? Hm."

A shake of his head. "Insufficient data." He goes still at the idea of opening another door up, but finally (and reluctantly) nods. "That would make sense, as a follow-up experiment. Patrick's going to hate it." His tone is wry.

"It depends on which point in said career that happens," Isabella banters back with a laugh, head tilting to let his stroking fingers dive further into the glossy chocolate mass, eyes hooding in visible pleasure - as they often do whenever he helps himself to her charms. "I can envision that in some circumstances, Death would only immortalize me. I can see it now." She lifts a hand, gesturing into the air. "Here lies Doctor Isabella Baxter Reede, explorer, archaeologist. She came, she saw, she fell off Mount Everest." While quick to mask her fear, the prospect of dying in the midst of adventure or in the pursuit of an incredible find doesn't seem to faze her much, having long accepted that specific occupational hazard.

He'd sense her watching him sidelong when he spins more ideas from his own equally talented brain. "Likely a confluence of factors between environment and human frailties," she contributes quietly. "I know the events that led up to the Gresford tragedy had as much to do with greed and ambition as it did faulty construction and the lack of standardized safety procedures back in the day. I'd say it mirrors plenty of what could have been at play between the Baxters and Addingtons here, but there's no way of knowing at the moment whether the thin point has always existed here, or if it was created because of what might've happened between the two families. I agree with you, however, it can't just be mass death, otherwise we would have heard a few strange things by now in some of the more conflict-ridden parts of the world."

Patrick's going to hate it. The remark has her flashing him a resigned smile. "Anne has her reasons for chasing the knowledge. It's important to her," she tells him. "The fact that he continues to stay in spite of his own misgivings is heartening, at the very least." Her brows lift there, a vaguely prompting gesture - she hasn't heard Alexander protest it much, but she largely suspects it's because if nobody else was doing it, he probably would.

Alexander reaches out and lightly tweaks her nose. "You're not going to fall off Mount Everest," he claims, firmly. Then smiles. "You're specialized in underwater archaeology, right? You're obviously going to get tragically lost in some oceanic trench. You'll discover Atlantis, and the Atlanteans will have to kill you to cover up their ongoing domination of the world through shadow organizations like the Freemasons and teacher's unions." It's said perfectly deadpan.

And as if that's a perfectly normal thing to say, he continues, "That makes sense. As does the point about direction of causality. Did the accident open or strengthen a thin point or did the accident happen because the thin point was there and it influenced people? Not all of the Harbor's murders and suicides are directly due to Dreams or the Shadows. People are just off, here. More likely to be violent. More likely to fall into despair. It's all tangled up." He smiles at her smile. "I know. I don't fault her." A long pause at the silent prompt. "I don't really like it," he admits. "But you, and Anne, are adults, and intelligent, thoughtful ones at that. Like I told you - I don't expect you to try to stop me from doing my work, and I won't try to stop you from doing yours, either by force or by trying to guilt you out of it."

Her nose scrunches up when he tweaks it, though it does elicit a quiet laugh. "That was always the dream, you know," Isabella tells him, clear amusement writ on her features peppered with hints of nostalgia. "When I first started diving, I imagined I was re-discovering Atlantis. If it's out there, somewhere, I'm going to find it. Though now that you seem to be convinced that its inhabitants are still around and pulling the strings of the world behind the scenes, maybe I shouldn't go on that quest unarmed. Flamethrowers and harpoon guns." It makes absolutely no sense, but at the moment, she doesn't care. Her arm bands over him, thumb hooking into the side belt-loop of his jeans and tugging it playfully, marveling silently at the solid weight of him - after close to a month without, she is savoring the moment.

"It isn't as if I like it when you go haring off into danger, either, but so long as you don't do it alone, it isn't so bad." It's an old sticking point, one that they're presently navigating. "We're thinking the Church, next time. As agreed, expeditions are not to be performed solo - at least you're going with a group for the mill." Concern ripples over her expression at that, looking up at him. "I still don't think it's safe for any Baxter-blooded to go through there," she tells him quietly. "But you promised me you'd commit arson if it tried to eat you and I'm holding you to that."

"Discovering Atlantis is a worthy goal," Alexander says, with a smile. "But I'm not so convinced that flamethrowers are the proper weapons for an undersea expedition." His smile flashes into that playful grin for just a moment as she tug on his belt-loop. "I like the harpoon guns, though. See if Itzhak can make you one that has a revolver set up - six harpoons, no waiting."

There's an easy shrug at her worry. "The Church sounds like a good idea. If it's true that what's here influences what's there, then it'd be interesting to see what the Church looks like from that side of the mirror." A flash of wistfulness, and of cynicism, there; these days, Alexander's relationship with religion and faith is nothing if not...complicated. "I don't think it's safe. I wouldn't be going if Patrick hadn't asked...and if I didn't think that the only way to find a complete picture might be to have Baxter-blooded and Addingtons working on it together. They've got one one piece of the puzzle, and we've got the other."

"Magic flamethrowers," Isabella insists stubbornly, though he'd practically be able to sense her smile despite the present angle of his face. "And I figured if there was anyone who'd be able to create a contraption like that, it would be Itzhak. He texted me while I was away, we compared notes." The last said in that exaggeratedly innocent way that would have her convicted in any court on the spot. "I think he wanted to make sure we were talking. He was sweet to worry."

The conflicted lines on the man's face has her tilting her own to press her mouth lightly on the corner of his own - non-verbal acknowledgment of struggles that may follow him for the rest of his life, followed by another tug on his beltloop. "Oh, so you're getting paid for the job? Good, if there's a case that you should be getting some compensation for, it would be this one," she murmurs, a touch dryly. With cooperation being inevitable, however, she nods. "Agreed - like I told you, I already told Hyacinth I'd help her find Thomas, whatever usefulness I could afford on that end. Though I wonder..." She purses her lips. "If you're right, maybe it started that way. All we've heard about so far is the feud and how Addingtons have been feeding Baxter bodies to the mill, but I wonder there hadn't been a pre-existing agreement or cooperation between our families before it all fell apart. Maybe cooperation is the only way to address it now."

"Magic flamethrowers." Alexander gives her a look. "I feel it necessary to remind you that the last time you tried to make a magic item, everything exploded. Trying to make something that shoots fire? Maybe that's not a great idea." His fingertips skate lightly over her ribs, not QUITE tickling, but threatening it. "Itzhak is kind and good-hearted, however much he tries to convince the world that he is a dangerous tough guy." His voice is fond, although not without a hint of worry there, especially in the way his brow furrows.

When she mentions payment, though, he clears his throat. "No. Not...as such. Patrick offered. I told him he could cover medical expenses, if there were any." He glances away from her. "It might just be babysitting. Doesn't seem right to charge for that," he mutters. "It's just a favor for..." he trails off. Is Patrick a friend? He clearly isn't sure, so he just says, "It's just a favor." His eyes tick back to Isabella. "I've actually wondered. If they're right about Margaret's decline, and that she's releasing her grip on a lot of the running of the businesses and such...maybe Patrick would let us have access to the library or family archives in the House, and just," he clears his throat again, "fail to mention it to her. I can't see him going against anything she says not to do, but he's a lawyer. I bet he might be comfortable with exploiting a semantic loophole or two."

"Yes, and the endeavor was very exciting. I'd like to say that if an experiment hasn't exploded at least once, we're not doing it right," Isabella says with a laugh - worrisomely, some part of her means it, but by the blazing, devil's grin on her lips and in spite of what she had endured in the hands of Them afterwards, it hasn't cowed her any from any attempts forward. But given the threat of tickles from the man when his hands lower, there's an anticipatory squirm, and a playful nip where his jaw meets his throat. "Don't grope me if you don't mean it," she teases, equal parts wicked and innocent. "My heart won't be able to take the rejection, and nothing's stopping me from stripping for you here."

When he starts squirming about the Patrick Addington issue, her brows climb up higher towards her hairline, easing her face back; this time, it's her turn to give him a look. "Yule did mention his concerns about your lack of health insurance to me," she confesses delicately. "But if he's willing to do that, that's enough. It isn't as if his family doesn't have any pull with the hospital. As for the library..." She nods. "We've talked about you approaching him for access, and with Margaret stepping back, maybe I can convince Hyacinth to give us access to the records the Church keeps, also. All Addingtons go through the Church, maybe there's something we could find there. But one thing at a time, I think the Museum might yield more, since it didn't suffer through a flooding. That and..." There's a strange twist to her expression as she looks at him, continuing with, "...it's quite evident that the house has its own secrets but...I detected a couple of dangerous ones in the basement. At least two areas."

"You sure you didn't want to go into chemistry instead of archaeology, Isabella?" Alexander grins up at her. "Far more options for explosions in that field. I thought they frowned on blowing things up in yours." His expression softens at her reply to his not-quite-tickling. "I always mean it, with you. I do enjoy watching you squirm. Especially in our current positions." A brief chuckle. "We don't even have to use the couch anymore. Bennie is still crashing here as she needs, but she no longer needs to be confined, so the bed is mine again."

At the mention of Yule's concerns, though, his expression shuts down like a slamming door. "That's not really any of his business," he says, quiet but firm. He's never really discussed his financial situation with her, and it's clear that he doesn't intend to now. He moves on. "But, yeah. I can ask. Probably after this mill trip - I think I'll have a better idea of what we might need to look for after that. I'm pretty sure Patrick sees the House as somewhat dangerous - when the horrible monster French-kissed me, he was threatening to lock everyone in and let the House deal with them as it wanted. So I'm sure he's aware there are, uh, unfortunate areas. He might want us to avoid them." It's neutrally stated, with no indication on whether Alexander would respect such a desire...or if it'd just make him more eager to go for it.

Another pause. "Did you know that Easton went in on the casino with Byron?"

"Actually, in the process of obtaining my degrees, I had to take a few chemistry and geology courses," Isabella tells him with an unforgivably bright smile. "So any way I swing it, I'm precisely in the field I'm supposed to be. And while they do frown on blowing things up in mine, sometimes it's necessary to perform some careful destruction in order to get to hard to reach places. Otherwise, Sir Fiennes wouldn't have found Ubar under miles of sand, and Doctor Limneos-Papakosta wouldn't have found that marble statue of Alexander the Great buried in Alexandria - which was an incredible find, by the way, discovered just a couple of months before I returned here last summer. Some of my colleagues are that close to finding your namesake's resting place." She can't help but be excited when she talks about it, especially when it combines two of her most favorite things; her face is downright effervescent when she goes into detail.

There's a pause at his gentle look, her green-and-gold eyes shifting sideways, a rare moment of bashfulness taking over, feeling the slight uptick of her heartbeat race against her ribs. "I'd have you on any surface," she tells him, meeting his gaze and that soft, beautiful smile curling up on her expressive mouth. "Though I know a couple of priests who might protest if we're living in sin again."

A hand comes up, as if to physically ward off any slings and arrows regarding money. "Your financial business is your own," she tells him. "I told Yule as much, you're the smartest man I know, I'm sure you have your reasons and your ways to make all of that less onerous. Our relationship isn't so co-dependent as that. And your suppositions about the mill trip is sound. I've been thinking while the two of you go off there that maybe there's a way to re-start our quest for those land records, see if Hyacinth and I could-- "

When the horrible monster French-kissed me--

Record scratch. "Wait, what?!" The look on her face is poised between fury and disgust. "Is it dead? Please tell me it's dead. Because if it's not dead, now that I'm back, it will be." She even starts to shift, lifted halfway off the couch to look at the door with every intent to retrieve her father's long-range rifle. Easton and Byron's casino dreams aren't addressed just yet when she looks like she's about to go hunting in the middle of the night.

Alexander watches the delight bloom on her features with a simple, unshadowed pleasure; it's clear that he loves seeing her that way, all excitement and keen wits turning towards a purpose. He doesn't interrupt her, but when that bashful look appears, he lifts his head long enough to kiss the corner of her mouth, then relaxes back down against the sofa. "Ask me if I care what priests think about our living arrangements," he says, voice very dry.

There's a brief nod at her response to the money issues, and nothing more. "It might be a good idea. I do feel like the initial transfer of deed matters in some way to the mystery of it all. Whether it was the thing that kicked off the enmity or something else." And then she cries out, instantly on the warpath, and he laughs out loud. "It's dead. I stabbed it many times with the knife August gave me, and it melted into a puddle. It did put two people in the hospital, first, though."

Eyes close at his kiss, turning her head to capture it in full and deepening it for a slow, thorough minute. "Alexanderotic, remember?" Isabella reminds huskily, in an effort to banish away said awkwardness that comes from that momentary shyness. But mischief returns quickly enough when her grin emerges. "Do you care what priests think about our living arrangements? Have you met the new one yet, by the way? I think for all of Father Daniel's earlier protests about not being so old, I think he finally caved and obtained some outside assistance."

She nods, regarding the deal. "I think so. Otherwise we wouldn't have been led around in a very circuitous fashion the first time we inquired, though I think we should wait first until...the mill trip." It's difficult to hide her apprehension; she has already asked him to be careful, and while she doesn't reiterate the sentiment, it's present in her eyes. His laugh, though, does unwind the tension from her slender frame. "Good, because you shouldn't entertain such an outrage," she huffs. "No means no, damn it."

Circling back to the casino, she sighs. "Well, I didn't know about Easton's investment - it's funny, the two of them didn't used to get along. E bullied Byron plenty over the summers when we were teenagers. Now they're going to Vegas together, and going into business together. Still, it must be exciting to him, new ventures typically are for the business-minded - I know he's serious about building a life with Bennie." She wrinkles her nose. "I just wish the entire enterprise didn't have such sketchy beginnings, and I'm still worried about how it's going to impact the water."

Alexander bursts out laughing again. He reaches out to place a finger against her lips. "Never say that word," he tells her, eyes glittering with amusement. Then his eyes widen. "No, wait. Do say that word. But only once, when Byron is around. I want to see if he turns an entertaining sort of color." He chuckles to himself, then adds, "Lilith asked me out for coffee, do you know? While you were gone. I don't speak with her much. It was nice to do."

A shake of his head at the mention of the priest. "I haven't. I rarely attend church. I think the last time I did, it...it was with Alejandro and Violet, and received the vision of the burning funeral parlor. It wasn't exactly an official visit. As such." He smiles, and draws his fingers up the side of her body. "I suppose." He looks far too amused by her sudden rage at the idea.

There's a thoughtful, wordless noise at the mention of the casino. "It makes me worried for both of them. It had to have been a significant financial investment for them both, and I'm not convinced that," a pause, "certain parties will leave it be if they think interfering is in their best interests. I'd honestly assumed that, uh, other parties or their front companies would have been the ones to purchase the place."

"In the immortal words of the iconic Ian Fleming, never say never again," Isabella says from behind Alexander's staying finger, before lips part and she nips it playfully, that wicked light growing in her gold-flecked irises. She even makes a small 'grr' sound, like a disgruntled puppy offered a sock. Though when he does decide to return her mischief with his own, she laughs. "I'll see what I can do," she tells him, though she tilts her head curiously at he and Lilith spending time together. "Did she? The two of you normally don't spend a lot of time together, but she was worried about us just as much as we were worried about them after Valentine's Day. How did it go?"

It wasn't exactly an official visit. Amusement and exasperation war for dominance on her face as she tilts her head back to meet his eyes. "You mean you broke into the Church?" she wonders. "Not that I didn't have the same idea now that we know that Father Daniel keeps history in his own basement." His side-caresses has her hitching her body upwards, and her arms move to wrap around him in full, trapping him while cool fingertips slide up from underneath the hem of his shirt to press into the skin at the small of his back - to let his warmth leech into her own skin, and banish what remains of the cold. She says nothing for a long moment, simply drinking in the contentment and the lingering threads of mirth on his well-loved features.

When she speaks again, it's quiet, "You mean Felix Monaghan?" The tip of her tongue presses gently into the curve of her bottom lip in a thoughtful move. "If there's anything Byron knows how to protect..." Other than Lilith Winslow, anyway. "...it's his business interests. But I can understand it, the worry. Do you still intend to keep poking into it?"

"Hmph. Hack," Alexander claims about Ian Fleming, although without any heat. His eyes go half-lidded and dark at the feel of her teeth scraping playfully over his skin. "Mmm. Well. Maybe you can persuade me that it's a perfect word, if you try." He smiles at the mention of Lilith. "I think it went well? I mean. I don't gauge those things easily, but I found it enjoyable."

"And no, I did not break into a Church. Nothing was broken. At most, it was illegal entry, and I think Alejandro had an 'in' with the priests, anyway." HMPH. "Not that it would be hard to break in..." When she wraps her arms around him, he follows suit, holding her close with a contented sort of sigh. he tucks his chin onto the top her hair, and relaxes. "Yeah. I mean him. If I'm honest? I assumed that he directed the old couple to go to the lawyers with some sort of information - I don't think he killed them, but I'm sure he knew it was a possible outcome and was prepared to turn it to his advantage. He didn't put pressure on his people in the force to shut down the investigation against him, which tells me that he was pretty sure he had his ass covered. But he didn't seem surprised by any of it, either. And there's still..." he grimaces. "Unanswered questions. Which I suppose don't matter. The end is that I expected him to make a play for the casino, and I'm a little concerned that he doesn't seem to have. Especially if Byron and Easton have tied up a substantial amount of their assets in the place, a failure could be pretty devastating, financially."

Her last question makes him go quiet. "I...don't know. I feel like neither of them would appreciate me poking around in their financials. And, honestly, financial crime isn't a specialty of mine. But I'd hate for something to happen that puts their investment at risk. Especially if Monaghan starts trying to route some of his operations through there. Getting a hook into the owners is first thing you do, in that case."

"Ian Fleming was legitimate, at least as far as espionage was concerned. He trained in Camp X in Ontario during the height of World War II well before the United States even had its own foreign intelligence apparatus," Isabella replies, but with that glint in her eye growing more brilliant by the moment - she loves arguing with him just as much as she loves bantering with him, especially about history. The heat in her stare only intensifies when the darkness of his own becomes all the more abyssal - fathomless enough to drown in. "You and I know very well that most of the time perfection is overrated," she reminds. "But something tells me I'll enjoy it, regardless, trying to convince you." She nibbles gently on his fingertip before releasing it. "I'm glad your coffee with Lilith went well."

His pedantic argument about not breaking into the church because nothing actually broke has her laughing quietly again, her head dropping against his chest and resting there, the welcome weight of his chin pressing into her hair making those eyes hood. "You think the Krugers were working with Monaghan?" she murmurs softly, following his line of thinking to its natural conclusion. "I have tremendous faith in Byron's business acumen and he'd been following the casino development with great interest, when I was discussing those outcomes with him. It might very well be that he's already thought about Monaghan skulking in the fringes already. Maybe that's why he wrangled Easton to be a partner - Monaghan holds a significant pull here, but Easton's family's money comes from elsewhere....as far as I know anyway."

She angles her face up to look at him, an affectionate press of her lips finding his cheek, eventually turning into a nuzzle. "You're sweet to worry about them. Byron's pretty tight-lipped about the particulars of his business, so if you do intend to poke, I'd suggest going through E first." A pause. "And you already know what I'm going to say about shaking mafia trees."

Thinking about crime, while it is exciting for Alexander, does rather take his mind off of other, more passionate subjects, and his expression becomes increasingly blank - not deliberately shutting her out, just pushing more attention towards other matters. "The Krugers were, yes. Although 'for' might be a better word, and even then, I doubt it was entirely voluntary. They were laundering money for him at the least." A brief snort of reluctant amusement, "Through payments to a laundry service, no less."

He focuses in on her again, "It's not sweet," he says, with a frown. "It's sensible. Monaghan is dangerous and smart. It's good to keep an eye on what he's doing. Or might do. If only so that you can get out of the fucking way before you get run over." He sighs. "But you're right. Easton doesn't have Byron's financial background, I think," and there's a hint of wistfulness there as he adds as an aside, "I wish Byron were more interested in crime. I'd love to get his perspective on the areas where I'm not as strong, especially in tax fraud, money laundering, and various other financial mischief. I understand the broad strokes, but being able to sit down with someone in the business world who could really break down the flags would be...amazing." A shake of his head. "But never mind. I'm pretty sure Byron would just tell me to mind my own business if I asked to keep an eye on things. So, yes. Easton would be the best choice."

"If I were going to intervene." Alexander smiles a crooked smile. "Which I'm not sure I will. It's not like it's going to bring in any money, and nobody's dead or missing."

She didn't know that about the Krugers, but now that this piece of the puzzle has fallen on her lap, Isabella's frowning visibly, once again going back to the chronology of events that ultimately led to Foster's trial and conviction. "Probably not entirely voluntary," she agrees - she has very little actionable expertise when it comes to crime, but she's well-versed with human nature. "There's some poetry to that," she says. "It's still unfortunate that two people were just....I don't know. Lambs to slaughter."

His protest has her exhaling a quiet breath. "As much as I would pit your brains against any working detective in this town, I think so long as you don't poke into his business too hard, there's no risk of getting run over by him, period," she rationalizes, but with that hint of resignation that suggests that she's only expressing her opinion - there's no stopping Alexander when he has it in mind to investigate something. She shifts, so she could lift her head and look down at his eyes. "And just because Byron's not interested in crime doesn't mean he doesn't know how that works, you could always still ask him - who else do we know would have that background? It isn't as if Gray Harbor is teeming with forensic accountants. Though I could only be encouraging you on that end because I recognize on some level that the more you know, the better you'll be at your work."

The crooked smile has her fingers lifting, tracing the shape of it with a light brush. "You're clearly concerned about it, however," she points out quietly. "Not that I can blame you - they're friends. Of course you would be." Her lips shift into a more aggrieved curve. "Like I said, I wish that entire casino business didn't have as sketchy of a background as it does."

"Yes." Alexander closes his eyes. "It's never the movers and pullers of strings who end up paying in these cases. It's people who are half-victims at least, like the Krugers, or low level thugs, like the shooters. I'm surprised Foster was even convicted, if I'm honest. There must have been more in the financial records to tie him directly to hiring the hit. I only saw pieces of the picture," he admits, with a sight.

Then he opens his eyes at her quiet exhale, and smiles. "I know. But you'd be surprised where his interests in this town go. It's better to be aware, even if I know I can't beat him. You never know where there's a chance to push back, just in small ways." To the rest, he shrugs. "I'll think about it." The smile becomes steadier at the touch of her fingers. "I am. But there's only so much I can do, particularly without their active cooperation - and, honestly? If they want someone to keep an eye out, they have better options. Magnolia Jones is licensed and has friends in the force, and Byron has his own security people. I'm just being...insufferably nosy." He chuckles. "It happens."

Then he focuses back on her. "But, that does remind me. Your own mysterious project with the NDA. Now that you've got the thesis out of the way, and it's going to warm up soon...I assume you'll be working on that?"

The reminder that Foster was convicted draws out a more disgruntled noise from Isabella. "I wish they gave you some modicum of credit in that entire investigation," she mutters. "I doubt they'd have gotten as far as they had were it not for you." While the incident at the Pourhouse only impressed upon her how severe the community bias against Alexander truly is, it doesn't prevent her from stating what she does anyway - she would be incensed if others got the credit for her work professionally. She already anticipates something obliging from her lover, something that's even kind regarding the detectives who headlined the case, or how his treatment in the city is somehow deserved, and she flashes him a stubborn look there.

She is at least in agreement with his point regarding awareness. "Well, I'll be the last person to burn anyone about poking dangerous bears," she remarks with a sigh. "Anyway, I think more people appreciate you being insufferably nosy than you think. I'm relatively certain that you're the first person those in the know typically call when something happens that's presently out of their depth or understanding and need a sharp mind to parse out the facts. You're excellent at what you do, love...I wouldn't want you to stop in spite of my many misgivings and constant worrying."

The archaeologist props her chin on one hand, elbow against the cushion next to his head, her fingers slipping away from his mouth to toy gently with his curls. "Most assuredly," she tells him, regarding the project that brought her back to Gray Harbor in the first place. "It'd be great to dive again, and my research was going at a relatively good clip until it got cold and my thesis took up all my attention, but word from Delaware is that there was a data breach regarding the project recently. I'm still waiting for an explanation as to what that means, or what information was actually stolen. And..." She hesitates, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip. "There are talks about arranging an actual teaching position in Oxford for me, but I'm not quite sure...no, I know I don't want to spend my most physically able years in a classroom - at least not predominantly."

"I didn't contribute much of use," Alexander points out with a shrug. "The only thing I did that the police couldn't was get the gun - and that was thrown out. Everything else, they would have gotten eventually." He sighs, his expression one of sadness more than discontent, even as he admits, "I had hoped that I might...well, I'm sure Javier was laughed out of the Chief's office for proposing that I be an official consultant, especially after the gun fiasco." A shrug. "It's not important."

He reaches up and brushes his fingertips across her face, trying to soothe her indignation on his behalf, although the stubbornness makes him smile. "You're kind to say so."

"...data breach?" Hey, THAT sounds like crime, and if had ears, they'd perk up like a dog's. "Interesting. And even if you didn't take on a full time teaching position, it'd be good to get 'teaching at Oxford' on your resume, right? For future positions, I mean. But I admit that I don't know that much about academia. Proper academia, I mean." He grins. "But I know you'd waste away in a classroom full time. You were meant to uncover amazing things, Isabella."

"Of course you would say that, but the detectives came to you about the Krugers," Isabella grumps, her indignation becoming more overt the further she goes on, the beginnings of another rant present on her features. "And then Byron mentioned you were the one who even thought about approaching Bayside for the security tapes and they wouldn't have probably even known about Bulldog Security were it not for you. You'll have to excuse me if I doubt if they'd have gotten as much as they have without your assistance, especially when Gabe told me he was worried they were running out of leads in the middle of it. So of course it's important, this is your-- "

His soothing gesture mollifies her, but only a little, and she sighs again, turning her face to kiss his fingers one by one before fitting her cheek against the curve of his palm. "I just don't like the idea of you and your talents getting taken advantage of, is all," she finishes, quietly.

When those dark eyes light up, she pauses, brows stitching together. "Yeah - electronic break in on the company's systems," she tells him. "I think GEC's cybersecurity experts are still combing over which data was compromised, but they told me that it looks like it was mostly in the research side - a lot of the invader's digital fingerprints were on the experts' work, including Richard's and mine. I've been trying not to worry about it." There's a smile. "And it would look impressive, yes. But Oxford will be in my CV regardless in both education and experience, and August would tell you that Academia runs on nepotism as much as work. But there's plenty enough time to think about it, I'm content at this time to enjoy the fact that ten years of work and transient living netted me something."

"I'm pretty good," Alexander says, with a shrug. "But they would have gotten there eventually, with all the manpower they threw at it. But it's fine, Isabella." He smiles up at her. "I got invited to a briefing. I got to work a little bit with cops, and they actually listened. That was better than I had any reason to hope, really." And if that melancholy and wistfulness remains? Well, everyone wants things they can't necessarily have.

Either way, it's easy for him to focus on her explanation of the breach. "Hmm. That certainly looks like someone interested in chasing your findings. But they'd need people to do surveying and set up excavation teams if they were planning to beat you to the punch, right? Want me to keep an eye out for anything like that? If you draw up what sort of things a group like that might need, I can ask around at the harbor and the like."

That tight expression remains only for a moment or two when she listens. "You're way too kind to everyone else, and often too critical of yourself," Isabella says, her expression gentling. She leans in at that to press her lips warmly on his forehead, eyes shuttering when the contact lingers.

When she eases away, there's a blink. "...trying to get ahead of it, hm?" she replies with a laugh, lowering herself so she could wrap her arms around him more securely again. "Alright - normally, surveying first, definitely. Rented equipment - not just scuba gear, but ROVs, unless they decide to bring their own. Either way, there'd be very noticeable activity in the docks, if that were the case." She thinks about it further and after a pause, she continues, "Probably not at the moment, but once the weather gets warmer. Maybe even their own vessel, but....I don't think they'd want to advertise that blatantly. Chances are that they'll hire someone local as camouflage."

Alexander just gives a shake of his head at her assessment of his kindness to others and treatment of himself. He's focused now on a more interesting problem, and it can be seen in his calculating, thoughtful expression. "It's a small town. That sort of stuff will be noticed, and what few fishermen we have will be pretty curious about whether they've got competition moving in. I can keep an eye out." He smiles. "I can't guarantee anything, of course. But even if you can't tell me what mysterious treasure you're after, I'd like to help keep it safe." Although his voice is light and teasing, the true meaning of the words can be read in his serious gaze: I'd like to help keep you safe.

It could simply be Alexander's paranoia, but it isn't as if she doesn't share his suspicions already. But the familiar look he gets when his mind is presently engaged is one that manages to pull a smile from Isabella's features. "I'd appreciate the help - I think if there's anything I've learned coming back here is that townies trust other townies, and I've been gone for too long to be able to capitalize on whatever community goodwill I would have accumulated if I had stayed." Much like Yule, she occupies that strange limbo between one born and raised, but has lived outside of the city limits for so long than people scarcely remember her.

Her assessments probably would have continued, but his eyes are serious enough with that remark that a long silence descends when she does nothing but watch him in the way that suggests she's etching and re-etching the details of his face into the jealously-guarded galleries of her. She leans in then, her mouth finding his.

"I know." Words brimming with a familiar, bittersweet ache. "I never want you to be away from me, either."

Alexander returns the kiss with heat, drinking in the feel of her mouth against his, and the words. He smiles, and murmurs, "Why don't we go to bed, Isabella? We would have more room." He waggles his eyebrows. "For things. Maybe for showing me what Alexanderotic means." Oh god, he said it.

Oh god, he did say it. Isabella's mouth leaves his just so he could get a full view of those eyes widening at him in surprise, jaw growing slack. "You said it," she whispers, before kissing him in a way that's both intense and playful. "This is officially one of my best nights ever." Her grin presses into his skin, the light capture of his bottom lip between her teeth before releasing. Her leg slings over him, but only so she could ease off the couch, taking a few light backwards steps and tugging teasingly at the hem of her sweater. If he had only seen hints of the devil before earlier, he'd see it plainly now, on her face and the playful gestures of her fingers.

"You've done it now," she laughs, wiggling her hips at him - it's terrible, and comical. "Given all my fantastic moves, are you sure we'll be able to make it there?"

"We'll give it our best shot," Alexander says, with a grin. He shifts, rolls, and tries to rise to his feet, but holding her close to him. He grins. "And I'm not ever going to say it again, Isabella. But - for one time, because I love you, and because I desperately want to find out exactly what you mean by it, I will say it this once." He laughs, and tries to stagger them both towards the bedroom. "But if I fall or drop you, it's not my fault."

"Damn it! You should have warned me. I would have had my phone record it, are you sure you won't say it again? Right at the mic?" Another peal of laughter escapes Isabella right when she's snatched back up in his grasp, arms thrown around his shoulders and kisses interspersed with clumsy attempts to find her footing when she's clinging to another bigger, broader body.

"Pleaaaaase, darling? Once more, for the record? I'll even give it a Spanish pronunciation if you humor me. Alexanderrrrrrrrroti-- "

Thankfully that particular audible travesty can be shuttered from the rest of the world when his bedroom door slams shut to put an end to that.