2020-06-29 - Catch and Release

The moment Isabella heard the jingle-jingle of metal against metal, she ran.

Her fingers and knuckles are battered and sore, her skin chilled beyond measure and after several days of isolation, a wild cascade of disjointed thoughts spill into her mind and poisons her veins on the desperate road to freedom. The hallway outside of her cell stretches dark and endless, the chittering of Them echoing in her ears and as if moving closer. She does not want to get devoured; she's been in that position before, and it has cost her greatly.

It was almost enough - all of it would have been enough to snuff out that indomitable, reckless furnace of her will. The human mind could only do so much to protect someone from endless nothing but the maddening drip of water from the ceiling and a drain that falls into nowhere. But suddenly she is free, and her first instinct seizes on the promise she had made to herself in the first painful hours of her captivity - that the moment she finds the opportunity, she will take it and run. She doesn't care to where, anything was better than this.

She'll sort the rest out later.

It is late at night, forty-eight hours after Alexander had torn up the interior of 13 Elm in savage distress that she is suddenly back, and there, a hoarse and guttural cry escaping her when light suddenly explodes in her eyes after so much black, nearly searing her eyeballs out of her head. The sudden shift from cold stone to shag carpet buckles her slender frame by the knees, sprawling on her side just outside the bedroom door, hands out in an attempt to grasp something to prevent her from falling and failing miserably. They can barely close, her fingers, too swollen from her beating and clawing to do so.

Colors swirl in front of her eyes; the scents of this place is familiar. Was she back?

Even now, she dares to hope still - a strangled sob of relief escapes her throat.

Alexander has calmed down from his rage and violent despair. Thanks to an extraordinarily unlikely source - Joey Kelly. But he still hasn't bothered to do much beyond that, and soothing the animals from the distress caused by their master's tantrum. So there's pieces of dry wall on the carpet that Isabella falls on, and Alexander is sitting in his bedroom on a pile of bedding that he hasn't bothered to put back on the bed - although at least the mattresses are back in place.

The thump draws his attention. He frowns, and stands to go to the bedroom door. Then sucks in a breath. "Isabella?" it's soft, broken, for a moment disbelieving. He drops down to his knees before her as she lets out that quiet sob. He reaches out as if she might disappear again, and lays a hand on her hair. "Isabella?" he asks again, voice cracking. "Is it really you?"

She attempts to quell it, these quiet pitiful sounds that sound at all nothing like her, because she still remembers who she is. Has to, because if she is still trapped, it is all she has. When Alexander's hand finds her hair, she tilts her cheek into the carpet to look up at him, eyes dilated and wild - but green and gold and vibrant still. For a moment, Isabella simply looks at him, her throat closed and her heart pounding hard enough against her bones to break them.

"....Alexander...?" Her lips are chapped, her voice thready and ready to fray in the seams. There hadn't been much water, where she had been held. There was nothing. She's unable to help it, the vulnerable expression; she would hate herself, if she saw her face, but she is tired and Hope is hanging by a thread, tears brimming in the corners of her eyes. "...oh god, tell me I'm back. That it's really you. I don't think I can..." She swallows. "I don't think I can..."

Alexander's hand trembles against her hair, caught for a moment before hope and fear. Then he sees the tears, and he breaks. He lunges forward, no grace or delicacy to the movement, and pulls her into him, pulls her into an embrace that hurts with the power of it. He clings, and tears spring to his own eyes. "Isabella, Isabella. You're back. You are. You're back." He says it over and over again, whispering it into her hair and her skin, like he can write the words on her with his breath, binding her with them.

She can't clutch him with her fingers, not in the way she truly desires; her knuckles are too swollen to retain in those academic's fingers her usual dexterity, and so contents herself with draping her arms around his shoulders and squeezing with whatever is left of her meager strength, half her body prostrate on the floor and the top of her gathered up and engulfed. Earlier, conflicting needs warred within her for dominance - for food, for water, for sleep, for company, especially, before she was relegated to talking to herself in the dark and be driven mad at the lack of response. But all of that is savagely incinerated into ashes when she's crushed by the warm solidity of him and for the first time in the last however long, she feels herself able to breathe.

....ironic, considering he's doing his best to crush the air out of her, but she doesn't care. Under the circumstances, the pain generated by his embrace isn't just welcome, but required.

"Oh god, it's you," Isabella chokes, because she knows. She would know him with her eyes gouged out and every nerve utterly insensate. "Alexander, oh god, oh god..." And she does nothing but this for a while, hanging onto him with everything she has left, sobs pressed into his shoulder. It would be an exaggeration, to say that she never cries, but tears from her are rare, and weeping even moreso - and that's what she does. She hasn't let loose this way since he confronted her about accidentally reading her own mother's murder.

Alexander holds onto her as if she might disappear again if he loosens his grip even a little. "It's me," he says, rough and low. "It's me, Isabella. I'm here. You're home. You're home." He cries with her, never a man to be ashamed of tears, or inclined to stoicism. He cries into her hair without shame, even as he says, "It's all right, Isabella. You're here. You're back. I'm here. I love you." He shifts only enough to put his back against the wall so that he can have a place to brace himself for their embrace.

She hears the words and knows he means every one, and tension that she is unconscious of carrying winds free of her at last. Half-dragged until they find a wall, Isabella freely entangles herself with him up until it's impossible to determine whether her body ends and his begins, his own tears drenching her hair as her own dampens his shirt. For a long moment, that is all she does, until her weeping douses out the last embers fueled by desperation. She remains against him, only breathing, her own arms loosening and slipping down to hang onto the front of his shirt the best she can, instead. Her mouth blindly finds his; it's chapped and bleeding but she doesn't care. She doesn't care about anything other than the fact that he is holding her, and she is home.

It's a very long while until she's able to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. "I think it was Megan. To get back at what we did. I think she told Them." She turns her cheek into his chest. "You were right. Of course you were."

Lashes flutter closed, burying herself further against him. "I love you. Don't let me go."

Alexander returns the kiss with fervor; his lips are salty and hers taste a little like blood, but he doesn't care either. He kisses with passion that's almost like fury. "I thought you were gone forever. I did. I couldn't bear it." He sucks in a breath, lets it out. "Megan? Then you...." another breath. "You and Javier. Yes. That makes sense. Next time I see her, I will kill her," he promises her. There's no anger in it, just sorrow that he hadn't done it already.

"I will never let you go," he promises in return.

Normally, she is a woman who fights fire with fire; on any other day, the furious passion he exhibits would be matched equally by her own. But she is beyond exhausted and the aching parts of her heart - the ones that thought of him and missed him in her captivity - finds relief in this also, to be drowned by his kiss and the salt and copper that laces it. Fingers curl into his shirt, or tries to, when it happens, and at its conclusion, he'd find her too-bright eyes inundated by it. Spurred by the fact that he manages to resuscitate her beleaguered heart with his quiet words, as if he had pressed his fingers against her chest, and summoned his command of lightning to electrocute her back to some semblance of life.

"Javier, too?" Isabella murmurs. "That makes sense. It was a prison. I felt Them, and there was nothing. Just a message that she was there....it was all..." She swallows in an attempt to wet her parched throat. "...a construct. I think...They wanted to make a point."

She doesn't protest his vow to kill her, shifting until she's leaning against him and in spite of the circumstances, she manages a small smile. "I'll hold you to that," she murmurs, her face turning into his collar. "I didn't give up. I couldn't. I couldn't bear....without you, either."

"A Dream," Alexander says, quietly. "We knew. We knew the actors had an idea of how to create them, or how to persuade the Shadows to create them. From the castle. Should have prepared. Should have known more, been better." He squeezes her more tightly, until her bones creak with it. "You could never give up. Ever. You're fierce."

I almost did, she means to say. But she doesn't have the heart to tell him.

"I think I remember you telling me that, but I couldn't understand what you meant until I experienced it myself." Talking allows her to reclaim some of her focus, returning his squeeze. "I tried to read what I saw but...that was how I knew." Isabella's eyes lift to his face, her smile taking on a more rueful shape. "Forgive me, I'm...very tired."

"There is nothing to forgive, Isabella. Forgive me. I tried to find you. I tried to go after you. I couldn't. I'm not...I'm not...I wasn't..." he trails off, takes a breath, then shakes his head. "You're here. It's good. Everything is all right again." He carefully lifts her up, still holding tightly to her, and takes her into the bedroom. There aren't any sheets on the bed, but it's softer than the floor. He lays her on the bare mattress and curls around her, still holding tightly. "You're back, now. That's all that matters, Isabella."

"I can't..." Isabella pauses and shakes her head. "No. No, darling." Bruised and bloodied hands lift to capture his face so he could meet her eyes directly. "We made a deal, remember?" she says softly. "It was almost a year ago, but I remember it still. If you can't, then I will. So long as you try to meet me in the middle, I'll make it and I hope that so long as I also try to do the same for you, that you will. Never think that you're not doing enough. It makes me happy, relieved even that you would risk yourself in the first place."

She would have feasibly said more, but he's taking the necessary steps to take care of her, and she lets him. Negligible weight cradled against his body, she soon finds herself on the bed; its softness on aching bones, having spent days sleeping on hard stone, brings relief so overwhelming she nearly weeps again. But with her gathered up once there (he does like being the big spoon, she remembers), she curls her hands on his bracing forearms where they lie, taking a breath. She's home.

Home.

Though it looks kind of... "...why is the mattress stripped...?" she mumbles against the side of his face.

"I did try," Alexander tells her, in between kisses. His hands, which are bandaged and rough, roam over her body gently, looking for wounds, although careful not to dislodge her hands from his arms. His breath is warm against her hair and skin. His eyes close slightly. "Don't worry about the bed. I'll fix it in a little while. You're back, now, and that's all that matters."

If she does look around, despite his reassurances, it'll be clear that the room has been wrecked.

Her return tokens are absent; as tired as she is, Isabella endeavors to exchange affection with affection, lips on his hair and cheek while hands roam in the present quest for injuries. Save for her aches and pains, bone-deep exhaustion and some dehydration (not to mention the lack of food), much of her damage is internal - nothing that rest can't cure. It is the state of her hands that is pitiable, and overtly angry, bruises, broken skin and swollen knuckles prevent her from gripping anything too tightly. They would need to be bandaged, but at least she isn't bleeding.

"What happened to your hands...?" Pieces haven't fallen into place yet, too addled and relieved to apply her usual mental acuity. Followed by a quiet, "You smell good."

Alexander takes Isabella's hands, bruised and battered as they are, and brings them up to place gentle kisses on the least damaged skin. As he does, there's a warmth that flows from him into her, a tingling that settles into the wounds and speeds them on their way to healing. "Nothing important," he says, regarding his hands. "Everything is good now. Nothing you need to worry about." He sighs, then smiles. Gently. "I did manage to bathe, eventually. I'm glad it meets with your approval." His eyes twinkle.

"You know telling me that is useless. I didn't exactly stop worrying about you while I was gone," Isabella murmurs, though in spite of her grousing words, there's a faint smile, watching his dark eyes when he plants those kisses near broken skin. It's the warmth that catches her attention, though, when he wills her body to work faster to obliterate these injuries from her person - and knowing from where it comes from. She doesn't even question it, more of that relief becomes even more palpable the more her present reality sinks in - that this is home, and that this isn't a Dream.

"Right now, you can be wearing a bright green pimp suit and platform shoes and you'd still meet my approval," she tells him with a hoarse chuckle, curling her arms around him once he's done tending to her. "I hope you know when I wake up, I'm going to be thirsty, and hungry. And speaking of bathing, I'll probably need one of those also, I'm honestly thankful you're still holding me, the current state I'm in. I smell like.......jail."

"I would rock a green pimp suit, I'll have you know," Alexander murmurs, as reassured by being able to feel her blood, her bone, the steady life of her as she might be at feeling his energy flow into her. He wraps his arms around her again, carefully, when he's done with that, and he smiles just a little. "We'll have to go out. Once you've slept and bathed. I, uh, I broke most of the plates." A pause. "And the furniture. So there's not really anywhere to eat here except the bed. We'll go out. It'll be okay."

"...you would," Isabella allows, softly with another hoarse laugh, causing tremors to spill over her exhausted frame. "Oh, god. It hurts." But when has she even balked at laughing even while at her worst? But with him gathering her up in his arms again, she nuzzles her cheek and mouth back into his shoulder, closing her eyes again. It enables her to concentrate on his presence, until the words sink in.

"...you broke..." A pause. "You broke the house." It's a murmur. There's no heat in it. Even if she was inclined to be angry, she doesn't have the energy to be. She isn't though.

Instead: "...is it weird that I find it endearing in some small way?" she wonders, finally putting two-and-two together. "They're just things. They can be replaced." Halting briefly, she adds, quietly, "I'm sorry I worried you."

"I didn't break all the house," Alexander says, a touch indignantly. "Just most of the furniture. And some holes in the walls. It'll be okay. I'll fix them." He sighs. "I had an incident. That's all." He leans in and kisses her on the temple. "Don't ever be sorry. I love you. I can't bear to lose you. Not. Not like that. I wouldn't ever make you stay when you want to go," because he still wants her away from Gray Harbor and its crazy, "but I can't stand the thought of you being lost forever. I'm tired of the people I love getting lost forever."

"I'll help." Because of course she would say that, no matter what state she's in. "Just...just...give me a few hours rest and I can bathe and get fed and we can go to Home Depot." There is a long pause from Isabella before she groans softly, hoarse words peppered by a quiet laugh as she buries her face into his shoulder. "Oh, god. I think I was driven insane in there, Alexander. That has to be the most domestic thing I have ever said to you."

She rubs his back with hurting fingers at his last. "I know, darling," she murmurs. "You know...you know I'll always try to find my way back, no matter how long it takes." Exhibit A: This situation. "Because I can't lose you either." No qualifiers. She's done with that, too. She does open an eye at him though. "What incident?"

"You don't have to help. You were over There. You need to rest," Alexander chides, gently. His expression is fond as well as worried; he knows he's going to lose the battle of whether she helps or not, but he makes the protest anyway. Stubborn. He winds his fingers through her hair. "Just focus on resting, Isabella. I'll, uh. I'll find some blankets for us." A shake of his head. "An Incident. I get angry, sometimes." He smiles, a little warily, at her. "I'm sorry. I try not to." Then he moves on quickly. "Joseph Kelly came by to check on me. It's...odd. He's nice."

"On the condition that you stay with me under the blankets until I'm asleep at least," Isabella tells him quietly. Her head tilts; her hair is hopelessly tangled when his fingers bury in the chocolate mass, but she welcomes the touch with a low and content sound. His explanation forces realization to dawn, albeit slowly. "Oh....one of those. Okay," she murmurs, her lips finding his collar and staying there. "It's okay. I like it when you're angry, even when it's at me. You tell me more things when you're angry."

After a moment, she continues, "I'm glad Joey stopped by. How is he doing...?"

Alexander smiles. He watches her for a long moment, then says, "You're weird. You're a very weird woman. I love you." He squeezes her. "And of course. I won't let you go." A long outward breath. "Kelly is stressed, I think. His car was stolen, and he was pulled in for questioning regarding the Chief. And with Javier disappeared, it will be hard--" a thoughtful pause. "Why would it be hard?" Another. "Javier knows he didn't do it. He could block them from scapegoating Kelly. That's all." It's a quiet mutter. "But it looks like that's really gonna be a problem. These people from out of town."

"I love you," Isabella murmurs, and she means it; he's said it so many times, but especially today, every repeated phrase seems new, and further grounds her into her present reality - that she is home, that she is back where she belongs. She gives him a squeeze and while she knows she ought to try and close her eyes, the idea of sleeping and waking up only to realize that she's still in the cell terrifies her. So she hangs on, to the waking world, to him, for as long as she can until her body simply cannot anymore.

"...they haven't...caused any more trouble for you?" she ventures hesitantly after his succinct recap of Joey's visit. There's a palpable relief there, but she believes him when he tells her that the outsiders will be problematic. "Did the car disappear around the time Thatchery was murdered?"

"I love you," Alexander echoes, softly, almost reverently. He seems content to hold her and be close, jail smell and all. The squeeze makes him sigh in contentment. "And no. They haven't." He frowns. "I haven't left, much. Since you were gone. But I think it was about that time, yeah. And then they used the car to run someone off the road. Kelly has a," he sighs, "former detective handling finding the car and...anything involved with it." Alexander doesn't approve, that's clear. But he's also not protesting it.

"I see," Isabella replies quietly, letting her fingers drift up and down his back, before scooting close into him on the bed, and falls against the support he provides, closing her eyes again. It's getting progressively more difficult to keep them open, but she perseveres. She hasn't seen him in what feels like years. She'll have to remind herself of the date tomorrow, whenever she manages to pull herself out of bed.

"I'm glad they haven't been harassing you while I was away," she mumbles. "But I would've thought Joey would be asking you to find it, if he's been coming around." She must hear his faint disapproval, though, for she ventures, "Is he not as good as you?" The last is soft and teasing.

Alexander strokes her hair, and the back of her neck. Maybe it's a bid to soothe her into sleep, but it more seems like just a constant reassurance for himself that she's there, that she exists and is safe. "I think I'll have to get involved in this," he murmurs. "Especially if--I hope Javier is all right. I'll try to reach out to him. Hopefully he'll come back." He takes a deep breath. "But...I don't know if she is or not. But." A long pause. "She's a former detective. Helping Joseph Kelly." A grimace. "Means she was probably a corrupt cop, or she's gone that direction since leaving the force. I don't know her. But she's apparently working her day job with Bennie." And he doesn't like that, it's clear.

"I think when it comes to extreme situations, his chances for survival are significantly greater than my own," Isabella reassures him quietly. "I think he'll be okay - if I can find my way back, he can. I trust the same thing that happened to me, happened to him." It's working, at least, if that's the aim, slowly lulled to drowsiness by his stroking fingers, acting much like a cat - nevermind that she's an unrepentant dog person. Listening and drinking in his palpable worry, she speaks, gently, "If she's no longer a detective, it's either she was fired from the force, or quit the force on her own accord. Wouldn't that mean either justice was served, or conscience compelled her to leave? But..." She fixes her eyes back on him. "Your instincts are very good when it comes to these things. When it comes to crime. Just be careful, alright? You're one of the few who knows how dangerous these people are."

Alexander ruffles Isabella's hair. "Conscience. That's adorable." He smiles, teasing her. "I'll be careful. How--can I ask how you got away? You're a bit battered," he admits, but he's definitely trying to not freak out about that right now, and just appreciate that she's back. "And Javier is very skilled," he admits, but doesn't manage to keep the worry out of his face and voice. "Itzhak was very distraught."

"I would be, too, if I was in his shoes," Isabella murmurs of Itzhak, though when called out on her naivete when it comes to all things criminal, she wrinkles her nose playfully at him, before burying her face back into his chest, making a quiet grousing noise.

When asked, she replies. "My hands were self-inflicted. I kept...trying to get out. Clawing at the walls, rattling the cell. I didn't want to give up, I kept trying every few hours. I couldn't..." She swallows. "I couldn't even create a Door to leave, while I was in there. But I think They decided to let me go the moment they felt like I was going to break. There was nothing in the room, Alexander. Just darkness, bars, a drain, drops of dripping water from the ceiling. The door just swung open one day - someone or something let me out. I heard something jingle, but when I looked up, it was gone and the jail cell was open. There was a message that said 'Megan was here' but I don't think she actually was held there. Just...it let me know who was responsible."

Alexander kisses the wrinkly nose. "You would be," he says, easily enough. "And, like him, I know you would try everything you could to get us back." A smile, that becomes a frown as she talks about the imprisonment. "Megan." He shakes his head. "We saved her. She's ungrateful. And dangerous. I hope I see her again." He frowns at her. "Do you--are you okay? Is there anything I can do to help you recover?"

"Like you, too," Isabella says quietly. "I'm...you didn't give up on me. You don't know...how much that really means to me. How important that is to me." And when the frustration got too much, destroyed anything he could get his hands on. It's violent, and dangerous, but his devotion has never failed to reach the deepest parts of her and there's nothing but appreciation on her tired body. Her arms squeeze around him again.

"I'm okay now," she murmurs. "Just tired. I don't think I need anything but you, and sleep. You and sleep. That's okay, right? We can sort out the rest tomorrow."

"Everything is okay," Alexander assures her. "Anything you want is okay." He squeezes her again. "And when you're rested, when you feel up to it, name whatever you want, and we'll go out and we'll get it. Fancy meal at that damned Casino, or pizza, or all the cheese in the entire town. Whatever it is." He turns just a little so that she can easily use him as a pillow if she wants. "Celebrate getting out of jail," he adds, with just a touch of humor to it.

"Diving," Isabella tells him almost immediately, though her words are becoming quieter the longer she stays awake, holding on to him even as sleep slowly starts to submerge her senses and blanket them in a more comforting darkness than what had occupied her senses the last few days. "It's getting warmer, we can go to where my Dad used to take me and look at the shipwrecks." Better than fancy meals and all of the cheese in the world, though his remarks on that bring a languid, but genuine smile. "Just don't go anywhere...don't...go..."

The words trail off, but it's just as well. She's out like a light against his chest, exhaustion finally beating her down into submission.

Alexander doesn't answer at first. Not verbally. He nods to the diving, and watches her eyes slide shut. Only when she's asleep does he dare disturb the air with words, "I won't, Isabella. I won't go anywhere."

And he doesn't. He holds onto her for as long as she sleeps, never moving, never sleeping, never taking his eyes off of her. As if he fears that if he looks away, for even a moment, she might vanish."