2019-11-23 - A Clayton Thanksgiving

The Clayton family residence is a lovely, two-story home in one of the upper-end middle class areas of town. It's not overly large, although it has a large, well-kept yard and a decorative fence that's clearly kept well-painted. The porch is small, with a couple of ferns hanging from hooks at either end. It radiates a quiet, cheerful respectability, a sense of ease and comfort that can only really be called 'homey'. The time is about two PM on Thanksgiving Day. Alexander has been strictly warned not to come over before then, because 'your guest doesn't need to see the house a mess', a prohibition he has passed on to Isabella.

Alexander is dressed in his 'Sunday Dinner' clothes, so a neat button-down shirt, brown slacks, and leather shoes. He looks more tired than nervous, but as they pull up into the drive way, he does murmur to Isabella, "I apologize in advance for any discomfort. My parents haven't had the opportunity to do this part before." A pause. "It'll be fine, though. They'll love you." He doesn't sound like he doubts that at all.

When they reach the door, it opens before he can even reach for the doorbell, revealing a woman who must be Mrs. Clayton. She doesn't look a lot like her son; she's pleasant-faced and sturdily built, with her steel gray hair tied up into a no-nonsense bun, and a pretty flowered dress that - from Alexander's expression - is a bit dressier than HE was expecting. She beams. "Alexander! And...oh, my, you must be Ms. Reede! It's such a pleasure to meet you!" Mrs. Clayton stares at her for a moment, the surprise that she actually exists there for just a second before it's replaced by a delighted smile. She gestures for them to come inside, taking the opportunity to give Alexander a hug. This, he returns without hesitation, kissing her on the cheek and murmuring, "Hey, Ma. Happy Thanksgiving."

The last forty-eight hours have been stressful in ways that she has not been able to communicate to her wayward object of affection and he had just returned her text before she mobilized a sizable cavalry to find him. Discussions on that are pending, naturally, but for now Isabella Reede has a different challenge to overcome, an entirely different dragon to slay.

His reassurances are returned with that same, blazing confident grin that belies the fact that she has never done this before - something that Alexander knows because she has never hidden the fact that he is her first in many ways. "I'll make them love me," is what she tells him, chin tilted and all easy bluster and defiance while all of her insides let out a tiny scream because she's actually here and oh my god what is happening???

So when the door opens, Elizabeth Clayton would be greeted by the sight of her only son's dinner companion, over a decade his junior, clad in something she normally doesn't wear: a skirt, having elected to follow Easton's suggestions in that regard. It is long and fitting for the Fall, with black Chevron patterns in gray, paired with over-the-knee boots and a wide-necked black sweater that bared both shoulders and fits closely to her torso. Her hair is pulled in her usual loose twist, but no chopsticks today, set in place by black barrettes instead set with small rhinestones and left pieces to curl against one side of her face. No makeup save for biodegradable sunscreen, clear lip gloss and a bit of eyeliner to enhance the shape and color of her emerald-and-gold eyes.

She also has a Harvest wreathed clutched in her hands.

"Thank you for having me in your home, Mrs. Clayton," she says, offering her gift forward. "I know Alexander said we didn't have to bring anything but I thought...it didn't feel right, not to bring anything."

She waits by the side to witness the greeting between mother and son, her cheerful (and slightly apprehensive) expression softening, warming palpably as she catches this newfound glimpse of the man she loves, and the effortless and easy affection he bestows on the woman who brought him into this world and raised him.

Alexander steps aside to let his mother and his love exchange their greetings. The elder Clayton takes the wreath with a smile of great approval; apparently bringing Something was the right decision, no matter what they'd said. She gives it a thorough look over; it's not a judging look, but just one that suggests she's actually paying attention to it, rather than just smiling and putting aside. "Oh, Isabella -- may I call you Isabella? You can call me Liz, of course! You look wonderful - It's so lovely to meet you. This is just gorgeous. I'll have to put it up on the door after we do introductions." For now, it's put carefully to one side and she steps up to offer Isabella a handshake. Her hands are strong and calloused, and her grip is confident and no-nonsense. "Come on, I'll introduce you to Tom. Not introduce - you had him at school, didn't you?"

Speaking of, Thomas Clayton appears at the door, drawn by curiosity and and the unfamiliar voice that suggests that, no, his son hasn't just made up a girlfriend. He looks...a lot like Alexander might look in twenty five years, although he's taller and broader than his son. His hair has gone silver, and he stands at about six feet, built like the football player he used to be. It's gone soft around the middle, but his broad chest and arms suggests that he still remains somewhat active. His face is a little broader than Alexander's, but built on the same lines, and his eyes are as dark. Mostly what distinguishes the two is that Thomas has none of that skittish, wary, alertness that characterizes Alexander's movements. He carries himself with an easy confidence, and his voice has the boom of a man used to shouting across a field and expecting to be obeyed. "Ms. Reede. It's been a while. A decade or so?" He and Alexander exchange a quick hug, before he steps forward and offers his hand. "How have you been?"

"Please," Isabella says easily when asked to be addressed informally, with a small (and slightly nervous) laugh, though she doesn't blush at his mother's compliments. There's a somewhat sheepish quality to her smile there when she takes her hand and shakes it warmly. "You have a lovely home, Liz." To her credit, she doesn't even glance back at Alexander when she calls her by her nickname.

But when already ushered on to meet his father, or be reacquainted with him, there's a quick glance over her shoulder, a wide-eyed look cast to him briefly, like a floundering swimmer cast adrift, though her expression rights itself immediately before Elizabeth sees. "For Health class and a few extracurriculars," she confirms. "I was a competitive child, so I'm afraid I pestered him a little. Here's hoping he doesn't hold a grudge." A quick grin, to reflect just how fast she wears humor for armor.

Now that she and Alexander are how they are, the moment Thomas Clayton fills the doorway with his presence, she takes this opportunity to actually look at him, and with interest that she has not exhibited before as a child and young girl - this future mirror of Alexander looms large in her imagination, spying the pieces of him that have been entered in her lover's overall makeup. In fact, perhaps she takes too much time observing him that there's a slight delay in her response. The smile returns warmly. "Coach," she says, the title softened by a teasing lilt. "Just about, I moved to finish high school in New Orleans my senior year. Byron Thorne sends his regards too, by the way." He would remember them well, if not just for their ridiculous rivalry over....well, everything.

"I've been doing well, working here and writing while I work. I'm slated to defend my thesis in the Spring of next year, so I'm trying to give myself the time to revise and review it. And how are you? Both of you..." including Liz in the conversation. "...how is retirement?"

She watches father and son embrace, also - outside of the affection he dispenses towards her, she's never seen Alexander treat anyone else this way. Her smile lingers, because it can't be helped.

At that glance backwards, Alexander gives Isabella a warm smile. And a thumb's up. Because. Maybe he thinks she needs it. And once the handshakes and hugs are dispensed, he slips up beside her to place his hand at the small of her back and bend his head to kiss her lightly on one temple. The show of affection - of physical affection - seems to give both Claytons pause for a moment. Thomas grunts and studies Alexander for a long moment. "'bout time you got over that skittishness. Don't even know why you--"

"Tom," Liz says, and it would be a warning hiss if that word had anything that COULD be hissed.

Tom shrugs. "I'm just sayin'." His smile towards Isabella is warm, though, and his grip is friendly, not over strong or lingering past politeness. "Just call me Tom. I'm retired, and high school was a while ago for you. I remember Byron. Nice kid - always full of ideas, smart as a whip. You, too." Although there's a wry edge to the humor, perhaps remembering how all that energy, curiosity, and bright intelligence could translate into the classroom. "Anyway, tell him it's good to hear from him. Alexander said you're a...grad student, right?"

Liz clears her throat. "Oh, no," she says, with a laugh. "We're not going to start talking in the foyer. Not when I have a turkey cooling on the table! Shoo!" She flaps her hands at the other three, and Alexander offers his arm to Isabella to guide her to the table. The Claytons have a formal dining room, that has been set -- very formally. The sight of it seems to stop Alexander for a moment, before he shakes his head and chuckles under his breath. It's not hard to tell the seating order - Tom goes to the head of the table, one place setting to his right, and two to his left.

She is never shy expressing physical affection - between that and emotional confessions, she would pick the former over the latter any day; the sinuous line of her spine follows his touch, her head tilted at an angle to make room for his temple and smiling up at him that in the way she does - that undeniably affectionate way she looks at him that some might even find uncomfortable because it is evocative in its intimacy. But she seems to remember herself at that brief and stunned silence from his parents, pressing a light peck on his stubbled cheek before she follows the rest. A brief furrowing of her brow, though, at what Tom was about to say before Liz cuts him off.

"I'll tell him," Isabella says, as if she hadn't heard the warning hiss from his wife, her hand finding the crook of Alexander's inner elbow as she's steered towards the dining room. "Byron, I mean. As for my high school experiences, I was determined to get to a place that allowed me to see the world, so I had to do well in school. I wasn't as....gifted as my brother, so I had to do twice the work. But yes, a doctoral candidate now for Oxford's School of Archaeology. My defense is in the Spring of next year." There's a teasing grin cast Alexander's way. "Your son's been very patient and obliging at this very stressful time."

She, too, pauses at the sight of how done up the dining room is, boots pausing briefly at the threshold. But a nudge from her companion has her moving to take up a seat once she's permitted, taking up the other side of Alexander while letting him occupy the area directly next to his father's left. "Everything looks great, Liz." Compliments, sincerely meant, directed to the lady of the house. That, she got from the book.

After another glance around, she attempts to suppress a grin, or a laugh. It makes her look cheerful, practically beaming next to Alexander while she wonders whether she has managed to step into some kind of interview setup.

There is, in fact, a turkey on the table, holding court over an assembly of side dishes that would more properly feed twice the number of people: there's apple, parsnip, and sausage stuffing in its own bowl; turkey gravy; green beans with slivers of toasted hazelnuts; cranberry sauce; mashed potatoes flecked with herbs and garlic; asparagus; and a large salad. "This is too much food," Alexander remarks, sounding bemused at the spread, which somewhat exceeds even his parents' generous holiday traditions.

"We have a guest," Liz says, serenely but with a hint of steel as she looks at her son, "and I won't have it said that the Claytons don't know how to treat a guest." Even so, her look towards Isabella is apologetic. "I'm sorry, I didn't have your number or I would have called about food allergies. If there's anything here you can't eat, just let me know. We can always fire the cook and order in," she adds, with a bright laugh. She beams with pleasure at the compliment, and adds, with a wave of her hand, "It was nothing, Isabella. Always happy to have a guest for dinner."

Meanwhile, Coach Clayton just rolls his eyes in a way that suggests that 'firing the cook' is an old joke, trotted out for the new person. Most of his attention is focused on Isabella and her answers. "I remember him. Your brother. Is...Israel? No, that wasn't it. Isaac? No. Something different."

Alexander visibly winces. "Isadore," he can't resist correcting the older man.

A snap of Tom's fingers. "Isadore! That was it. Odd name, but good kid." He seems to remember what happened to that 'good kid', and clears his throat and just jumps right past it. "Oxford, huh? Not too shabby. What exactly do you do with a doctorate in archaeology from Oxford? Become the - what was that game you used to play, Alexander?"

"Tomb Raider," Alexander puts in, giving Isabella a deeply apologetic look.

"Right, that one. You gonna be a Tomb Raider, or a teacher?" Tom looks a bit surprised at the idea of Alexander being either patient or obliging, and he gives his son a thoughtful look. One which Alexander neatly dodges by reaching out for the nearest serving platter, and quietly offering it to Isabella, serving her if she wants any, before serving himself and passing it around. Despite the formality of the decor, it seems the actual meal is fairly informal, and no one seems to have any problem with just reaching out and beginning to serve as the talk happens.

The spread is quite impressive and for the life of her, she doesn't recall the last time she has had a full, homemade feast since the last time she had been in New Orlean's for the holidays. Everything looks delicious and there is overt appreciation in Isabella's features when she takes everything in - the look of the food, the smell of it, the strains of conversation and the occasional brush of her shoulder against Alexander's own. A tactile creature by nature and ability, she immerses herself in the experience of a full dinner table with the relish and melancholy of a young woman who is cognizant of the fact that she will never get to experience such in her own home, forever haunted by the absence of her mother and twin. But that is human nature too, isn't it? To realize what one had only when these things are gone.

"I hope it isn't too much trouble," she offers at the tail end of Alexander's more straightforward assessment, though there's a laugh and a shake of her head when Elizabeth wonders about her allergies. "I'm as hardy as a cactus with the appetite of a horse," she reassures with a smile - the words would be self-deprecating from anyone else, but she delivers the comment with the confidence of a young woman who even savors these less flattering illustrations of her character. "I don't have any known weaknesses. Save perhaps your son." She winks teasingly at Alexander at that. "Though that also depends on the day of the week, sometimes his stubbornness inspires my own and that's when things truly get interesting."

When the conversation gravitates towards Isidore there's a pause when she picks up her utensils, but her easy expression thankfully remains. "My mother was fond of Spanish names," she supplies, affording the Claytons, and Alexander, a glimpse of the mysterious Baxter descendant - in Gray Harbor, Irene was known to be beautiful, and gentle, but secretive. "She had dreams of becoming an architect, so she spent much of her schooling in Spain. She was a fan of Gaudi's work."

Perhaps it was inevitable that she'd be grilled over the rigors of her job and as she helps herself with the platter Alexander offers her - and she seems to really like green beans - she smiles over at Tom as she responds, "I like telling people I'm a professional adventurer." The last punctuated with a laugh, and only halfway inspired by the deeply apolgetic look Alexander flashes her. "But the career has elements of both field and classroom, which I hope to do both. I lecture now and then in the community college so I don't fall behind on my skills and experience there. I specialize in underwater archaeology, actually, with an emphasis on Ancient Greek and Roman civilizations. The family's always had careers tied to the sea, I just managed to pair that with my constant fascination for lost secrets and cultures. And I wanted to travel."

She is absolutely not joking about her appetite, her plate is full by the time she's done serving herself, though she doesn't gorge and in fact takes her time in eating. "So how long has it been since retirement?" Asking both parents. "I know Liz was a nurse at Addington Memorial and I left before the football team shed manly tears after your departure."

"It's no trouble at all," Liz assures Isabella, looking briefly relieved at the mention of no allergies. Both Alexander's parents fall briefly silent at her playful remarks towards Alexander, exchanging a brief and unreadable look. Liz's laugh is a little awkward, and she bites at her lower lip for a moment before responding. "Yes, well, Alexander was always a bit stubborn about things. Sweet as pie," she adds, hastily, "but a child with a mind of his own, that's for sure. I hope he doesn't cause you too much trouble." There's a lilt to that that's almost apologetic, like she's sorry that Isabella has to deal with him.

For his part, Alexander serves his plate and doesn't seem to notice any underlying tension. Or is maybe just used to it. Tom carves the turkey while he listens to the response Isabella gives. "I don't know much about architecture," he admits, "and I don't think we ever had an opportunity to speak much with your parents, outside of school meetings, but please let your father know that we asked after him, and hope he's well. And underwater archaeology, hmm? You were always a bit of a risk taker as a student. I guess that hasn't changed." He chuckles. "A life of travel is an enriching one! Liz and I went on a longish trip several years ago. Shortly after our retirement that was, what...six years ago? Seven?"

"Six years, three months, and twenty days," Liz says, promptly. Her good humor restored by the reminder. "Never a regret, Isabella, that's for sure. I loved my job, don't get me wrong - I pop around to chat with some of the nurses I still know there, once a week or so--"

"--at least three times a week," Tom puts in, teasing.

"--you hush!" There's a playful swat at his shoulder. "Every once in a while, I stop over for lunch and chat. But I don't miss the on-call hours, or all that time on my feet, I don't mind saying! And it's nice having Tom around the house more often." Tom's somewhat wistful expression suggests that he might miss his work more than his wife does. This, Liz ignores, to focus her attention on Alexander and Isabella. "So, Alexander has not been telling us as much as he should! How did the two of you meet? Was it at the community college? I know he still has his little projects there, on occasion."

"They're not projects, Ma, they're classes," Alexander puts in, with the air of a man who has made this correction many times, and will make it many more. "And we met because of some research I was doing into the history of the town. It happened to coincide with some of Isabella's interests."

"On the contrary," Isabella replies, and while she seems oblivious of whatever underlying tension is there, she is in the end too perceptive not to twig on it - but she's always been somewhat of a provocateur. Her smile shifts into a broad grin, slender shoulders lifting upwards. "I like trouble, and I like independence. Alexander and I have that in common, I don't think we would have much to say to one another if he wasn't, though he is sweet. He brought me spicy chocolates the first time he called on me socially." Called on her, who says that anymore?! Was she watching Pride and Prejudice again? "...because he remembered from a prior conversation that I liked spicy food, but wasn't so enamored of sweets."

Tom's words about her father earns him a small smile. "He's in New Orleans with my Aunt Mary." 'Typhoon' Mary, as some of the locals called her, practically a juvenile delinquent growing up as a child in Gray Harbor with a notorious penchant for getting in as much trouble as she got out of. "After everything that happened, I couldn't blame him for wanting to get away." She says this mildly, able to smother the vestigial remains of grief that has yet to be addressed in full. "But I'll tell him that you sent your regards." Her risk taking has her laughing. "It most definitely hasn't," she tells him gamely. "I fell out of trees repeatedly as a child, at least this way the water is there to break my fall."

After a few more mouthfuls of food and a sip of whatever libations the Claytons are offering, she says, "Everything is delicious, Liz."

There's a smile that's almost indulgent at seeing the Claytons banter at one another, though she sneaks a sidelong glance at Alexander as he eats, wondering at the undercurrents she could sense. But her silent perusal of him is shortened by his parents continuing their interview. Her fork spears absently on a piece of turkey - she likes dark meat and has barely touched the breast. She's about to respond when the investigator interjects.

"His research involved my mother's family and I had just arrived back in town when Byron informed me that he might be interested in speaking to me about it," she appends. "I honestly thought that was it, for us, after that initial interview, but we ran into one another at the community college again when I was giving a few guest lectures, he attended the tail end of one, and then walked me to my vehicle and we've been talking ever since. He claims not to be too able of a conversationalist, but I disagree. I never found him all that difficult to talk to."

There's a grumpy little huff from Tom. "Well, we're hoping that our son has grown out of the need to chase trouble, I don't mind saying." He fixes Alexander with dark eyes that, while they lack his son's lizard-like focus, are not without a sharpness of their own. "Maybe find a real job, move off Elm before you're my age."

Alexander freezes under the scrutiny, fork half-way to his mouth. He lowers it, carefully, and clears his throat. "I have a real job, Pop. It's going well. And I like my house."

"It's not yours, son. When I was your age, I was already a good way through a mortgage with decent property values. How are you gonna leave a legacy without any equity--"

Liz reaches out and puts her hand on his arm. It looks gentle, but decades as a nurse have given her a grip like a vise, and she tightens her fingers until Tom's words dry up and he looks back at his wife, suddenly sheepish. She says, "There's absolutely no reason to get into that, Thomas." When he makes a noise that might be agreement, she turns a serene smile to Isabella. "I hope your aunt is doing well. We hardly hear anything from people who leave the town," she admits, with a sigh. "And, my dear, my deepest condolences on the loss of your mother. I don't want to upset the holiday," and the look she gives Alexander and Thomas suggest they'd damn well not do it, either, "but I did want to say that. And if there's anything we can do, you just let us know."

With that, she seems as if she might be content to sit back and let the conversation continue under her watchful eye. Both parents, though, exchange another of those looks at the mention of Byron again, and Thomas fixes a Look on Alexander. Who immediately goes all hunched and wary, and says, "I wasn't doing anything wrong."

"You ought to leave the Thorne boy alone," Thomas says, heavily. "Do you even remember how many calls we got about you stalking that detective?"

"I wasn't stalking him," Alexander says, although the way his eyes shift suggests that might not be entirely accurate.

"Thomas," Liz says, warningly.

"I just don't want to hear about any more restraining orders because you have to go asking nosy questions about people's loved ones, Alexander. It's not your job--"

"Thomas." Now it's steel, and Liz stands up, pinning her husband to his chair with just the force of her eyes. "I just remembered I have the apple crumble in the oven. Why don't you come help me get it out? Now." It's perhaps a credit to Coach Clayton that he recognizes that particular tone and expression, and immediately shuts off the paternal lecture to offer Isabella a sheepish smile, and rise to his feet.

"We'll be right back," he promises, and follows his wife towards the kitchen, the door to the dining room closing thoroughly behind them.

Alexander awkwardly clears his throat. "I should have mentioned," he says, quietly, "we don't talk much about my work. For reasons." Then he leans over and offers her a kiss. "But they like you. I can tell."

The rest of the conversation rockets past her quickly, but Isabella is always able to keep up when it comes to information. As the underlying tensions on the table nearly boil over, she finds her temper slowly broiling her alive under her skin, unconsciously gripping her fork tightly at the exchange between father and son. The effort levied into keeping her teeth locked together is downright herculean. Not that Thomas' viewpoints wasn't understandable - any parent would want that for their child, especially their only boy, the one hope they have in ensuring their branch of the family lives on. But many of what the man says seems not just outdated to her, but completely ill fitting as to what she knows of Alexander.

"Alexander's unique," she says and to her tremendous credit, she's able to keep her voice level, nevermind that he can probably feel the sharp lash of her passionate temper snapping out of her. "I'm all for anything that makes him feel fulfilled and hones his brilliance. His methods are unorthodox and he can be hopeless in matters that require a certain degree of delicacy, but he's helped a lot of people doing what he does, and I should know, because once upon a time, I was one of them."

She sets her fork down before she accidentally bends it with her temper- by either determined strength or her mind and its frightening potential held back by tenuous control. But she keeps her eyes directly on his parents when she delivers her opinion on the matter in that surprisingly even tone.

His mother's kind words about her mother has her nodding once. "Thank you, Liz. I appreciate it. Believe me, I'm the last person who wants to let that color your holidays, especially when you and Tom were so kind in inviting me to your table."

There's a brief flicker of surprise when Byron is mentioned and discussed on the table, and the truth of their history is finally unfurled for her perusal. Her emerald stare finds Alexander's tired, but handsome profile, taking in its changes at every emotional tic. Stalking? Restraining orders?

She is silent when Elizabeth takes it upon herself to neutralize the situation with dessert, watching them leave, before she turns to look at Alexander. There's a question on her lips, but it is smothered by his kiss. He can taste her crackling temper at her response, fire and gale force winds unable to find a proper channel in which to burn or die out. Her hand touches his jaw gently in the doing.

She lifts her eyes to meet his. "Is that why things between you and Byron are so complex?" she wonders softly. "We don't have to talk about your work, and I can't say that your father is completely wrong." Because he isn't. "But in spite of his advice, you're making your own way and are succeeding, in the most part, and I wouldn't change that about you for all the Spanish gold lost in the ocean."

Now it's Alexander's turn to give Isabella a Look. "Do you have to say 'hopeless'?" he murmurs, only half-joking. Although the rest of it softens his features and he gives her a warm smile as his mother politely and delicately drags his father into the kitchen. There's the murmur of voices from the other room, rendered largely unintelligible by the blocking door - although Alexander tilts his head and there's the faintest stir of power as he shamelessly eavesdrops on his parents' emotions, even if he can't necessarily hear the words. A pause, then a nod, to himself. "We're well within acceptable tension tolerances," he says, cheerfully, and gets a second helping of cranberry sauce. "And they do like you. If you were worried."

Her question throws him off more than his father's words; he's accustomed to the paternal disappointment. But he looks down at his plate, and says, quietly, "When I was younger - um, just a teenager, Detective Thorne would sometimes...tolerate my presence and occasional suggestions regarding current cases. And," he shrugs, "sometimes he wouldn't, which is usually where the phone calls would come in. I was pretty lucky that he didn't have me arrested, or something. I pushed my luck. Sometimes I'd, uh, sneak out of the house at night and go to his house." From his sheepish expression, the Detective had not invited him, and might not have known he was there.

In regards to his father, he only shrugs. "He wants the best for me. I know that. I'm just not capable of being what he wants. I know that, too." His voice is dry. "I'm glad you like me, Isabella. Pop likes me too," he says, with a slight smile. "Don't worry about it. Really."

Do you have to say hopeless?

What he gets for that is a slow, deliberate shrug and a winsome and unapologetic smile, mischief glinting in those smiling eyes once they are momentarily left to their own devices. Whatever chastizing Mr. Clayton was suffering in the hands of his wife remains trapped behind the closed doors leading into the kitchen and the dessert baking within, and she can't help but sneak glances in that direction, wondering just what is being said. But she is no reader - that is well beyond her skillset, even before her debilitating psychic injury.

His continuous reassurances and the fact that he seems very sure that his parents like her perk her up some, visibly, followed by an absurdly incriminating and hopeful "Really?" Though she manages to remember herself and attempts to look casual about it by taking sudden and great interest in the decor. "I mean, good. It's not surprising, is it? Most people generally like me. I'm witty and smart and charming, why wouldn't they? I wasn't worried at all!" Says Isabella 'Lying Liarface' Reede who spent a good thirty dollars on something called The Modern Lady's Guide To Meeting His Parents because she was definitely not freaking out about this moment whatsoever!

There's a more serious look drawn over her once he tells her about Byron and how often and persistently he plagued Stephen Thorne's business. "If he tolerated you in one moment and rejected your aid in the next, no wonder you were confused," she points out pragmatically, a touch of heat entering her words. She doesn't make it a habit of speaking ill of the dead - normally she tries to forget those who are deserving that rejection in history, but the fact that the detective's ghost still exists in many ways within the lives of two of her most important people does not sit well with her. "And what the hell was all of that anyway? He had no business permitting you to do that in the first place. I'd argue that you should have known also, but maybe you didn't - you were just a kid, Alexander."

She falls quiet when Alexander speaks of his father, and his words soften her incensed aura, but only slightly. "I know," she says with a quiet sigh. "But you're brilliant, and you're unique. I wouldn't change any of that about you just so you'd conform to generational expectations that might not even hold true anymore in the times we live in. But I'll drop it." She looks away, half-disgruntled though there's a faint but grudging smile there also. "But yeah, I do. Like you."

Alexander studies her after that hopeful exclamation, his smile warm. "You are witty and smart and charming, and I can't see any reason why everyone should not love you, but particularly my parents," he assures her, ever so solemnly. And then she leans forward and kisses that lying face once more.

When he draws back, though, the subject has moved on, and he fidgets in his chair. "It wasn't permitted. So much as...I did it anyway. A lot." A shrug. "The police department had a restraining order on me when I was thirteen, because I'd interfered with too many crime scenes." He coughs. "Then I started writing letters to the editor pointing out the flaws in their case investigations. Um. I wasn't popular?" No, really? "It was complicated."

Then he smiles again. "You're terribly biased. And I'm glad you like me." He leans in to kiss her again.

And that is, of course, what his parents walk in on, with Coach Clayton holding a heavy Pyrex dish filled with bubbling crumble. The parents stop, for a moment, then clear their throats, with Tom approaching to put the dessert down with a thump on a hot pad. "Well. I see someone's decided to get a head start on dessert," he says, loudly.

"Thomas!" Although, this time, Liz's chastisement is more amused and faux-scandalized.

From anyone else, Isabella would easily dismiss the sentiments as coming from one who was clearly humoring her, but Alexander is unfailingly honest and rarely ever says things he doesn't mean. So when he continues on his assurances, Isabella can't help but fidget, a hint of discomfiture filling her stomach - not just because he's so certain, but because she's so happy about it. It is, of course, normal, but for a young woman who tends to overthink more than half the time, she can't help but wonder what that all means. But he manages to push those thoughts aside at the wake of his kiss, which she returns with interest despite the fact that they were still at dinner. In his parents' house. While they're arguing in the kitchen.

Awkward.

Green-gold eyes watch him, his own uneasiness returning - she has tried to keep away from Alexander's relationships with others, really, and while they have overlapping circles of acquaintances, the nature of her relationships with his circle are completely different from her own, and none illustrates that more clearly than their ties with Byron Thorne. As she retrieves from him, finally, the story about the restraining order and his fraught relationship with the Thorne house, the first thing she says to that is: "I see." She frowns at him faintly. "None of that exactly justifies why you allow Byron to treat you like hired help, though." So he was a meddling kid who occasionally dropped by his house unannounced, that shouldn't be enough to earn Byron's enmity, should it? Unless there was more to the story.

She refrains, however, from asking for more details and thus interject herself further. Instead, she smirks and tilts her jaw upwards in that stubborn, defiant angle. "I am," she says unabashedly. "And don't you forget i-mph..." She sinks into the kiss, her hand returning to his cheek...

...and gets walked in on by the parents. Eyes lift to regard the Claytons, her fingers still curled against Alexander's collar. This? This isn't exactly new to her and at some point, Alexander is going to hear that story, but for now she grins and instead of letting the investigator go, tugs him closer by the collar and plants exaggerated kisses on his cheek. "He's very efficient, your son," she says, sparks of the devil's own light in her stare. "He kissed me well before he even asked me out, officially."

Alexander's expression is troubled. "He's not that bad," he says, a touch defensively. Even though he'd been grousing about something in those exact words not that long ago. But the one saving grace of Alexander's unstable temper is that his irritation never lasts for long, and he rarely holds anything like a grudge.

Either way, Isabella's kiss is far more entertaining than discussing his childhood, so he enjoys it thoroughly, taking his time. When his parents walk in and his father clears his throat, Alexander doesn't even look around until Isabella breaks the kiss to grin at them. He's kissed and pulled, and seems fairly happy with that. "Efficient," he murmurs, as he finally straightens back up. "I like that."

Both Clayton parents stare at Isabella with a dangerous light in their eyes. It's the light of 'oh, wonderful, someone who tolerates the son we thought would be single forever. When's the wedding?' They, at least, have enough tact not to leap into that question, and take their seats - although neither can quite hide the hopeful smiles. "Here," Tom says. "Pass me your bowls, and I'll serve up dessert. We've got some ice cream to go on top if you'd like." Alexander shakes his head to the ice cream, but passes his plate over quickly enough.

And now it's Liz's turn to interrogate Isabella. She tops up everyone's drinks, while asking, "So, Isabella. You said you're finishing up your degree, and you want to do field work and teaching after this? Are you hoping to stay in state, or..." Two pairs of expectant eyes rest on her, while Alexander suddenly finds something fascinating on his plate. It's the cranberry sauce. It's delicious.

Isabella, by contrast, can hold a grudge forever, though that largely depends on the person. In the end, it's simply concern, holding visible irritation at how Byron treats Alexander, though she doesn't know what the entire story is. She knows that, also, but is unable to help it given her protective nature. If both men's situation were ever reversed, she'd probably feel the same.

Remarks regarding his efficiency pulls a laugh out of her. "You would say that," she tells him, all affection and teasing, and she passes over her bowl. "Just a little, please," she requests of the father. She doesn't like a lot of sweets, but she is willing to try something that Elizabeth has labored over, with a touch of ice cream. Sugar is a bane and some part of her is glad that she has developed somewhat of an aversion from when she was young, because wetsuits are very unforgiving of every physical flaw and she is a prideful creature.

It's the dangerous light in his parents' eyes that gives her pause when she finally retrieves her dessert; as she's never been in this position before, she has no idea what it means, though she has managed to touch on the fact that she knows that Alexander has probably not brought home anyone before, because the earliest moments of this, they were clearly treating her as if they're surprised that she's a real person. She dips her spoon into the dessert slowly, already shoring herself up for what's to come and her companion can probably sense it, this internal buttressing and the determined fortification of her defenses.

Are you hoping to stay in state, or...

Stress tugs at her stomach, if not just because this is the second reminder within a span of days that she has received about certain decisions she will have to make. "Well, I'd have to leave soon, as I said," she says simply and truthfully. "Back to England in the Spring so I could actually obtain my doctorate - I have to defend my thesis in person, after all, so that would be a couple of weeks, but after that, I'd have to assess my options while I continue working on the consultation job that brought me back home. I'm not particularly sure if Oxford would want to offer me anything after that, for starters." And then, a smile; there's something behind it as she asks, "Why? Are you trying to get rid of me already?"

It's definitely teasing. "Because I definitely eat a lot, so I can't exactly blame you."

Ice cream is doled out, and Tom is good about actually listening to 'just a little' and giving a small spoonful of good vanilla ice cream, rather than just insisting that she have more, like it looks like Liz desperately wants to do. She diverts her desire to Feed The Guest onto Alexander, instead, and after a brief but spirited exchange, Alexander agrees to have at least SOME ice cream on his crumble. Eventually, everyone gets their dessert, and the ice cream is put away.

Alexander recognizes that light in his parents' eyes, even if he's never seen it directed at anyone who's been in a relationship with him, so he's prepared for the flash of disappointment when the words 'Back to England' come out of Isabella's mouth. Liz pounces on the thread of hope, though, saying, "We're not! Quite the opposite. It'd be so nice to have one of Alexander's friends stay close to home. Especially if you two--"

"Ma," Alexander breaks in, patiently. "Let Isabella get through her defense. It's a lot to worry about, and she doesn't need more on top of it."

"Of course, Alexander," Liz says, although she doesn't look chastened at all. "I'm just saying that if Oxford doesn't work out - although I hope it does - then there are options a bit closer to home! We have universities here in Washington, after all. Good universities. Or even Oregon. Alexander went to the University of Oregon, if he hasn't told you, yet. He had scholarships, and he did very well there." She holds this out like she's having sudden thoughts about his appeal relative to a soon-to-be doctorate-holder.

Alexander coughs. "Isabella knows, Ma," he says, with another apologetic smile in Isabella's direction, in between bites of the apple crumble. Which is homemade, and quite good, although probably a little sweet for Isabella's usual tastes.

Liz's pounce is so lightning fast that it nearly takes Isabella's breath away, for the moment forgetting her crumble in front of her as ice cream starts to melt upon it. She does, eventually, letting Alexander perform the figurative attempt of throwing himself in front of that fast-running train as she takes a nibble of the crumble. There's appreciation there; it's good, but definitely something that she's glad she's only eating a little bit of. "This is really delicious, Liz," she offers, like tossing a shiny object to the side in hopes of distracting a charging bull.

But mothers with sons, especially an only boy, are relentless and she can't help but feel it - the trap closing in around her, fingers curling more securely over the stem of her spoon.

There's a quick (and slightly panicked, wholly grateful) look cast Alexander's way at the litany of various universities around, because she does know, and if nothing else, her concerns are rooted in places other than where she ends up. "I'm not surprised," she tells his mother with a grin. "Alexander's ridiculously intelligent and if nothing else, probably half or over half the reason why we never really had a lot of issues connecting, even at the start, so whenever he tells me that he doesn't really know how to talk to people, I was surprised, because I never experienced that problem with him. His analytical acumen puts almost all the detectives in the PD to shame." A mischievous look angles his way. "Mine, too. Sometimes. Only sometimes, though." Because she is who she is.

She sets her spoon down after eating most of the crumble and takes a swallow of her wine. It's a larger gulp than she's had the entire evening. "Anyway, I do know. About the nearest universities, but I'm hoping..." And there's a cryptic smile. "...that I'm a more creative problem solver than that." She pointedly does not look at Alexander as she says this, using another swallow of her wine as an excuse.

"The food was absolutely wonderful," she tells both parents with that brilliant, megawatt smile. "Thank you both for feeding me!"

Alexander reaches out beneath the table to lay his hand on Isabella's thigh, offering a brief and comforting squeeze as the conversation drifts into (mother)shark infested waters. Liz seems to enjoy the flattery towards her cooking, although she waves it off with a pleased smile, and says, "Oh, it wasn't anything at all. Just a little more elaborate than our regular Sunday dinners. I guess we know why Alexander has been missing so many of them of late - although you know, you're both welcome to any of them."

Tom laughs, low and rolling. "Don't listen to her, Isabella. She worked for three days to get everything ready to go, and I think she got up at three in the morning to start the cooking." He then feigns a wince (mostly feigns) as his wife kicks him under the table. "What? I'm just being honest!"

Liz sniffs. "I was happy to do it for my family and our guest," she says, then flashes Isabella a warm smile. "I'm so happy to hear it. You don't know how long it's been since someone outside of the household has understood Alexander's...special needs, and given him the understanding and help he needs to thrive." She doesn't seem to realize how her phrasing sounds; she looks genuinely charmed and enthused by Isabella's obvious affection for her son. "And I'm sure you have no trouble keeping up with his flights of fancy. He's always been so imaginative."

Alexander finishes off his dessert, and says, a bit quickly, "It was delicious, as always. Happy Thanksgiving, Ma, Pop." He stands, and his parents stand with him to exchange hugs and brief kisses. For all the occasional tension, it's obvious that Alexander cares for his parents, and - while they're clearly baffled and often wary of him - they care for him, too.

"You're not going to stay?" Tom says, after the hug, looking for one to the other. "There's a game on. I was gonna catch it. You like football, don't you, Isabella?" Alexander's eyes widen fractionally, and one doesn't have to be psychic to hear the noooooooo he's sending to her.

He has been missing plenty of Sunday dinners, but not because he has been spending them with her - though these days, they really only see one another over the weekends due to work and her thesis; thankfully she's starting to have more and more time to herself now that she's hit the ten thousand word mark. Still, Isabella says nothing about such things and instead flashes Liz a quick grin. "I don't mean to steal him from you," she offers, because she has no doubt that she has, on occasion. "I didn't even know that you expect him on Sunday dinners until this evening. But thank you for the standing invitation, Liz, you're very kind for offering."

Outed by her own husband, she can't help but laugh. "I'm honestly fine with anything," she says. "Please don't fuss." Nevermind the fact that they're retirees, with a mother who clearly misses her son. Even while she says it, she knows that it is hopeless asking her not to.

She tries her best not to make a face when Elizabeth describes Alexander as a special needs case, because it makes him sound like an invalid and the impulsive part of her is ready to make a case there, but they don't shine in the way her son does, and she knows in that regard, it's hopeless also. So she simply smiles and says, because she can't help herself, "Rest assured, Liz, he's been thriving just fine before I came along, I don't think I've much to do with that." She tries not to notice the flights of fancy part, and she reaches down to fold her fingers over where Alexander's hand is placed on her thigh, giving his hand a squeeze there before releasing.

Especially now that the man seems to be intent on making a quick exit. She slowly rises from the table, to extend a hand for quick shakes, or hugs if his parents would allow her.

The question regarding football has her grinning faintly. "Sorry, Coach," she teases. "More of soccer fan, though I can't call it that while I'm across the pond, and I'm pretty sure they won't let me back into England if I start preferring football over rugby." She directs an impish wink Tom's way, dropping her hand so she could lace her fingers with Alexander's. "But thank you both for having me, it was an absolute pleasure meeting the both of you again."

"I've just been busy," Alexander tells his parents, quietly. "I'll try to be better about it." He steps aside so that Isabella and his parents can handle their own partings - they are enthusiastic huggers, and happy to accept them from her.

Liz beams. "It's no fuss at all. I promise you! We're so happy to meet one of Alexander's friends." Tom makes a noise like he might be about to say something like so happy to know he HAS friends before his wife gives him a Look, and he just hastily agrees with her framing of the issue. Liz nods, approvingly, and turns back to Alexander. "You should have introduced us sooner," she chides, fondly. "I could have prepared something special."

Alexander gives the table filled with food a skeptical look. "I think it was special enough, Ma. Any more special, and it might count as attempted murder by gluttony." A pause. "Delicious gluttony, I mean. It was delicious." He waves his hands a little, trying to stave off maternal indignation.

Tom reaches out and grabs him, brief and playful, by the back of the neck, shaking him lightly a couple of times. Something Alexander puts up with without freaking out or trying to pull away. His father rumbles, "You ought to let Isabella handle the compliments, son. She's better at it than you."

"I agree," Alexander admits, flashing Isabella a brief but warm smile. "She's got a way with words. And shameless flattery," he adds, voice dry as he moves to offer his own embrace to her, and a brief kiss.

Tom heaves a sigh, but not one that seems terribly surprised, at the turning down of an afternoon spent watching large sweaty men slam into each other. "One day we'll have to try soccer, I guess. If you come back, I'll find us a decent game. Somewhere." He seems politely dubious at a 'decent' game of soccer, compared to Real American Football, but he grins at the last. "The pleasure is all ours, Isabella. Believe me!" They start to escort the two towards the door.

"If you invited all of Alexander's friends, you'd have a full house," Isabella warns his parents. "It would be like feeding an entire football team again, Tom." Admittedly Alexander's definition for friendship might be somewhat hazy, but even without the ones who don't actually count, it would still be a sizable party. Still, she says this with a smile.

The grab from Tom earns both Clayton men a fond and subtler smile, and when he gravitates back to her, she puts an arm around Alexander and returns his brief kiss. "I do intend to come back, if you would have me," she tells both elder Claytons. "Because I'm not about to let this guy go without seeing his childhood bedroom and count just how many KISS posters are still in there." Her mischief, as always irrepressible, manifests again.

Shameless flattery?? "Just because you have a hard time accepting your best qualities doesn't mean I have to follow those limitations," she sniffs. "And your mother is an amazing cook and hostess." Look at how the dining room was done up! She was being purely objective! But ushered out of the Clayton home, she waves to both parents before they start heading back to her Jeep.

It's only when they're both inside, though, that she bursts out laughing, slender fingers buckling her belt into her seat. "Well, that wasn't so bad, even though for a moment there, I was genuinely concerned that your mother might end up luring me in the family basement to make absolutely certain I won't go anywhere. Did you grow up with a basement? Asking for a friend." Green and gold eyes lift to regard his profile, brows lifting to her hairline.

Neither Tom nor Liz believe poor Isabella. That's clear in their faces, although it's also clear that they're not going to say that (at least not right in front of Alexander's face), so they make the right, pleased noises at the idea, and Alexander just gives Isabella a sidelong look. He looks skeptical at the idea, himself, although at least he's also amused that she's going there.

"No KISS posters," Alexander says, cheerfully. "I think Ma's repurposed that room to a guest room, so there wouldn't be a lot to see. Most of my stuff's either at the house, or in the attic," he admits.

"Oh!" Liz claps her hands. "That doesn't mean we can't go get it. You just let me know, Isabella, and we'll make an expedition to the attic. I've been meaning to go up there while the weather's cooler, anyway, and look for some things. It gets so hot." At least she doesn't seem like she's going to try and drag them up there now - no, this is bait for Isabella to return, clearly. "We have some lovely photo albums with Alexander as a child--"

"No, Ma," Alexander says, ushering Isabella towards the door a bit faster.

"--But, Alexander, the one of you in the frog--"

"No, Ma. Goodbye, I love you both, I'll call." And he push push pushes her before his shame of being a five year old in a frog costume can be revealed to the world. Or, at least, to Isabella.

Once they're in the car, he sighs, and rubs at his face. "There is a basement," he admits, with a smile towards her. "And I can't say I'd rule it out - she's well acquainted with the necessary amount of sedative to keep someone under control." Then a laugh. "But, no. She's just happy to meet you. Sorry. They can be a bit much, but they mean well."

Mention of Alexander as an adorable child in a frog costume has Isabella's face lighting up considerably, her grin growing wide and toothy that would give the man a sudden and worrisome impression that Satan has decided to take over his girlfriend's body for just a moment upon hearing it. In fact, she even makes a gesture to stop walking towards the door.

"I would absolutely love to see all of Alexander's childhood pic--"

None can ever say that Alexander has a poor sense of self preservation and she's still laughing when she starts up the Jeep. "If you think you've somehow escaped from the idea of possible excavation attempts in your family attic with your mother, I hope you know that's not possible at this point. Please tell me the costume had big googly eyes."

The basement remarks are accepted with good grace, though another peal of laughter escapes her there as she puts the Jeep on drive and they start moving away from the Clayton house. "They're both lovely, and they give a damn about you, even if they don't really understand..." She gestures to the side in an illustrative fashion. "Though that's not exactly reassuring, you know. The reminder that your mother knows precisely how to sedate someone if she wanted to keep someone in the basement." She gives him a Look there, though it's not especially serious. "I was curious though as to why they didn't seem to think I was actually coming, though. Or if I actually existed. Did you try to bring imaginary girlfriends or boyfriends home before?" Or worse, if he had invited other lovers to his home and they just...decided not to show.

"Where to next?" she asks, once they hit the first intersection.

Alexander rolls his own (not particularly googly) eyes. "I was five. I didn't choose it, or anything." There's a grump, and a sigh, before he admits, "Yes, it had large googly eyes. And my mother would be delighted to show it to you, I'm sure. I just don't think I need to be there as a witness to the crime." He grins at her laughter. "But I'm glad they didn't, uh, I mean, that all of you got on."

He nods, slowly. "They care. They always care." There's a long pause. "I'm aware of how lucky I was, growing up with my parents rather than some of the others. I could easily have ended up in the Asylum, or worse. I gave them a lot of reason to be afraid, and a lot of people suggested it when I was growing up," he admits, looking out the window at the passing street rather than her. "And no. I've never brought...anyone home before. Not friends, not lovers. I didn't really have any, here in Gray Harbor, and when I was away, I didn't want to come back. And I especially didn't want to inflict the town on anyone else." Then there's a sharp little laugh. "And I never had anyone I was close enough to want to bring, anyway."

He looks sidelong at her at the last question. "We can just drive, if you want. But I did want to know -- Easton and Bennie are in the hospital, and I've got some frantic texts from you. Sorry for not responding sooner. I was," he grimaces, "having a few moments. Um. But I gather the letters did get followed up on?"

"Okay, first of all? Adorable." Isabella points at him emphatically though she doesn't look at him because she's paying attention to the road. He would find some comfort in the fact that here within the city limits, she drives a little more carefully, and with good reason. "Second of all...what?" Her voice is curious here. "Did you think they'd scare me off?" She winks at him sidelong after that. "I think Jane Austen wrote it best, my darling - my courage rises with every attempt to intimidate."

She listens quietly when he talks about his parents, and whatever irritation she has held, whether it is due to his father's insistence that he pursue more practical endeavors or his mother's determined insistence that Alexander was somehow born damaged in a fashion eases off and drains away at his gentle words about the people who raised him. "There are plenty of broken homes in Gray Harbor," she confirms quietly, reminded of Byron's family life and Lilith's also. She notices the way he doesn't really look at her when he says such things, but she doesn't address it, reminded as to how fortunate she is, also, born with a mother who was as Talented as they are, and with a father who had a sister who was born with the same gifts. "If anything, this just means that your ridiculous tenacity comes from somewhere - sticking to something, no matter how afraid you are." There's a brief, quiet glance at the steering wheel in her grip, his following words bringing wash of warmth and exhilaration flooding every nerve and sense.

"I was...I was very happy that you invited me," she confesses haltingly, awkwardly. "It probably sounds strange? I thought it was less of a big deal to you than it was to me, somehow, because you just invited me so casually. I didn't know how to react at first. It..." She clears her throat, suddenly thankful that she has to pay attention to where she's going. "...meant a lot. To me. That you asked."

They can just drive, he says, but she smiles as she suddenly turns, and starts veering off away from the downtown area. "Let's do a little bit of exploring, then," she says with a laugh. "I think it's the right time of day, I want to show you a place I went to a lot as a child."

It looks to be in the direction of the Firefly Forest.

"What moments were these?" she asks with a furrowed-brow look. "Is everything alright? I need to look into Bennie and Easton, too, but yeah, it was because of the invitation. The entire encounter was violent but...." He would clearly see it on her face, unbridled apprehension but whatever she is feeling, she is not uncertain - and the fact that she is probably right about whatever problem she is turning inside of her mind is the reason why she looks so concerned in the first place.

"...we can talk about it when we get there," she says quietly. For now she's content to listen to Alexander and whatever else he is struggling with. "I'm glad you're alright. While I was in there, I was..." She inhales sharply, eyes narrowing in glittering emerald slits, jaw setting furiously. "...I was worried they had you trapped elsewhere alone."

Alexander just heaves a vastly put upon sigh at the word adorable. He doesn't argue with it - he would probably find it absolutely cute if he wasn't the kid in the costume. "I didn't think they'd scare you off, Isabella. You're fierce and unconquerable. I'm just glad that you all got along," he says, his voice soft for a moment. As if maybe he'd had more anxiety about the whole thing than he'd been letting on. "And, you're right. My parents don't usually give up once they have a notion in their heads."

He does glance back to her when she starts her confession, studying her, his eyes alight with warm and interest. "It meant a lot to me that you said yes, Isabella. I've never wanted to introduce anyone to my parents, before. Which," he clears his throat, "isn't to say that there's any pressure or expectation on you for this going any farther than that. There isn't. But I love you, so I wanted...I wanted them to know who you were, I guess."

"Are you injured?" He looks her over with a frown, and shakes his head at her own inquiry. "It's nothing. I had a conversation with Dr. Stevenson, and it wasn't as productive as I'd hoped. She's forgotten a lot - it seems to rob the memory of its staff as well as its patients." He looks away. "She did point out that if I go there, the Asylum will probably keep me. But that fear is far less than it looks like what you all suffered."

"I'll allow fierce, but unconquerable?" She knows she isn't, though it's likely that she'll die first before she gave anyone the satisfaction. Isabella's youth and temper wouldn't allow for anything else, the sort of personality who would bash herself against the foundations of something insurmountable if necessary, and possibly die in the attempt - not always a good thing, in spite of his admiration. She knows, but it's just as much a blessing as it is a flaw.

Isabella grins faintly. "I don't know. I mean...maybe I want them to like me, too. I usually don't care but..." Her expression softens. "But they're your parents, they raised you and you clearly love them, so...anything I could do for them, I would. Even if it's just to show up whenever they invite us."

Her eyes return to the steering wheel, but only briefly and there's relief in her that she can't quite eloquently express; the fact that he shared the same anxiety and there's some solidarity there unwinds whatever remains of her earlier tension. The laugh that escapes her is somewhat breathless, hinting at the true state of her confidence. "I'm glad that you did. I'm...it was embarrassing, in a way, how much I tried to prepare for this. And I know that it's not coming from a place of...that. I'd like to think that I know you rather well and I know it's because you want to share your life with me, and know the people who mean the most to you. And that inclusion is...it makes me happy. I am happy, with you."

She stops at a red light, but it allows her to meet his eyes directly. "Honestly, I haven't thought that far about my life in general. Maybe it's because I'm only in my twenties but I never thought...I've been so engrossed with the work and the paper, what I wanted to achieve that the entire marriage and kids thing feels like such a far flung idea. And then I hear about Vivian with her family plans, and now Erin wanting a baby...I don't know, Alexander. Maybe I'm the weird one." She watches his face, then, expression curious. "Did you ever think that...you would?" she wonders. "At some point in your life?"

The light turns green, and she takes the highway towards the forest. There's a brief shake of her head. "Save perhaps my pride and my composure, I'm not injured. But I was ready to tap into whatever was in me and let it rampage uncontrollably if I had to in order to get out of it. I broke the apparatus they were trying to use to bring us to heel, because I've been carrying since you told me to while you were engaged in the Foster case. And the assholes that attacked us were wearing suits, so I strangled one with his own tie." Knuckles whiten in remembrance. "He was trying to kill Bennie, and I couldn't trust my aim. So I reached out..."

Her fingers practically choke the wheel in front of her. "...and squeezed. I didn't even hesitate." Her teeth clench faintly at the rest of his words. "And if they tried to drag you into the Asylum, I'd probably do worse."

"Hush, you. I'll call it how I see it," Alexander chides without heat. He smiles. "Careful what you promise, or you'll be stuck there every night for dinner, getting grilled on your life trajectory. Because, I'll be honest, now that they've gotten over the shock of the facts that you're real, you're not crazy, and they actually like you, things might get a bit...pushy." He grins. "But that's why I didn't give them your number."

He meets her gaze steadily. "I've thought about it. When I was younger, I certainly wanted all of that. Marriage, kids. I like kids." He shrugs. "But it's a little late for me to start a family, even if I were in a position where I could support one." A pause. "I don't just mean financially, although that's part of it. But I don't ever see myself as able to be the sort of father that I would...want to be." He shrugs like it doesn't matter, but there's sadness there, in his voice and his face. "And I'm not willing to inflict the kind of father I might be on a defenseless child."

As they head towards the forest, he reaches to stroke her hair, gently. "I'm glad you're not injured. And...I'm sorry. That you had to do that. Were they figments?" Because it really does matter, for Alexander, whether he's killed a figment or someone who might be 'real', and he presumes other people might feel the same. "But I'm glad you didn't hesitate. If you had, someone might have died. You might have gotten hurt. It's a terrible thing, to kill, but...I'm glad you're willing to do it, Isabella."

Isabella doesn't say anything else while she's still driving, though there's an appreciation in her when he reaches out to stroke her hair in a soothing fashion. The internal galleries of her are probably absorbing this new information as they speak, but it's the sadness and solemn look in his dark eyes that cling to her, unable to ignore the stirring of guilt left heavy on her stomach.

She does finally speak when they get to the end of the hiking trails leading into the forest as twilight descends and insects chirp from their hidden nests in the dark, shutting off the engine and turning on her seat so she could look at him directly and meet his eyes. "You talk like you're about to turn sixty in the next year," she chastises though there's no humor in the words. "And you talk like you're more monster than human. No one goes into that sort of responsibility automatically knowing what to do. I'm not saying that you should have them, if you're not sure, and I'm not saying that you'll be the best father ever if you did. But...I think it's in you to be a decent one. It's hard to think otherwise when you give so much of yourself to strangers, I can only imagine what that looks like when it comes to your own son or daughter."

Her hand lifts to touch his face gently, leaning in to press a soft kiss against his mouth. "I love you," she reminds quietly. "Maybe that makes me more than just a little biased but you've never been less than good to me, even from the moment we met."

She falls quiet then, watching his eyes, before she slips away, to open the door.

"I don't think they're figments," she remarks, shifting back to the invitation's encounter, steel returning to her low contralto. "And I think that's precisely the problem, in more ways than one." Her boots hit the dirt, turning those eyes to Alexander; framed by the chilly Autumn evening, they burn like emerald lanterns.

"I'll never hesitate to defend me and mine," she tells him, extending her hand to him once he's climbed out of the Jeep. "Walk with me?"

"I'm not about to turn sixty," Alexander says, and there is a hint of amusement in his response. "But I'll be that age or older when any hypothetical child of mine would be turning eighteen, you know. Which would be fine if I were in a better place financially. But trying to support a teenager in your fifties? Without a real job?" He shrugs. "Isabella, if I didn't have what little healing powers I do have, just Luigi and the cat would bankrupt me on a regular basis. And that's without -- I'm not a monster. Or, at least, I try hard not to be. But I can't always control myself, and when I don't, people get hurt. I hate that as it is; I can't imagine doing it to a child." He takes a deep breath. "Or, rather, I can. Easily."

He kisses her back, and leans into it, murmuring, "I love you, too," against her lips. The discussion doesn't seem to upset him all that much; this is clearly something he's thought about many times over the years, and the answers he's come to seem to have been fairly well set. When she opens the door, he climbs out on his side, and crosses around to meet her on her side of the Jeep. He takes the hand in one of his, warm and calloused, his grip strong. "There's nothing wrong with defending you and yours. But it's hard. To kill someone. A real person, I mean." A grimace. "It's hard to kill fragments, too, at first. Do you want to talk about it?"

She looks relieved when he tells her that at least he accepts the fact that he isn't a monster, especially now that she has a clear idea of some of what he has endured in his past - that is always a lingering fear, that whatever darkness he harbors will end up consuming him despite his best efforts. Hearing it clears up her own expression, Isabella nodding once - as she said, she isn't saying that he should have them, but this edification on his reasons is part of him too.

"I can't help but be sad hearing that," she says, finally. "But that can't be helped, to want to see you have what you want. You express your preferences and desires so rarely." She starts moving to the path, her hand in his, gripping securely as both their footfalls find the dirt and they proceed on a path to the woods - but one she knows well. She doesn't even seem worried as they embark on this journey together when night is about to descend, a more melancholy expression entering her face when she finds the familiar tree line, and scents the local flora and the mineral undertones of the earth in the air.

"Some part of me is relieved, though," she tells him quietly. "I'm not certain about children, either." But he already knows that - she had told him in Seattle.

Shifting gears, one leg hikes up to throw it over a large tree trunk that has fallen in their path, though she doesn't let go of his hand during, and keeps their fingers laced in this traverse to...somewhere. "It isn't as if I didn't hesitate. I shot at the apparatus that the headliner was using because I was too hesitant to shoot him in the face." There's a bit of a grimace. "I wanted to, the moment he opened his mouth and threatened the healers in the group. He said that they do nothing for Them. Presumably because they take away the pain that They feed on."

Do you want to talk about it?

She laughs quietly, turning her attention to Alexander, her delicate features wreathed in shadow and dim, dying light. "I can talk to you for hours. I want to tell you about the Veil expedition also." She pauses, before she continues walking with her brisk, determined strides. "It hasn't sunk in yet," she tells him. "I'm waiting for it...the nightmares that will eventually follow. And I hope I have them, because it shouldn't be easy, to do...that. No matter how angry and desperate I am. I should pay for it, somehow, but so far..." She sighs. "I'm more worried about what it all means because I think I know who they were."

Her hand gives his own a squeeze. "What did Bennie and Easton tell you about it?"

Alexander squeezes her hand. His head tilts back a little, studying the canopy as they walk towards the tall trees in the darkening light, and he takes a deep breath of the air. "I know you don't want them, and that's understandable. You're just at the start of a career that would involve a lot of fieldwork. Even with a partner taking care of most of the actual child care, academia can be difficult and hard on women who parent." He grins, then. "And," he draws the word out, "I suspect you're not really sure what to do with them before they know how to have a decent conversation." It's light and teasing; he remembers Seattle and the two interlopers at the arcade as well.

"Talk to me about whatever you wish. I'm eager to hear it," he assures he quietly. And mostly listens. "Sometimes we don't react the way we expect. To violence. To death. When I killed a...real person, it hurt more than I expected, in the aftermath. But I slept the best I had in a decade. All the hurt was in waking, when I thought about whether I could have found a different way. So. Don't punish yourself for not having a specific reaction, Isabella. Everyone is different."

He shakes his head, slowly. "Very little. Easton was asleep, and Bennie was, um, heavily sedated. I'm interested in hearing it from you. From the beginning, if you can? And the Veil excursion, of course."

His teasing remarks have her laughing suddenly, mirth bursting like fireworks all over her face as she regards him. "Seeing right through me," she tells him. "I'm dreading the day any of my actual friends start having children, you know, and the inevitable 'do you want to hold it' question because I wouldn't even begin to know how, or I might actually drop it and ruin a child's life before it even starts." Isabella shakes her head, and at least in this, she is unashamed in admitting it. "When I was growing up, somehow I already knew I wasn't built for it. I didn't even think I would actually get married, also. And if I ever did..."

Her eyes narrow faintly as she tilts her head back to look at the vibrant, multicolored canopy above their heads. "They better be fine with me keeping my name. You'd be surprised, but apparently, to some men or women it's a big deal and they take offense if the last name isn't taken up, or if it doesn't get hyphenated. It's stupid. We live in the twenty-first century."

She seems ready to leave that discussion behind, however, because it is an egregiously awkward subject to talk about in hypotheticals, especially with a man who she happens to be in love with after he revealed that he wanted a family once upon a time. But as their conversation falls on the time he actually killed someone, she blinks at him. "You did?" There's a pause, searching his face. "When?" There's no doubt in her mind that there was a reason for it, before she suddenly remembers a conversation at the coffeehouse when he first expressed an actual interest in sleeping with her. "...when you told me that only one thing was able to get you to sleep, it was...that?"

Anyone would run, or entertain the idea that she would end up the same way, somehow; perhaps wrapped up in a plastic sheet, a rug, before tossed over a ravine, never to be heard from again. But her fingers only tighten over his when they start to descend upon a clearing.

"I was with August - Anne had twisted her ankle during the Veil expedition, so we were attempting to deliver her to her home safely. We bid our goodbyes once she was settled, and then we opened the door and a man was there. He didn't give his name, but he was wearing a suit and dark glasses." This would be familiar to Alexander - Peregrine dresses the same way. "...and we seemed to be in some kind of office. He was checking us in. He seemed to know us all by name and who we are, but he had playful nicknames for all of us with the exception of Bennie and Easton. He then proceeded to tell us why we were there - to reward us for the use of our gifts, with the exception of the healers because what they do does nothing for Them. He also implied that They don't talk. Not in words, but sounds. Somehow in spite of that, Their agents can understand Them."

"He had a lantern, and there was music in the background though for some reason only Easton, Byron, and I could hear it. Piano, it was playing Jazz. But I couldn't pinpoint where exactly it was coming from, when I normally could, and Easton attempted to shine a beacon in the darker areas, and he was able to, but it didn't last. That's how we knew that something was suppressing the Talent. And then the overseer started to retreat with a lantern. Lilith tried to blow it up, but it seemed to suck her power in, and reflected her fire back at us. Easton had his gun, and I had mine because I took mine to the expedition. We shot and destroyed it."

"Three more of his compatriots showed up and that's when the fight started happening in earnest."

Alexander chuckles at the fierce look in her eyes. "I've never really understood the fuss about a name, with marriage. I think I'd be content with whatever my partner decided she or he would want to do," he admits, easily.

He seems content to let the conversation move on after that, watching her more than the beautiful scenery that they're strolling through. He nods. "Yes. I killed the actress." Something complicated shadows his features for a moment. "Afterwards, I tried to talk about it with a few people, but...none of them really understood what I was staying. Or they were glad I'd killed her, or wanted me to teach them how to kill more of them. Javier came closest to...understanding, but you know how he is with feelings." He shrugs. "So I didn't talk about it for a while, and eventually, the sadness faded."

There's a moment of thought, before he adds, "I don't think I recommend it. As a coping mechanism." The rest, he listens to, expression grave. "That makes sense. When we fought the actors, we could feel something watching. Enjoying the pain we were delivering on each other. I don't think it matters to Them if it's the people who work with them that get hurt." His hand shivers in hers for a second. "When the actors ambushed me on the beach, when I was trying to fight back, for a second I touched...something. The darkest thing I've ever felt. It wants to eat everything, eventually. Everything." He frowns. "And a lantern that absorbs our abilities? Interesting."

"Oh, good," Isabella quips, flashing him a half-lidded look and a feline smile. "So that's one thing out of a thousand we would never ever fight about."

They stop at the bottom of the descent, where the young woman releases his hand so she could move to where an old log remains, covered in Autumn's colorful detritus. She pushes some of the leaves off the surface before she takes a seat, and leaves some room for him to sit with her. She gestures to the clearing ahead of them - visible, from where she has decided to perch, is a field of dandelions, their blazing, golden yellow color brushing against the stirring breeze. It's too late in the year to see their puffs, when their seeds would follow the rush of the Summer's breath, populate and germinate wherever they would eventually land. But in the half-darkness, as she waits, he would see them when he squints - tiny motes of light, flickering now and then.

Firefly Forest is named this way for a reason, and the glowing insects play here, freely, in this silent and largely forgotten field. Once she's settled, her hand finds his again.

"I'm not happy that you killed her. I'm happy that you defended yourself, and others, but I don't revel in the fact that it was necessary." She turns her face to look him directly in his dark, fathomless eyes. "I'm also not happy that taking a life had given you some respite from your nightmares, largely because I don't know what it means." Whether it was borne out of relief, or some semblance of vindication - that he was finally able to fight back against the torments he has endured as a child, or whether it was rooted from something darker and more sinister that lives inside him. But she doesn't shrink away, either, from expressing that opinion. After all, how could she know without asking the question? How could she know without confrontation?

The tremors rippling over his knuckles are ones that she attempts to banish, in spite of her words, squeezing his hand and closing her free appendage over it to sandwich it between both of hers. "It probably doesn't matter to Them so long as the sustenance is there," she remarks.

It wants to eat everything, eventually.

A shadow passes over her face at that, her apprehension growing. She chews faintly on her bottom lip and turns her gaze, for the time being, towards the fireflies, letting the conversation fall in a comfortable silence. Her tight grip on his hand remains, though - and as the thoughts churn within her head, it becomes even moreso, feeling the slight uptick of her heart racing within. "Now that I've experienced Their agents firsthand, I don't think you're wrong," she says quietly.

She draws a breath, and fixes her stare upon him again. "We destroyed the lantern. Easton killed one of the twins. Byron killed the overseer and I killed the other man. The last twin, we were unable to fell. I tried. But she lived through the encounter with us, and she said that she has told this story hundreds of times, and everyone involved always thought that this was a battle, or a challenge to overcome, but that it isn't. It's a puzzle. And as we stumbled on out of there when she got absorbed in the black mass, and it started to encompass everything, she said that she was going to see us again, and spoke...in Greek. Ancient Greek. Eínai vévaio." It is certain.

Her thumb rolls against his knuckles in absent patterns. "I suppose it was expected, for me to treat the chastisement as precisely that. A challenge, and a puzzle. The first thing I did when I returned to the houseboat was try and crack a piece of it. Alexander..." She hesitates. "...I've turned it over my head a thousand times while I was waiting for word from you, because I think it's insane, even after everything we've been through and seen. But I don't think I'm wrong about this one."

"I don't think we fight that much, when evil magic isn't involved," Alexander says, with a quick grin. He's careful as he moves with her, lacking her boundless confidence, but he sits where she bids, and looks out over the dandelions, watching the fireflies dance. "Ahh. This is beautiful. You spent a lot of time here with your brother, I'm guessing, and picked up a great love for dandelions?" A sideways, gentle smile at her.

The talk of killing doesn't necessarily remove the smile, but it makes it a more complicated expression, with shadows and a sadness in his eyes. "I don't, either. I...obviously haven't experimented further. But my guess would be that the Shadows that trouble me gave me a respite from their torments in order to encourage me to kill more. So I haven't, because fuck them." And really, that's what it comes down to, in some regards - the darkness within Alexander is held in check as much by his unwillingness to give in to what has afflicted him all of his life as it is by his empathy and care for other human beings. And he feeds both, that the chains remain strong.

But he takes her hand without hesitation, and brings it up to his mouth to kiss the back of it as he continues to listen. "It is certain. Interesting." He glances at her. "While I speak the language well enough, I admit I'm not widely read in it. What does it mean?" The fact that he trusts her to know, respects and admires her expertise in this area, is clear from his expectant expression.

"We don't. I suspect that when we do, it's going to be impressive." Considering his temper, her temper, and the fact that they're both equally stubborn. She dreads it, on some level, but in a way, she's excited about it also - the fight always ignites her in ways gentler overtures normally don't. Something she has in common with Itzhak Rosencrantz, but that in and of itself is a double-edged razor. It always leaves her depleted afterwards, exhausted.

Isabella listens quietly, takes in his own theories on the matter, and clearly she finds credence to the theory; it isn't just that she trusts Alexander's brilliance and his savage self-awareness, but also because it parses and follows what she, herself, knows of the Dark Men. Admittedly, it isn't much, but she is most definitely trying to change that, and by the way she is looking at the man she loves, burning furiously like a small star next to him, she has already decided to try and find a way to ease these burdens, if she can't wholly free him from them.

"Fuck them," she echoes with an approving nod, the rare curse leaves her in a hiss through clenched teeth. "I'm glad you haven't given in. If there's going to be a solution for it, it'll be something we find, and something we can trust. I'm not going to let them have you, no matter what else happens between or around us, but I recognize that I need the help. From you and everyone else."

She still looks livid when he takes her hand, but the sparks that he creates within that single, warm, affectionate touch against her knuckles blunts the emotion's sharper edges. Tension that she doesn't even know that she's carrying drains, slowly, from the line of her shoulders, and the stiffened arch of her spine. But when he tries to break down the encounter, because she knows him and to him, this is as natural to him as breathing, she begins with, "Your Greek is fine." She assures him there at least, her smile playing on her lips. "It's the rest on top of that which made me look."

She ticks at her fingers lightly, counting them off. "What she said about having told this story hundreds of times, the fact that she also said that, after we killed her companions, that there is more, and she could always make more. How she knows Ancient Greek, as in, the roots that were present in the Linear B section of the Rosetta Stone, and the fact that she..." And this is probably where it becomes insane, because her face reflects it. "...she looked familiar to me, Alexander. But not because I came across her before, or at least, not like this. It wasn't some memory I experienced in the flesh, but from my studies. So I asked a colleague from Oxford to send me the slides of a lecture series we put together for Richard in our early years as students in Oxford - art history of Ancient Greece. After a few hours of looking, I finally found her face. In not just one picture, but in several...and not in just a single time period, but across history, from vases, to stone tablets, to paintings done by Renaissance masters."

Her heart starts racing again. "I don't know which one she is, but...she's Erinyes. And I don't mean the mythological figures. I don't mean anything constructed or inspired by the myth. She's the root of it. The source of it. The foundation that inspired the story. And she's here, in Gray Harbor. Ever since then, I've been seeing her everywhere. I don't know if anyone else is, also, but we should probably ask."

"Why do I get the feeling you're looking forward to it?" Alexander wonders, giving her an amused glance. "Oh. Wait. I'm psychic." He reaches to try and pull her close enough for a kiss in the darkness. "Or, maybe you're just looking forward to the makeup sex?"

Her vehemence makes his smile wider. "Fierce and fearless," he murmurs. "I don't plan to give in so easily, my love, don't worry. Gohl brought me...closer, than I've been in a long time. And I didn't like the way that felt, afterwards. It's a good reminder of what I don't want to be. And so are you; you help remind me of the good." Another kiss, this time on her forehead, before he attends to the results of her research. His eyebrows go up. "Someone who inspired the legend of the Furies? That's...not great. Although it rather cements the idea that time Over There doesn't necessarily work the way it does here. She's over a thousand years old, if it is actually the same person." He frowns. "And yes, we should. Between her, Peregrine, and maybe Alice and Megan, there are entirely too many enemies skulking around town for my liking."

"I'm taking a page from your book," Isabella tells him mock-seriously, mimicking both look and expression he had given her the day he walked in on her lecture at the community college. "Building a file. How can I defend against you if I don't familiarize myself with your tricks?" As his arms reach for her, she meets him halfway, shifting sideways along the log and disentangling her fingers from his so she could wind her own around his neck, her head tilting back to accept his kiss. "And I'm especially looking forward to the makeup sex."

Their newfound proximity keeps her voice low, her eyes closing at that kiss on her forehead before her mouth turns to nuzzle into the underside of his chin, tasting the cold air against his stubble and letting his presence warm her further; she had left the Jeep without her coat by accident, engrossed as she is in their conversation, but this gives her an ample excuse to soak in his warmth under the light of the rising moon and the firebugs flitting over the dandelions. "A good reminder, but one that I don't want you to experience often." Because she still remembers what he said, when he wasn't sure whether he wanted to live anymore. The idea of him taking lives had been a concern, also, but it was his despair that had stuck with her most of all.

"If there are other ways for me to remind you of the good that you can think of, do let me know," she murmurs back as she waggles her eyebrows, the dark sliced apart by the impish grin that she directs towards him, devouring the shadows between their faces as she looks up at him. But with his supposition, her eyes lower contemplatively to watch the silhouettes cast by the nearby trees shift every time he swallows, gaze falling somewhere at the hollow of his throat. "She called all of this a puzzle," she tells him. "Not a fight to be won. It could have been allegory - she did inspire the concept of bloody vengeance for the culture, but somehow I believe her when she said that." What inspired her, in the end, to start treating it like one the moment she got out of the feeding ground.

"And it's starting to seem more and more like it, not just in this instance, but in all the other ones." She furrows her brows for a moment, before she turns her face to pepper gentle, affectionate kisses along the line of his jaw, stopping when she buries her face in his shoulder. "Our trip to the Veil yielded more questions than answers, but I found out something interesting about the Carousel. Or at least, its counterpart in the Veil."

"It's nice to know that I'm at least somewhat influential," Alexander says, contentedly as her hands slip around his neck. He holds her close, enjoying the feel of her warmth and vitality in his arms. His eyebrows do jump at the eagerness for the makeup sex, and his laugh is a low rumble in his chest. "I suppose I'd better find something for us to fight about soon, then."

"You can't trust them, you know," he reminds her, quietly. "And someone who has worked with Them for so long? The way she thinks about things might not even be what we'd recognize as human." He kisses her temple, his fingers massaging skin and fabric in long, soothing motions. A pleased sound comes from the back of his throat at her rapid kisses. "Which isn't to say there's not something to be learned. Just be careful that it's not just another lure, meant to draw you into something you can't get out of it."

He twitches at mention of the Carousel. No, he hasn't forgotten the worm. In his BRAIN. "What did you learn?" he asks, quietly, already bracing himself for something terrible.

There's a quiet laugh when he humors her, Isabella's eyes dancing with unsuppressed mirth. "It wouldn't be right if you forced it," she tells him, though she knows he isn't serious to begin with. Her arms give him a faint squeeze, fingers climbing up to dive into the dark half-curls at the back of his head. "Besides, I'm almost halfway certain half the families in this town are probably doing battle over the dining table as we speak, consider us getting along at the moment as our way of balancing out the universe."

The sobering reminder that Their agents can't be trusted has her nodding once against his collar, closing her eyes; her lashes brush against his skin, body following the soothing motions of his hands against her back, through the softness of black cashmere, heart pounding in a different, more exhilarated way when his mouth moves against her temple. "Sometimes the only way to discover a trap is to spring it," she reminds quietly. "But at the very least, I know I'm right about her, Alexander."

Slowly, she eases her head back to watch his eyes, feeling him twitch. "It doesn't clone people, not like what you experienced in your Dream," she tells him after a pause. "And it seems to operate mechanically in much the same fashion as out here - turns clockwise every day, except Tuesday, where it turns counterclockwise. I asked the Tour Guide why it changes direction every Tuesday, and he said it was undeterminable. So what happens every Tuesday?" She purses her lips. "Was thinking of observing it on a Tuesday here, and then on a Tuesday there. I also think...geographically? It might be the center of the town over there, because no matter where you go in its open areas, you can see it. It doesn't seem to move." She wrinkles her nose faintly. "Hopefully I don't run out of Prozac if I'm going to keep doing this."

Reminded, she groans. "It was a little strange, by the way, but the Archivist sent us the Tour Guide, with its regards. He, uh...looks like Byron. Made of wax. I'm still trying to figure out how to explain to Ronnie that the Archivist is building very idealized effigies of him to assist visitors in their explorations in the other side."

"I don't know if I like that kind of pressure, Isabella. We can't be the ones who keep the holidays from imploding into family drama and hate." Alexander's clearly not serious, and his eyes half close as her fingers find the thick hair and he leans back into the touch like an eager cat. He trails two fingers down her spine. "I don't think you're wrong. Just be careful. That's all I ask."

There's a soft laugh. "I think you might be expecting logic from a place that doesn't have any, Isabella. It's an unreal thing; you can't trust it to behave like real things. Tuesdays might just be the days where it feels like going counterclockwise." But the mention of it being the 'center' of town draws an interested sound from him. The mention of Prozac has his eyes opening again, studying her for a moment in silence. "Well. If you need more, I'm sure Dr. Glass would understand once you explain the situation," he says, carefully.

And then she mentions wax!Byron, and his eyes widen. Another shudder. "Did you kill it? Is it dead?"

"No, we can't," Isabella affirms, mildly and cheerfully. "But luckily, I'm a pressure player." She winks at him then, cheekily, before she presses her mouth against the side of his face, eyes closing there. His catlike tendencies to relish the way she touches his hair is one that often earns her affectionate indulgence, so her fingers slip higher up along the back of his head, diving deeper into the strands.

Just be careful, is all I ask.

"It's just research, darling," she tells him with a faint smile. "Old research. And I'm not a healer." The recollection threatens another frown on her lips once more. "Honestly, I feel as if the likes of August, Erin, Lilith and Bennie are more at risk of Their ire than you or me."

His quiet laugh manages to banish the burgeoning displeased expression, leaning forward for another kiss. "Maybe," she allows. "But it can't hurt to look, especially if you can't seem to get away from it no matter where you go on the other side." Distaste curls over her expression. "Honestly, I don't like medicating. The pills are a good temporary solution, but I can't..." She sighs. "I can't operate like this forever."

His shuddering has her squeezing him warmly. "He melted when we followed him into the gigantic, trap-laden labyrinth that we found in the sewers under the Veil-side's Elm Street. I think cultists who worship the Ring might be living there." What? "Anyway, the Carousel thing could be nothing, but it could be not nothing." Mischief glints in her eyes. "Want to stake it out?"

"The healers have trouble stopping." Alexander's frustration with them all breaks through for a moment, and his grip on her becomes almost painfully tight. He takes a breath, lets it out. "They're not good at saying no. None of them. And they need to learn. I'm not, I don't want them not to help people, but it's okay to just be sore or have to heal for a couple of weeks. It's okay to have scars. If you're going to put a target on your chest, it should be because...because there's a meaningful gain."

And then he sighs. "None of which matters, since overuse is not your prob--" he blinks. "Overuse is not your problem. Why were you even there, Isabella? August, Erin, Lilith...even Byron and Easton, of late, sure, I could sort of see it. But you hardly ever use your abilities." Then his frown becomes a scowl. "Was it because of Peregrine? Because that's not fair. You had no control over that! They can't fucking punish you for something they made you do!"

Even the thought of a melting wax Byron takes a temporary back seat to this unfairness, and he seethes quietly until he can bring it back under control. "It'll be cold. And wet. But if you want, sure." A sideways look. "The Ring has a cult? That manages not to murder each other trying to possess it?"

She doesn't wince when he grips her tight; Pain is an old friend, and most days, Isabella has a complicated, but intimate relationship with it. Soothing noises escape her as she rolls her fingers gently through his curls, but overall, she listens to his frustrations, sympathy playing over the lines of her face. "They're all stubborn," she murmurs. "We can probably ask Byron to keep an eye on Lilith, and Easton with Bennie, but Erin and August? I know August is attached to his gifts." She remembers the sound of his voice, when the Veil-flu had taken it away.

As his temper slowly unravels, the face his lover makes is clear enough on the fact that she has thought about that, and has come to the same conclusion he has - the well of power inside of herself that had been unleashed in Saint Mary's to fuel and construct a waking nightmare and ease the burden off who could be another agent, and had run its course for a few hours. "They can," she tells him quietly. "Just as They can probably feed off of Their soldiers who fall in a confrontation. I don't think They're picky over who gets to be food, Alexander, so long as They're fed."

The sideways look has her shaking her head. "I didn't hear them, but August did. By the time we got closer to the bowels of the labyrinth, there was a scent in the air addling my senses. Like flowers." That sounds familiar, too. "We didn't see them, though, so we're not sure. Something to tell Magnolia's group about, before they venture in there. I'm still deciding whether I should go with them - I think I've done my part and from what I gather, she's thinking of bringing Easton."

"August knows the cost. He's determined to pay it." Alexander sounds...weary. This is clearly a discussion that he's had with the man before, and the edge of his worry is sharp but heavy with resignation. "And I can't tell him that he can't, obviously. He's making an informed decision. And has his reasons." His voice drops to a grumble. "Doesn't mean I like it." He nuzzles her hair. "I worry more about Erin, I think. She's lonely and looking for purpose. Seizing on the healing must be attractive to her, but it's dangerous as well."

In regards to Them and their agents, he can only say, "I despise them." But there's an edge to it that is as sharp and deadly as a knife.

And that's all he says for a bit, content to hold her and listen to the story of the sewer labyrinth. Until, finally, he asks, "Do you want to go? Easton's a good choice if there will be fighting. I'd trust him at my back. But if it will bother you to not be there, then you should go."

This insight into August's character, spoken by a person who knows him better than she does, has her nodding faintly, followed by a contemplative noise. She must agree with him about Erin, because: "I'll talk to her," Isabella tells him quietly, closing her eyes when his face finds her hair. Her arms give him another squeeze. "Maybe she'll listen to me, if I outline for her what we're looking at."

Her tongue twists at the taste of his derision, and can she blame him? "They've tormented you since you were a child," she whispers, pressing her face against the side of his throat. "They took my brother. I hate them, too." More than words can possibly express.

The quiet words that brush over her hair are those that have her lapsing into silence. "It's Magnolia's quest, and Kevin's," she tells him quietly. "I don't think it'd bother me if I didn't go but at the same time, it's a good opportunity to learn more about the other side, and we already talked about doing excursions there. I'm the explorer, I should be exploring. I just don't like medicating, but it's too important of an endeavor to risk panic attacks." Her exhale washes over his collar, nestling further against his chest. "I'll figure it out."

"Good," Alexander says, quietly. He threads his fingers through her hair, combing it gently as they talk. "She's a good person, but not really a combatant. I know she was picking up lessons from Kelly - I mean, I think she was, but it takes a while to get good at fighting." He shrugs to the mention of his own childhood, but caresses her neck when she mentions her brother. "You have more than adequate reason to."

He listens to her response. "You know that if I can help, I will. I don't...particularly want to expose myself to that ring, but if you need a partner to go over there with you, on other expeditions..."

Her expression flattens somewhat at his shrugging, pushing at him lightly. A small laugh escapes her, though it's barely more than a chuff. "Well, I care. I'd like to see you get a good night's sleep at some point in your life." One hand disengages from him, cupping his cheek warmly and banishing the chill she finds there with a touch. "Your mind's an incredible machine even while exhausted. I want to see how it functions when you're actually rested."

It would probably be terrifying, but that's one of the reasons why it would be exciting.

At the last, her smile turns upwards. "You're the only one I'd even allow to influence me in that way," she tells him simply. "And why did you think I asked you to stake out the Carousel with me?" The hand in his hair reluctantly pulls away, so she can cradle his face between both of hers. "It's a date," she murmurs. "Besides, you're already my partner in other things, why not this one, also?"

Alexander laughs, softly. "If I ever stopped having the nightmares, I suspect that we'd find other reasons for me to stay awake." The exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows is visible even in the dark as he teases her. He kisses her softly. "I figured you asked because you want to see me shivering and cuddling with you for warmth. Because you're a devious plotter like that." Another kiss, before he tilts his head to look at the sky through the trees. "That said? We should probably head back. I can feel the damp seeping through my pants, and these are for Sundays. But this is a beautiful place. Thank you, Isabella, for sharing it with me."

"Shivering? Me? Please, it's like you don't know me at all!" Isabella laughs, though the sound is smothered, eventually, by his kisses, which she returns with interest. "But you're right, maybe that's why I want us to find a way to conquer your night terrors. Because if anyone's going to keep you up all night, it's going to be me." At the reminder of the hour, though, she rises and dusts off her skirt, her hand linking in his as they start to turn back towards the hiking trails, and the cherry-red Jeep waiting for them.

There's a glance over her shoulder as they leave, towards the field of yellow dandelions and fireflies, for a moment acknowledging the gut-wrenching vise of longing that grips her, and spools out of her in a bittersweet ribbon. But she turns her face to press her lips against his nearest shoulder as they move.

"You shared your home with me," she points out quietly. "In many ways, this was mine, too." And as they make their way up, and then down the path, another soft laugh escapes her, floating down into the darkness.

"Besides, for all you know, this is just an excuse to trap you in a confined space so I can have sex with you in the car."

Alexander rises to his feet, taking the offered hand without hesitation. "I said see me shivering," he points out with amusement as they make their way down the path. Then laughs at her enthusiastic agreement. "I feel like I need to start working out more, just to keep up."

Not that he seems to mind, and as they walk, he slips his arm around her waist, letting his hand rest easily against her as they move together. An eyebrow arches. "Oh? Well. I haven't done that in quite a few years, Isabella, but it's pretty fun. All you ever have to do is ask. At least, before the snow sets in. I don't think it's fair to be evaluated on performance when it's below freezing." A haughty, playful little sniff. Then he grins, and slips ahead of her to reach for her wrist and tug her down the path.

Why yes, he assumed that was a suggestion, and when they reach the car, he's happy to show her just how thankful he is for it.