2020-06-23 - Shit Happens

The status quo of the last few months have dictated some manner of competition as to who returns to 13 Elm the latest during particularly busy weeks. It's probably not surprising for anyone to learn that most times, Alexander Clayton, given his insomnia and infinitely shadier dealings, wins.

That is true this evening, because by the time the man himself arrives, he'd find his lover on the couch, clacking away at her laptop and the thin-rimmed glasses that she sometimes wears to reduce the strain in her eyes at staring at screens for most of the day perched on her nose. She has no office space in the home, but she seems perfectly content doing her work on the coffee table or on the couch, fingers flying over the keys and a cup of coffee within arm's reach. Isabella's hair is back in its usual messy twist, dark chocolate locks framing her face, clad in a tanktop and a pair of absurdly comfortable pajama bottoms with tiny corgis playing on the dark fabric. The picture she makes is a strange cross between sexy(?) librarian and sleepy college student, fingers shifting sideways to grope at her cup.

That bright, star-core potential has been recuperating, also. The Asylum excursion seems to have helped, if that could be believed, and the last few weeks have seen her strength in those arenas gradually returning. It's been a relief, for her - as luck would have it, there isn't any permanent damage.

Or, at least, no additional permanent damage.

Tonight, Alexander isn't home particularly late - although he has been gone a LOT over the last few days. But when he enters, it's clear that something...isn't great. Or it was a particularly epic party. The back of his head, as he turns to put his jacket (worn in weather too warm for a jacket) on a hook is dark and damp with matted blood, and he moves like a man who has been beaten. Because he was. Luckily, he seems mobile, and he isn't even weaving as he comes into the living room to see Isabella there, and smile. "Hi. You're beautiful," he tells her, quietly, and then wanders on towards the bathroom without another word.

The door opens; the sound is like an alarm, with the way Isabella's head snaps up from her work, and eyes that shoot past the distance to lock onto Alexander's face. There's even an expectant smile, that dies almost immediately when she glimpses the state he's in. "What happened?!" she exclaims, his earlier sweetness tucked away in a corner for further examination in favor of swift urgency when she rises and follows him to the bathroom. "Did you get shot? Stabbed? Did you break anything?

It's like running down the list of standard injuries, and she's clearly not discounting the possibility that the answer to that might be all of the above.

She is definitely cramming herself in the bathroom with him if she is not stopped, taking his forearm if he allows it, so she can steer him onto the covered toilet to sit on it.

Alexander doesn't stop her, and seems moderately relieved to be steered to a place to sit. He lands heavily, the toilet cover creaking just a little in threat. It holds, though, and he gives her another smile, only then starting to answer the question. "Jumped by a few goons. I wasn't shot or stabbed, just beaten. I think my ribs and skull are bruised rather than broken, but I'll let you know if that changes." He reaches out to gently lay a hand on her arm. "I'm okay. I've had worse, Isabella. Although I would be grateful if you helped me with the back of my head. It's a bitch to clean by myself."

With him deposited heavily on the toilet seat, Isabella gets down on one knee so she can access the place where Alexander keeps his (super) medical kit, setting it on the bottom bowl of the sink and opening it up. "Sit. Don't move. And yes, I will. Is this another case?"

Of course she would ask. She always asks. Nevermind that he is always cagey regarding the details of his clients, but she continues to do so despite the well-established proclivity. But there's tension, there always is; he can practically hear her teeth grinding from her jaw. "Who are these guys and what are their names and social security numbers?" Look, if there's anyone who could find out, let's face it, it would be him. The words might even seem like a joke, but that is deceptive, too. She has already established the fact that she has absolutely no problem shoving people through a doorway and leaving them there to deal with climbing corpses and flying fishes, especially if they hurt one of her people.

There's a glance at him, drawn by the hand on her arm. She dips her head to press a light kiss on top of his sweat-dampened curls.

"I know you've had worse," she murmurs. "But that doesn't really quell the desire to kick a door down right on somebody's face. Preferably the guy who gave you that head wound."

At first, Alexander makes a noncommittal noise. But he has a very hard time not answering direct questions, so eventually he says, "A favor. Just trying to track someone down. They proved to be very good at hiding." He smiles at the kiss, and her fierceness. "If you get the opportunity, Isabella, I have no doubt that you will take it," he assures her. There's a long pause. "I'm afraid things might get difficult. For a bit. If I'm right, someone's trying to test local enforcement capabilities. I think it might be the same person who killed Thatchery." A flick of his eyes to her. "These aren't Kelly. They're not town, and I don't think they have any sentiment which might make them hesitate. You need to be careful. Okay?"

"Darling, when is work ever not difficult?" Isabella replies dryly, but mildly, flashing him with that faintly resigned look that is nothing but completely accepting of the fact that the two of them are ridiculous people who lead ridiculous lives. It is a truth that she has embraced wholeheartedly, no matter how nonsensical that might be to a few of her acquaintances (Byron, really).

She reaches past him to put a stopper on the tub, and starts filling it with warm water; not, ostensibly, so she can bathe him like a child - it's just easier to clean his head wound if she just washed all the blood from his hair. Drawing a bottle of isopropyl alcohol from the kit, she adds a few squirts of it in the growing pool before setting it aside again.

"I don't think that after everything that Joey Kelly would be out to harm you, you haven't done anything to warrant it - not just yet. I think." Brows lift towards him in silent inquiry. "But I'll be careful - I think if there's any trouble to be had, it's only if I insinuate myself or if someone figures out that you're involved and tries to use me as leverage or bait, in which case they're going to find out pretty quickly that I'm not trapped in there with them, they're trapped in there with me." She smiles, her usual and oftentimes overconfident bravado playing over the shape of it.

"Why do you think Thatchery died?" she asks, dipping a hand to test the temperature of the water, before shutting it off.

There's a sudden, sunny smile up to her at the difficult comment. "It is always difficult. But entertaining." He eyes the water, and the alcohol, with a resigned sort of sigh. It has to be disinfected. It's also going to hurt. Such is life.

There's a shake of Alexander's head, and a wince. "Kelly would kill me if he felt he had to. Just as I would send him to jail if I had the proof and thought that the local law enforcement would follow through on it. But he's town. He knows people, he cares about people. It matters. These people aren't town, whoever they are." And whatever might be said about Alexander, he's a small town man at heart - not being town matters, in his view of the world. A flick of his dark eyes up to her face; a couple of blood vessels in his eyes have burst from his head bouncing off the pavement, and it reddens his gaze. "Be careful, Isabella. Truly careful."

Then? Another shake of the head. "I don't know. Chatter and eavesdropping haven't given me any information on motive, and Javier doesn't want to talk about it." A pause. "I will have to make him, I think. This is interesting. I'm meeting him tomorrow for coffee."

That sunny smile might as well be a javelin through the heart, or a knife slid between the ribs. "Unfair," Isabella tells him, but there's no real heat or censure in it. There's a smile instead, that cracks into a lightning grin when he eyeballs the water and what she put in it. "You asked me to help," she reminds. "I'm helping."

And she is.

"How did you make that determination? With the way the violence was applied?" She reaches out in an effort to assist him up. "On your knees," she murmurs, carefully guiding him to the floor and she can perch on the side of the tub. Lips press faintly when he looks up at her in that way, when she can see scarlet veins threading over the whites of his eyes, and legitimately worried that his head trauma may be more severe than it looks. "I promise," she says, instead, dropping her face to kiss his forehead. "I'll check you just in case, after I've cleaned you up. Everything's working as intended, now. As far as that applies to me anyway."

She guides him into lowering his head, fingers sinking into midnight locks as she starts washing the blood from his hair, crimson clouding in warm water laced with disinfectant. Her touch is gentle, in a manner that suggests that he might as well be something made of spun glass. She delicately works at the clots and mats at the back of his skull, taking great care not to aggravate the wound too much. "I know it stings a little, but bear with it just a little while," she says, softly.

"Not that it surprises me that Javier doesn't want to talk about it, but you do have ways of making that man talk," she observes. "Though he's changed a little - I wouldn't go so far as to say he's more open, these days. More like more willing to be."

"You're helping," Alexander agrees, solemnly. He accepts the guidance - although there's a playful quirk of his mouth and brows when she tells him to get on his knees, and he gives her a speculative look. And then winces, because everything hurts. "What determination?" he murmurs as he lets her lower his head. There's a nasty gash at the back of his skull, but he hasn't passed out and he focuses on her just fine, so probably no concussion. Maybe, as often as his head gets exploded, he's developing a resistance. "I know a good number of the footsoldiers around town. These weren't them. And they called me a townie. Ergo, they aren't likely to be local."

He hisses as the disinfectant hits the cuts, his body tensing up. "Could be worse. Could need stitches. I hate stitches." A pause. "It doesn't need stitches, right?" In truth, it probably doesn't. He sighs, and forces himself to relax under her hands. "Mm. He has more people. Not necessarily a good thing; more people means more people to protect. He gets ornery when he feels protective."

The speculative look earns him a returned one with so much saccharine innocence that it's a miracle that he doesn't die from insulin shock. But considering the fact that he might be bleeding someplace else, Isabella resists the obvious naughty joke and thus makes it clear to sea and sky that Alexander Clayton's bathroom is a place where legitimate miracles happen.

There's a quiet tch when she finds the gash, clearing it of blood as much as she can, and adding a delicate touch of power on it to help things along. Unlike her reading abilities, her skills to encourage healing are more practiced - to at least keep it from bleeding all over the pillows once she gets him to apply a consistent pressure on it. Once she's done, she helps him lift his head, reaching for a towel to assist him with drying his hair off.

"I know you hate stitches, but luckily you won't need them today. Otherwise, I'll have to shave this part of your head, and I happen to love your hair." She folds the towel when done, and rolls it up so she can press it against the gash. "And yes, he does. But if he gets stubborn about it, you should remind him that you're one of those people and you should be given some leeway, especially if you're helping him."

After a pause, "He and I talked to Megan, before he let her go."

Alexander chuckles at the innocent look. Laughing hurts, but not enough to stop him from doing it. Otherwise, he's quiet, allowing her to tend the wound without much interference. He does wince and hiss and grumble, though; Alexander is sort of a baby when it comes to pain, and 'stoic' isn't his style. He looks relieved when he sits up, and starts to gingerly towel his hair. "Good. I would look odd with a bald patch. And you love my hair." He grins.

There's a sidelong shrug at the words about Ruiz, but the information at the end catches his interest. "What did she have to say?" His eyes flicker when it's mentioned that she was let go, but he doesn't protest about it.

"You would look odd with a bald patch. And I do love your hair." Her hand reaches out in emphasis to toy with a hanging curl on his forehead, smiling fondly. "But it is getting long, you're due for another cut, soon."

Isabella lowers her fingers there, and she exhales a breath; her exasperation is back. "She was uncooperative," she replies bluntly. "Which honestly doesn't surprise me, told me that I ought to call you to stop whatever it was that you did in her cell, and I told her that's probably not how it works and that once it's in, it's in, and that she was probably safer there than anywhere else - for some reason she thought she was defenseless against the Doctor or whoever he intends to send in there. She couldn't tell me why the Doctor went after her, but she did tell me that he attempted to round up other escapees through his...minions. Alice, her and certain others. But she can't tell me what he is, though she did refer to him as a sort of 'god' from the other side."

She pauses from her litany. "Are you hurt anywhere else? Do I get to strip you?" A playful waggle of her brows. Apparently these bathroom miracles have limits.

"I look odd regardless," Alexander points out, with the weary air of a man not unaware of his own eccentricities and nature. But he smiles, and says, "I look forward to putting myself in your talented hands once again, if you're up for it. It looked nice. Last time."

He nods to the information about Megan, looking unsurprised. "She cannot be trusted. And she is not wrong. If the Doctor came for her, I don't know that any sort of barrier that I put up would stop him." A thoughtful pause. "I don't know if a room can be...un-nulled. That might be good to know, one day. But I suspect it wouldn't stop the Doctor. Not if he is what you said he was. Did she say anything useful?" He doesn't sound as if he thinks it's likely.

A shake of his head at the last. "Bruised. Not too bad. They didn't have time to work me over. I stuck horrors in the heads of three of them, and electrocuted the fourth."

"I wouldn't call my hands talented," Isabella tells him with a laugh. "But I can at least promise you that it won't be a mohawk dyed a deep green." A pause. "Maybe bright pink."

She shakes her head at the next. "As far as I know, un-nulling a room is probably impossible - the point is to make sure our powers don't work on it, presumably it would apply to any attempts to strip it of that effect. And actually, it would. Stop the Doctor, but not in the way you might expect." She straightens up at that and reaches out to help him up off the floor, to get him to sit on the toilet again. She then braces her hands on her knees, leaning towards him to watch his face.

After a moment: "Thankfully, the head trauma doesn't feel too bad," she murmurs.

"Anyway, she mentioned the Doctor and the others like him - the Director, who I've never heard of until I talked to her, and the 'other one'. Presumably the Collector, since their naming conventions over there mean something and follow a pattern. She also said that they can't cross over, which makes sense - if they are the power, if they are manifestations of the Veil itself, chances are that they wouldn't be able to travel past it. So whatever dirty work they have to do on this side would have to be through agents." She falls silent, but only briefly, before saying, quietly, "Which sounds a lot like how They operate in the physical world, but if Megan knew for certain that the Ors are Them, she would have mentioned it. Wouldn't she?"

She reaches out to touch the side of his face gently. "Anyway, not that we ought to trust her completely, but she did say that she has no further interest in you, and that she'll never hurt you again. We'll see whether Time proves her a liar, but she did say it." Lips lift upwards in a faint smile. "And good work, on the thugs."

"Whatever you would like," Alexander says, easily and entirely sincerely. His physical appearance has always been a rather low priority for the man, and he's more focused on Isabella's words, and her face. "I'm glad for that, at least. I wouldn't want to see any of them on this side of the world." A skeptical grunt at Megan's words, but hey, he's not trying to hunt her down and kill her, so maybe he's willing to give her a chance? Either way, he rises to his feet, and bends so that he can give her a kiss. "I think we should stay away from the -ors to the extent possible. I know you are brave, and fierce, and capable, but what I saw at the Asylum?" He frowns, remembering the Doctor. "It's beyond us. Beyond any or all of us. Better to let its eyes turn away from us before it decides we're a threat."

"You know I'm teasing," Isabella tells him with a smile. "Like I said, I'm very fond of your hair."

He wouldn't find any disagreement on her features, about not wanting to find them on this side, where they live and make their homes, her face tilting back to return his kiss. "And believe me, I'm not exactly enthusiastic about running across any of them, from what I heard of the Collector and the Director is a giant question mark at the present moment. The Doctor..." She hesitates. "Considering the fact that he knew what I did to the Vivisectionist, especially him, where I'm concerned. As reckless as I am, I don't actually want to explode." She tucks the kit away in its proper place, and starts ushering him gently out of the bathroom and towards the living room.

"Do you need anything else? Food? Drink?"

Alexander follows her as far as the living room doorway, but then stops. He winds his arms around her and squeezes, gently, although he doesn't pull her towards his chest. "Just sleep." He tilts his head towards the bedroom. "I'm going to fall over for a while. And I know you don't want to explode. And you're brilliant. But impulsive. So I'm glad to hear you say that you want to stay out of their way. It's for the best. And we probably want to avoid -ists for a while, too. Assuming they care about one another. I don't know that they do."

"I think they're well past the point where they actually follow any norms of what we consider human emotions," Isabella replies, her tone unapologetically acerbic, her arms lifting to drape gently over his shoulders when he winds his arms around her. She tips her face to press a kiss on the tip of his nose. "Well, I'll certainly try to stay out of their way anyway, but you know what happens in these parts. Shit. Shit happens." A faint smirk plays over her mouth. "Honestly, that ought to be the town's tagline, along with Everything is fine and It was like this when we got here."

She shuffles backwards, towards the bedroom. "Anyway, let me put you to bed, then," she tells him quietly. "You've had a long night."

"How long would it take any of to abandon all sanity if we were over there all the time?" Alexander murmurs. "How long could you see a world that makes no sense, until you stopped trying and just...accepted whatever came?" He blows out a breath. "I've been talking to that Baxter, you know. The artist. He's..." he trails off. "He reminds me of myself, when I was younger. Just less angry. Less violent. But still very lost. He's nice, though." A crooked smile at Gray Harbor's many mottos. "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here." Then he grins at the kiss on the nose, and returns it, before following her shuffle towards the bedroom. "I don't think I could ever turn down that offer from a beautiful woman like yourself," he claims, with the ghost of good cheer.

"I don't..." Isabella's eyes flicker briefly at that first question, reminded of the loss of her other half and the possibility that he might still be there, and irrevocably changed. "...I don't know. And between you and me, I don't want to think about it too hard. Not that part, at least." Her line of sight drops to find the center of his collar instead, but when talk shifts to the other Baxter, her smile returns, faintly. "Grant, you mean? He is, I get along with him the best, among our extended relations."

The Dante's Inferno reference broadens her smile. "That's fitting, too." Said as she's shuffled backwards towards the bedroom. "And honestly, I might forgive this town's many sins if it had been Love made me." Followed by another kiss.

"Is he doing okay?" she wonders softly.

Alexander pauses, then lets out a breath. "Probably for the best." He leans in to kiss her forehead, then undresses before putting on sweatpants to sleep in. Alexander long since learned not to go to sleep totally nude, unless he really wanted to fight for his life with his genitals hanging out.

For the record? He did not. There's a multitude of dark shadows over his torso that are going to become SPECTACULAR bruises by the time he wakes up, but for now he ignores them.

He sits on the bed. "He seems...okay. I don't know him well. But he has someone he cares about. He melted his stove, but we fixed that. He's a good kid." He smiles up at her. "What about you, Isabella? How are you doing?"

She lets him prepare for bed; what admiration she usually has whenever watching him in any state of undress is blunted somewhat by the angry red-mottled purple that is starting to form on his skin and back, eyes charting paths along the nebulae of pain battered into his body by the evening's toil. Isabella clicks her jaw, frustration over the occasional violent demands of his profession passing over her features, but she doesn't get in the way. Instead, she moves to take a seat on the bed next to him, reaching out to take his hand if he lets her, and gives it a squeeze, and a press of adoring lips on faintly scarred knuckles.

"I should try and look for those bottles of extra-strength ibuprofen and tylenol before you sleep," she mutters - these days, it's her favorite painkilling cocktail.

"He does? That's great. Who's he seeing?" Her expression brightens visibly; she's hardly a romantic, but her pleasure is derived from the fact that someone she likes isn't alone. "Sounds like he inherited the Baxter inability to cook without burning down the house." There's laughter present, but more around the eyes than visibly heard. "Unless he was experimenting with something else."

There's a tip of her head to regard his profile. "And I'm doing alright, honestly I can't complain. Even my..." She gestures to her temple. "Is fine. Admittedly, being faded was somewhat of a downer, every time it happens." It had been, by her own accounting, the third time she lost full use of her powers. "But I'm not like our other acquaintances - I don't use it much, so when circumstances damage it, I hardly ever really miss it. Admittedly, it's nice to have, as a last resort." But it's not something she depends on every day, or even days or weeks. "Javier and I had a talk after we talked to Megan, also. Sorted out the elephant in the room."

Alexander never resists having Isabella touch him, and he smiles as she takes his hand. After the squeeze, he turns it so that he can bring her fingers to his mouth and lightly kiss each one, echoing her own action as he watches her with dark, soft eyes. "Painkillers would be appreciated," he admits, with a half smile. "And Vydal, if you can believe it. The pastry chef?" A shake of his head. "I don't know if they're public with their relationship, mind you. But it matters to him. I'm glad." Then a chuckle-snort of laughter. "True. We're all pretty awful at that."

A slow nod. "I've noticed. You're standing out more. I think everyone's recovering." Everyone except Easton. He doesn't say the name, but it might be inferred from the thin press of his lips, a longer than normal pause before he clears his throat. "Elephant? What one is that?"

It's the softness in that fathomless stare and the press of warm lips on her fingers that bring about a gentling of Isabella's suntanned mien, the gesture returning that persistent, bittersweet ache banding like razor coils of iron over her chest. It's been close to a year, but his profound effect on her doesn't seem to be lessening - the opposite, in fact, when the way he looks at her never fails to cut her into ribbons and leave her helpless and bleeding in ways she doesn't expect - has never imagined would happen to her.

She also almost forgets that they're talking, and she clears her throat. "Vydal, hm? I...yeah. Wow, yeah. That is surprising," she tells him, brows furrowing as she attempts to picture it: Grant Baxter, with his ever-changing hair colors and skater-boy look, and Vyv Vydal - polished, erudite, a man of visible wealth and crystal-perfect taste. "Talk about a study in contrasts. I mean, Grant is charming and Vyv's....well, easily bored, so if you look at it that way, it makes sense."

And yes, everyone is recovering, but Alexander's momentary silence inspires her own - she doesn't actually need to be psychic to know who he thinks of then, and for a moment, an agonized twist passes over her face. In a short time, Easton Marshall had become a casual acquaintance to someone like a brother to her - another one lost, and while she doesn't say it, an empath always knows - she misses him fiercely.

"What happened to us Valentine's week, after you and I..." Ahem. "He knows I don't blame him for not having been himself at the time, but...I think if nothing else, that week's only forced me to learn that sometimes, that doesn't matter."

"It's probably good for them both," Alexander says, softly, then stretches out on the bed with a sigh as his head comes down on the pillow...and then he makes a disgruntled noise, because that hurts. So he slowly turns onto his side instead. Which also hurts. Damnit.

He watches her expression change, and says, softly, "If there is anyone who could survive for an extended time over There, it's Easton." And that's all. He can't promise the man is okay, he can't promise that they'll find him, or that he'll come back. But he gives what tiny shred of hope he can. A short nod. "After I killed you." Blunt. "Are the two of you okay? Do I need to hurt him?"

"I know. Marines, right?" Isabella's smile pulls back up again. "I'll bet you a hundred dollars that whenever he does manage to stumble out of there and back to here, he'll be naked and wearing fig leaves over his nipples and crotch, yelling about how he never wanted to be the Gnome King in the first place."

Every word fuels a grin that chases her usually hidden dimple out of her left cheek. "And yeah, Javier and I...we're okay. I think we're those sorts of people who can squabble..." And in surprisingly violent ways. "...and somehow manage to spend the next weekend after the ordeal getting wasted and talking about the other people in our lives that make it difficult and interesting." An emphatic look in his direction. But with him laying down, she leans down to kiss his forehead. "Let me go get those painkillers."

"Surely not his nipples. Easton never seemed to mind being shirtless. He has nice abs, too. Well-defined." There's a lilt of teasing in it, just a little as he watches Isabella's smile. "Although I would pay actual money to see Easton teaching the Gnomes about acorns." He falls silent, then, watching her. Thinks it over, before nodding. "All right. And I don't know who else in your life could possibly be difficult." See? Alexander can do sarcasm when he tries. His eyes close when she kisses his forehead, and he nods. Relaxes.

By the time she returns, he's mostly already asleep, a couple of years of age taken off from the easing of his expression.