2019-11-30 - Learning Is Good

It's later in the afternoon, and Alexander has returned from his wanderings back to his house. The sun is already heading towards the horizon, and the shadows are deep and long. Light is shining from the windows of 13 Elm Street, making it clear that he's home. He's cleared out a small corner, and is sitting on the floor with Luigi on his head and the pieces of a small plastic Christmas tree spread out before him. He's putting it together with careful skill, and humming 'Silent Night' under his breath. The cat is sprawled on the couch, which seems unoccupied by Isolde at the moment, watching the proceedings with sleepy blue eyes. The air has a light, herbal scent to it that's more obvious in the chill - Alexander hasn't yet found it cold enough to waste money turning on the heat, so the air has a perceptible nip to it. There is, however, a space heater near the bird cage, for the coldest part of the nights.

The familiar, dated, but well-maintained cherry-red Jeep pulls up on the sidewalk to park and it doesn't take long for Isabella to climb out of it, dressed in what he had seen her wear that morning in her houseboat before he pulled the chute like a frantic paratrooper before he got caught in a blast. That's how fast he exited her vessel anyway. After a glance towards the new mailbox, and still somewhat baffled by its absence (what was wrong with the old one?), she moves towards the front porch. There's no coat on her today, not when it's just a quick walk from her vehicle to the door.

Whenever he opens it, he'll find her there - at least she doesn't look irritated (visibly) anymore by the way he flew out of her residence like a bat out of hell at the scent of an argument, but it seems that she has come to deliver something because there's a double-breasted coat made out of black tweed folded over one arm, and it looks too big to fit a slender young thing like her.

"You left so quickly, I didn't manage to give you something," she tells him, shaking out the bundle and holding it up to him. "I think this will fit."

At the knock on the door, there's an offended shriek from Luigi, who takes off in fluttery flight back to his cage, and proceeds to ring his bell with angry condemnation. Alexander climbs to his feet, his expression curious as he slouches to the door. Seeing Isabella on the other side, he opens it quickly, and offers her a warm smile, like his flight from potential strife never happened. "Isabella. Come in, please. It's good to see you." And when she steps in, he tries to pull her in close for a kiss before he even looks at what she has in her arms, kicking the door closed with one foot before Blue Bell can get curious. Only once that is done does he reach for the offered bundle. "A jacket? I...thank you. Where is this from?" he asks, reaching out for it and holding it up to his body thoughtfully.

"...well, I should consider this a promising state of affairs if you think it's good to see me no matter how many times that actually happens in the day. I wouldn't want you to get sick of me," Isabella remarks, lips quirking upwards despite herself, pulled easily in his arms when he kisses her, which she returns with interest. There hasn't been much of an exchange in that context when August had arrived, and she makes up for it by taking her time before she politely takes off her ballerina flats and sets them aside.

Asked where it's from, her bandaged hands slide in her pockets. "It was my father's," she explains. "I was getting the house ready, he's due back in a couple of weeks, and I needed to stop by to maintain the armory anyway. He's a little heavier and taller than you, so it won't fit perfectly but I remember you explained to me why you prefer your clothes a little loose. He doesn't wear it anymore, not since when Sid and I were children, so I thought you could borrow it until we find something else."

As she steps further into the house, her hand reaches out to draw her fingertips lightly over Blue Bell's fur. She can't help it, being a tactile creature, and she's so soft.

"I do like seeing you," Alexander admits, plainly. "And kissing you." He starts to fold the jacket neatly, touching it lightly as he does. He might even be about to read it, but something she says makes him frown. "...getting the house ready? I thought I was going to do that, Isabella. Did I forget something?" His fingers curl in the fabric, briefly, before he moves to set it on the coffee table. Blue Bell is always happy to be admired, and at the soft touch on her fur, she rises to her feet with an elegant stretch, then turns to butt her head into Isabella's fingers with an imperious gesture: scritch the ears, human. Alexander watches woman and cat with a frown.

"I like kissing you too," Isabella says, smiling over at him over her shoulder as she strokes the cat, and eases into the couch next to her, letting the cat's purring roll over her fingers. "And petting you, little princess. I'd do the same to Luigi, but he's ornery." A playfully chastizing look at the bird.

Green-gold eyes look genuinely surprised as she lifts them to look at him. "We were going to pack some things together," she tells him. "I haven't done that yet, Mom's things haven't been moved, but as for the heavy lifting, I..." The hinge of her jaw tenses a little. "...I don't know how I could ask anyone that. You're sweet to offer, but that's not something..." Her voice trails off, and she looks down at Blue Bell's beautiful eyes.

"It was still her," she finally says, haltingly, feeling the knot harden at the back of her throat. "Parts of her. Bits of her. I couldn't ask anyone else to...it didn't feel right to me."

There's a flare of something in Alexander's eyes: hurt and anger both rise up in his face, and he turns aside so that she can't see him trying to get under control. "It's just flesh," he says. "There's no shame in letting someone else clean up the damn blood, Isabella. I would have done that. You didn't have to--" he's not good at hiding his agitation. He stalks with jerky movements away from her, towards the kitchen. Bang as he yanks open one of the cabinets so fast that it bounces off the other side. "It's fine. Do what you want." He grabs a glass, and slams the cabinet shut again. Then pauses. "I'm going to get some water. Do you want some? Or anything else? I have a bottle of scotch for if you or Easton visit."

It's the sudden bang of the cupboard that has her looking up, Isabella staring at him uncomprehendingly as he stalks past and heads for the kitchen. He's still in full view, so his marionette-like movements, as if yanked by some angry puppeteer, ensnare her attention immediately. Easing away from Blue Bell, determined steps take her to where he has decided to land, her jaw set and eyes alight with reflected fury - confusion, also, because somehow this is her fault and she's not exactly sure how that happened.

"If you have something to say to me, just say it, Alexander," she tells him bluntly - and that, too, is by design, to snap whatever tenuous thread is keeping his temper at bay, because it might be the only way to get to the heart of it. "I know you would have done that, otherwise you wouldn't have offered, but it isn't about shame - not entirely! So what is it?"

Alexander holds the empty glass in his hand. "Nothing to drink, then?" He sighs and fills his own glass with water, drinks it, puts the glass to one side, with more force than strictly necessary, as he turns to stare at her as she approaches. "I don't know why you would do that to yourself when I said I would do it for you." A muscle in his jaw jumps. "It's stupid to hurt yourself for, what, pride? Goddamn it, Isabella, no one thinks you're not tough! You don't have to prove anything. I wanted to help!" He's not yelling; the emphasis is instead in the sharpness of his tone, the strain of it in his throat as he gives her a frustrated glare.

At the force of that glare, Isabella stares at him mutely, color draining from her face. As if he had actually reared back, and cracked her one.

It doesn't last long, because it never does, so quick to recover as usual and blood rushes from underneath her cheeks, leaving them aglow as she rounds on him with a sharpened breath, heart crashing in her ribcage. "You are," she hisses through clenched teeth. "The least qualified person in the world to lecture me about hurting myself that way! You can't stand there and say that to me when I know that if our situations were reversed, you wouldn't even let me anywhere close to that, no matter how much I begged, or pleaded to do it for you!"

She shoves her hand towards him, the bandages gleaming white under the light, eyes brimming with pain and bright with fury. "And don't try to tell me that you don't," she continues, rapidly, breathlessly. "Because I know. I know now. Every time you touch something where someone got slaughtered, it just seeps into you like poison...or a bomb ready to explode! How many years has it been, Alexander?! How many cases?! HOW MANY?!! Doing that over, and over, and over again?! You-- " She bites back the rest and lowers her hand, expression twisting in agony.

"I should be asking you that question," she whispers fiercely, vehemently, her eyes falling on her hands. "Why do you do this to yourself again and again? How could you...how could..."

"You read it? You read your mother's murder?" Alexander stares at her in shock and horror, even beyond that that had crossed his face when she went pale. "Christ almighty, Isabella! What were you thinking?" He grabs the hand that she shoves towards him, tries to pull her into a fierce, angry embrace. "Don't do that, sweetheart. Don't...you don't need to read that shit. Okay? I do it so that other people don't have to. So that mysteries aren't mysteries and people can get something like justice. But you don't have to. That's why I'm here, damn it!"

"Do you think I wanted to?!" Isabella's voice rises in a shriek, months of suppressing her grief cascading against the cracks of her fortress, a dam about to burst. "I was fine when I finished. I was fine! And when I was done, I was cleaning up and I touched the floor and it just...it just...it wasn't me! I've never...not before! This never happened before!"

There's resistance when he grabs her wrist, but she's never been able to successfully fight back against him physically and she's pulled into his chest. Nails grip the back of his shirt, nearly tearing at the fabric as moisture starts to spill uncontrollably from her eyes, memories sunk in bitter remembrance of what she had experienced in the family home. "All I thought about was doing this for my father, so he wouldn't have to, because I haven't really done anything for him save to send him away while I went on some crusade to end it! But I wasn't...I wasn't here!"

The last three words unspool from her in a strangled cry.

"All she wanted was for us to come home," she says in a rush, the words squeezed out of her chest. "All she wanted was her children..." This isn't the first time she has shed tears in front of him, but not like this. She grips him like a vise, horrified and desperate, because this isn't what she intended and it's too late to stop it. She is only half aware that she's actually weeping.

"Oh, Alexander...how can you stand it? How do you do...oh god...oh god..."

It's a cheap shirt, anyway. Alexander doesn't seem to mind, or even notice, her nails digging into his back but he's definitely not letting her fight her way away from his embrace. Not this time, at least. His focus is on the pain he can hear in her voice and he crushes her against him, his face buried in her hair as she speaks. "Isabella, Isabella," is all he says, soft and low, like a prayer. Even after she questions him, he doesn't answer immediately. Just the sound of her name, and a swaying in place as he holds her, encouraging her without saying it to cry, to do whatever she needs to do.

Eventually, he says, "I'm so sorry. You should never have to see that, Isabella. Not ever."

All resistance drains away from her eventually, unable to fight herself out of the cage he makes until Isabella resigns herself to clutch at him instead, and subject him to this torrential outpouring of grief. Much like how she does everything else in her life, once she decides, her investment is wholehearted, even in this - his kitchen fills with her sobs, the scream she attempts to bury against his shoulder, her face wet with tears that soak into his shirt. Her knees start to give, and she uses his taller, sturdier frame like a crutch, to prevent herself from sinking into the floor. She flails against him, fingers balled so tightly bone-points whiten her sunkissed skin, but it all ends with her crushed into his body, doing what she should have in the Summer.

"How can you do this to yourself...?" she sobs. "Every time you're out there, you...how can you stand...?"

Finally, she falls silent, her face hidden on his chest, her tearful, furious fit reduced to quiet, choking sounds.

"Oh, sweetheart, it was your ma," Alexander tells her, mostly to her hair, as he holds her. He doesn't seem to mind supporting her when her own strength wanes, and the tears are accepted along with the screams. "It's not always like that. It's not...usually good, but most of the things I read don't involve anyone I know, and certainly not people I love, who love me. It's not--" he just sighs, because he can't say 'that bad' and be honest with her. "I've been doing it for a long time," he says, instead, "and I'm used to it." Nevermind that the wrong read will absolutely reduce him to screaming and tears himself.

This is as far from her own experiences as it comes, and now she can't help but wonder just how much Isidore was actually insulating her from, when she was bonded to him. Her horrified mind drifts back as he holds her, eyes peering over the hard curve of his shoulder; what he must have witnessed reading the gun, the visions that plagued his mind exploring Violet's house (oh god, Violet's house), the bits and pieces left behind by the dead that he had to touch and hold in his past cases.

And not just him, but Byron, too. Byron and Javier, and Isabella can't help but blanch at the last, recalling the words she told Easton, suggesting that the Key be read - knowing, but not fully understanding the costs. Guilt, raging and unforgiving, wells up from her chest.

"...I knew you just wanted to help," she tells him quietly, her voice thready and hoarse from her crying, her cheek pressed flush against his chest. "I didn't mean to make you feel as if I didn't need you. That wasn't...that wasn't what I intended."

The kitchen is not made for cuddling, and Alexander clearly thinks Isabella needs cuddling, because he bends a little to scoop her up in his arms, continuing to hold her close, and carefully maneuvers them to the couch, where he settles down with her in his lap, and holds her tight. Just in case she gets any ideas about squirming away. He kisses the top of her head, and his voice is rough as he says, "I know. I know, Isabella. But I can do so little for you. I thought...I thought that, I believed that was a thing I could spare you from. And I wanted to. No one should have to do that, sweetheart. Abilities or no - no one should have to do that."

He slides his hands down her arms to find her hands and the gauze there. "From the reading?" Or, rather, her reaction to it.

The animals are thankfully silent, at the moment - but then again they tend to be sensitive to human agitation, and Isabella held nothing back while she was in his arms in the kitchen.

It is testament to the state of herself when she doesn't resist being scooped up in his arms. On another day, perhaps, she would have insisted on walking with only minor assistance, but there are absolutely no protestations when he hefts her up. Joey Kelly's training must be doing wonders, because he does so easily, as if she weighed nothing when she feels so heavy from this ridiculous, terrible exorcism of her own demons, her head lolling against his shoulder and only half-aware, really, of what's happening until they're settled on the couch. At the very least, she isn't fighting anymore - there's no further tension in her when she submits herself to that tight embrace. He could squeeze her as painfully as he wants, and she would not object.

"You do plenty," she says, her bloodshot eyes finding his dark stare, her voice cracking at the seams. "For me. For people you hardly know. You're doing plenty for me even now. I love you."

She lets him take her hands, and her gaze drops to look at her fingers. "...it wouldn't come off," she confesses softly. "I felt the blood. I scrubbed until it peeled. I didn't know what was happening....I never...demonstrated a facility for that before, so..."

"I love you too, Isabella." It's quiet and rough at the same time, and Alexander kisses her right between the eyes, his beard brushing her skin. "It sounds like your broke through to a new level of ability," he adds, after a moment. "I don't know why people do - maybe it was...proximity, to something that had such meaning for you. Maybe it's just another part of your healing." A deep breath and quiet sigh. "But, yeah. That's what it's like. Sometimes. It's hard to tell from reality." He caresses the unbandaged parts of her hand, fingers skating ever so lightly when they encroach on the gauze. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to feel that. I'm sorry you had to deal with it alone. And I'm sorry I yelled at you about it."

Her eyes fall shut at that, letting the last of the stress wind out of her at that slow, deliberate exhale, savoring the warmth of his mouth against her brow. "Maybe I'm healing too fast, before ability can even catch up." Isabella chews on her bottom lip in thought, slowly recovering the clarity of her mind the longer she sits there on his lap. "Itzhak told me that he lost some of his abilities recently, after whatever he endured with August. But he gained some, too. So it's not just me...it seems like it can break, but compensate for the break in other ways."

She watches his fingers, for a moment, as they skim lightly over the bindings, before she leans in to press her mouth against the tender hinge just under his nearest ear. "I didn't want you to see me like that, anyway," she tells him. "It wasn't...it wasn't pretty. You're not the only one who wants to spare the other of the difficult things." Another kiss, pressed against the hollow of his cheek. "Though, I don't know. I didn't want you to feel that way, either. We're supposed to be helping one another, especially if we're going to be together. It's just...it's difficult, to deviate from operating solo." Her eyes lift to meet his own directly. "I'm sorry...for rejecting you. It wasn't what I intended, but it happened anyway. I didn't even think about how you would take it."

She is slowly starting to reclaim the composure she has lost, embarrassment filtering over the delicate lines on her visage. "Anyway, it's okay if you yell at me so long as you're not surprised that I yell at you back." And how. "...oh, darling. I didn't know...I didn't know how hard it really was..."

"Maybe," Alexander murmurs, nuzzling her hair as they sit there. "Either way, I can't even imagine what a shock that was to you. Reading a murder is something you should generally work your way up to," he says, not without a bit of gallows humor there. "It's not 'first read' material." His fingers continue to play with the edges of her bandages. "And I don't mind when you're not pretty, Isabella. You're always beautiful. I know you didn't mean anything by it," he adds, after a moment. "It's just...hard. Sometimes. I'm very good at certain things, like reading, and it's...I want to be useful. That's all." It's not exactly all, maybe; but his expression suggests that he doesn't know exactly how to explain these particular feelings.

But her last remark has him smiling, gently, and bending to kiss the tip of her nose. "I'd rather we don't yell at each other. If it's possible." Spoiler: it's not going to be possible. "And it's not that hard. Isabella, don't feel bad for me. I choose to do what I do because I think it's worth it."

The way he tends to her has the double-edged effect of comforting her and guilting her at once; now that her temper has abated, Isabella can at least dissemble the messy tangle within herself, silently nestling against him while his mouth roams on her hair and his fingers play against her hand. Her palm slowly rotates on her thigh, fingertips carefully brushing along rougher, callused tines, wordlessly examining the visible marks left behind by the countless travails he has endured - even now, she is unable to prevent herself from doing this every time she's near him, mapping her own way through the perplexing, beguiling geography of him, and marvel at her own eagerness to discover what she finds.

She laces her fingers with his, carefully, turning her face to press it gently against the side of his throat.

"I can't do what you do," she says, quietly, forcing the statement through her teeth, and he will probably never know how difficult saying those words are, for her - I can't, a phrase so anathema to her overall makeup that she recoils visibly at the sound of it, her body tensing on his lap. "Every time I think back to...to..." She swallows. "...knowing that's what happens every time, I can't wrap my head around the idea that this is what you do for a living. The kind of fortitude that it requires to..." She tightens her grip on his hand. "I know you're used to it, but..."

It's still awful. How Alexander can still manage to function despite years of practicing this is staggering, to her.

"I don't think it's going to be possible," she tells him - she at least demonstrates some foresight there, tilting her head to meet his eyes. "Not with your temper, and mine." Her smile flickers visibly, then fades. "And I don't feel bad for you. Not on this...I'm just worried, for when it gets too much. For you. I know you're tough, I'm in no way suggesting you'll suddenly break when you get your hands on the wrong object, I just..."

Her jaw sets as her stare drifts lower, finding a spot somewhere by his collarbone. "My ability to help you there is limited, too," she says, her voice low.

"You don't have to do what I do, Isabella," Alexander says, bluntly. "You do things I can't do, or wouldn't want to do. And that's okay." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat when she talks about his fortitude. "It's not...it doesn't happen like that every time. And I'm used to it." A pause. "I know I just said that, but you have to understand it - it's not fun, all the time, but it's not some insurmountable obstacle, either. It's just what it is."

An awkward sort of shrug, which doesn't go well with the cuddles, but he's trying, nonetheless. "And it won't get too much. I've seen a lot. Sometimes it does break me. But I always scar over and keep going, in the end." He smiles down at her. "I'm tough."

"I don't want to," Isabella tells him firmly, tilting her head sideways to rest her temple against his shoulder. Whatever discomfort there is from his shrugging barely registers, allowing herself to be held and keep her hand tangled on his, listening to him breathe and take in the scent of coffee and paper. "If I could let you inside my head and fix things so I would never be able to do that again, I would, and if you know a way, you should let me know." Her teeth clench, attempting to shove the experience away - no matter how many times she tries, and despite his reassurances, she can't help but worry and wonder how he manages to repeat the experience without going insane.

Thoughts that she keeps to herself, in the end.

She smiles back at him faintly, eyes lidding. "I know you are," she tells him; his toughness was never a question. "I doubt I'd be so attracted to you if you didn't have an incredible amount of fight in you." The last said teasingly, but it is truthful, also. Finally, however, she disengages her hand gently from his to cup his cheek.

"I'll need to learn from you, now," she tells him softly. "I was never taught this. How to stop it. This was...I never wanted this." There were other abilities she wishes she had - throw lightning and fireballs, maybe even coax animals to follow her commands. Fix the things she breaks. But not this.

Her thumb traces the shape of his cheekbone, shame of a different kind worming out of her stomach. When she smiles, it wavers slightly - but only slightly. "Forgive me?" Spoken with the utmost delicacy.

"I don't know a way, Isabella. And you know that I don't think that's the way to handle it," Alexander says, with a frown. "You can't...cripple the parts of yourself that you don't like, or that scare you. That just gives them too much power." He kisses the top her head. "The only way out is through. That's always true. And I can show you how I've built my defenses. It doesn't always work. I've always been," a grimace, "open. To receiving things. If Byron was more comfortable with it, I'd suggest you ask him; his defenses are strong, and even I have trouble pushing anything into his head he doesn't want to receive."

He sighs. "But reading isn't always, or even usually, like that. There are good memories out there. And even the bad ones aren't as bad as the death of someone you love. I promise." And then he tilts his head to one side, looking puzzled. "Forgive you? For what?"

"I don't think it's fair to be crippled in the aspects I prefer and be perfectly functional in the ones I never wanted," Isabella grumps. Normally they can interact as equals and it is due to this aspect of their relationship that enables her to forget, most days, about the significant age difference between them. Today, though, she can't help but remind him of the fact because she's being petulant and unreasonable - in this case, anyway.

It wouldn't be a problem, usually - her mental defenses are no joke, either, but if nothing else, they've at least managed to find a hole in that labyrinthine fortress. After all, how can anyone build a defense against something unknown and foreign until right this moment? But he'd find those eyes gaping at him openly, when he tells her that he perpetually keeps himself accessible in that way. "....you...what...?" she utters, clearly flabbergasted. "But...why?" She ought to be more understanding; she and her twin lived half their lives defying the boundaries between two identities, but that's different. Isidore has always been known to her - but to keep the gates open to strangers?

His reassurances draw a healthy amount of skepticism on her expressive mien, which is perhaps understandable - like a child that is fresh from learning from the follies of sticking a fork in an electrical socket, or touching a hot stove for the first time. But she elects to believe him, after a moment, though not without a quiet grouse. His last inquiry, though, wipes those traces away to make room for her visible embarrassment, fixing her gaze to a point past her head.

"For fighting you when you just wanted to hold me," she professes, awkwardly. "And...for losing it. I've never...not like that. I was..." She makes a face. "Hysterical."

Alexander grins at her petulance - it isn't like he's not incredibly petulant when he gets frustrated, age aside - and ruffles her hair. Which may not be the optimal response, but he's feeling it, so he goes for it. He shakes his head a little at her expression. "It's not...voluntary. Not entirely. I mean, I suppose it is. I'm just too curious - I hate to be shut down from the world. I don't use my abilities all of the time, because I'm not a raging idiot," although this might explain how much he seems to be the Dark Men's favorite snack on a regular basis, "but the world is interesting. Cutting myself off from reading would be like," a long pause, "stabbing my ear drums. I could live without it, sure. But I'd hate it."

He sighs when she subsides into embarrassment. "You were hurt. And angry. It's okay. And that's not 'losing it', Isabella. You didn't throw a single thing at my head, or threaten me with castration, or," he clears his throat, "mind control a mob and set the house on fire. So, um, still well within acceptable stress parameters." A playful little wink at her.

The hair-ruffling is most definitely not an optimal response, but there's no heat in the glower Isabella subjects him to when his fingers find those dark tresses, though it inevitably softens into affection when she looks at him. Lips part, perhaps to say something, because she doesn't believe it's involuntary, but when he expresses his c uriosity, she can't help but grouse again. "Not exactly a thing I can blame you for, or burn you for," she acknowledges, albeit extremely reluctantly. "The two of us are idiots when that specific affliction gets ahold of us. Be it exploring ponds teeming with corpses in a twisted hellscape or shaking mob trees until Felix Monaghans and Joshua Fosters fall out." She side-eyes him there, because she hasn't forgotten how quickly he achieved escape velocity that morning after breakfast.

"It's...probably not something I'll be able to understand," she confesses after - she means his insistence. "At least, not in the context you describe it. I can comprehend blurring the boundaries between yourself and a person you trust, but everything else?" It isn't for her. But her smile lifts upwards at the corners, regarding him with a halfway feline look. "Then again, I did tell you I was absurdly picky."

His quiet sigh instills enough sobriety in her that her bandaged hand moves forward in an effort to find his own again, squeezing once it's returned to her grasp. "I was hurt. And angry. And I unleashed it on you when you did nothing to deserve it. When all you wanted was to spare me from it." She frowns visibly. "Though I have to wonder why you keep bringing it up, just how many times did things get thrown at you?" There is a very long pause when he mentions castration, and looks down at his lap, then back up at his eyes. "Trust me, that's never going to happen. Between you and me, I'm very attached to that part of you."

The last quip does blunt the growing levity on her features. Her hand grips his tighter, leaning in to kiss him softly after those words fall out of his mouth. "That's not absolution," she murmurs against his skin. "But I hope acceptance is okay."

Does that glower stop Alexander? No, no it does not. In fact, his grin widens and he ruffles for a moment longer, just to leave her hair in wild disarray. "We're curious idiots," he agrees, easily enough. Then tips sideways and pulls her over with him so that he can cuddle horizontally on the couch. "I'm not actually trying to get either Monaghan or Foster to fall out of a tree, metaphorically or otherwise. I just want to solve a murder." See? That's much better, isn't it.

He kisses her, little exploratory kisses over her soft skin. "I'm strange and difficult. It's okay if you don't understand, Isabella. And it's okay if you don't ever want to open yourself up like that." His eyes gleam. "I might be a little jealous if you did," he adds, but there's no serious worry about the matter in his voice. "Your mind is beautiful, and I like that you're willing to share it with me."

"It's your house. Your family's house. You have the right to do what you want with it," Alexander points out, with a shrug. "It hurt. But...I suppose it hurt more because people I like have been going to other readers, or haven't wanted my help on things. Which is also their right. But I," he frowns, "I don't really know what to do if I'm not being useful for people. And if I'm not being useful, I don't expect anyone to, um, want to spend any time with me. I'm not fun. I don't pass as normal." A weary sort of chuckle. "So. I overreacted a little. I'm sorry."

"I guess in college about...eight or ten people tried some sort of romantic relationship with me? It usually ended with the screaming and the throwing of things. Only one threatened to castrate me, and to be fair, he was a bit dramatic. I'm glad you're not interested in that sort of retribution, though. I'm sort of fond of it myself," he says, and waggles his eyebrows at her like the worst sort of lech. The smile turns crooked at the kiss and soft words. "I don't expect either, Isabella. I was just pointing out that my standards for emotional meltdown are pretty high, so don't worry about it."

She must really love him because in spite of that mighty glower, Isabella lets it happen, ruffled until the loose twist in which she usually arranges her hair is left a mess, instead of just a fetching tangle, that flat stare utterly emphatic of the effort she is levying to humoring him. But the boyish grin, these expressions of his that take ten years off his face and leave him with the distressing effect of looking dark-eyed and mischievous, is worth it, and she hoards it somewhere within her detailed and jealous memories while trying to ignore the incriminating flutter somewhere within her ribcage, because she's given him enough material for a lifetime.

I just want to solve a murder, he tells her, once they're rearranged on the couch, with his young, impetuous lover tucked against his side and blissfully unaware of the possibility of shenanigans sleeping somewhere in his bedroom, speaking of small (???) jealousies. But her smile has returned, savoring the way his mouth explores her skin, tilting her head back to give him the room while her lips nuzzle into his crown and press into the half-curls she finds there. "Yes. Solve a murder. Which happens to be tied to a controversial project backed by a potentially crooked mayor and will probably operate as a not-so-covert drug distribution and transport hub along the west coast run by some incredibly wealthy and dangerous people. Yes, my love. Just."

She would keep needling him over that, murmuring, "I like you strange and difficult," while tracing his brow gently with her lips. Though talk about him being jealous has her looking up at his eyes, genuine bewilderment there and a smile that's somewhat skeptical. "It's hard for me to picture you jealous," she says with a laugh. "I mean, what does that even look like? Do you pout? Do you get pouty?" Her bandaged hand finds the side of his face, planting kiss after kiss down the bridge of his nose. "Anyway if that's the trigger, you wouldn't have to worry there. Even if someone gets past the dragon, I don't think they'd know where to go, or how to find me." Her voice lowers then, her inflection quiet and intimate. "Only you."

She eases her head back after that, listening to what he imparts on her - outside of Alexander, Byron is the closest person in Gray Harbor to her, and the latter radiates nothing but confidence about his purpose and ability ninety percent of the time. Hearing her lover now, she is utterly amazed over the contrasts they present. Sympathy fills her eyes at his following words, because she knows what that is like - if nothing else, that had been the exact root while she and Lilith had a spat over Byron's memories, when she divulges information without knowing who it could hurt, because her usefulness tends to be focused on what she knows, or can figure out. "Alexander, it wasn't as if..." Guilt tugs on her stomach as she turns her attention on his shirt.

"...the only reason why Easton didn't ask you to read the Key was because I was worried about you when we talked about it," she says haltingly. "He wanted to come to you first but I was just telling him about how you've been through a lot lately and when he saw how relieved I was when he suggested that he go to someone else, it sealed the deal. It wasn't as if he didn't think of you right away, he did. It's just that he was trying to make his buddy's girlfriend feel better while drinking at his bar. If I had known how much this all means to you, I wouldn't have..." Why is she so bad at this? "...I didn't know you felt that way. It's not...it was me. Because of me."

A breath taken, she directs her stare directly into his. "I don't think that's true, though. That nobody would want to spend time with you if you aren't being useful. You have friends, Alexander. I don't think Easton would be talking about going out drinking with you or coming over if he didn't see you as one and...I'd spend hours of every day with you if your jobs and mine would allow. We..." And she can't help but laugh, shooting him a look. "We tend to talk more than do, though that isn't to say we don't do a lot, too. So you can't say I genuinely don't enjoy spending time with you."

When he does describe his romantic exploits, she gapes at him for a moment, before she tilts her head into his shoulder and starts laughing. She can't help it. "Oh, well," she tells him, breathlessly. "That's all? And to think all of that happened while I remember you looking me right in the eye and telling me with a straight face that you were never popular. I call shenanigans, Mister Clayton. And here I am, passing off for a relatively socially capable adult who didn't really have a first date until I was in my second year in college. I think you're vastly underestimating your appeal and overinflating mine." She winks at him sidelong there.

"I can't control what the murder's connected to," Alexander points out, like he's the voice of reason and measured response, himself. Nevermind that everything she mentions? Makes the mystery that much more interesting to unravel. He takes advantage of the skin she gives him access to, and kisses turn briefly to teasing little nibbles. Then he laughs against her skin, the breath hot over it. "Oh good. Because I don't think 'strange' or 'difficult' are changing anytime soon." As to getting jealous? He has to think about it, a bit, because jealousy is not an emotion that he's all that well acquainted with when it comes to himself, and when it happens, it always takes him as much by surprise as anyone else. "I get...angry? And then I realize that the people involved are probably better off without me, so I leave them to it and go away until the anger goes away, or turns into something easier to deal with." It's matter of fact.

He listens to the rest, eyebrows rising. "Ah." His hands curl inward just briefly, squeezing her as he sees the guilt on her features. "Isabella, it's okay." A pause. "But maybe, next time, think how you'd feel if I discouraged someone from bringing you on an expedition because I was worried about you getting hurt, or because I decided you'd had too much." His eyebrows go up, giving her a look that suggests he knows exactly what her response would be to his meddling in her affairs in such a way. "I know when I've hit my limits. And if you want to try to discourage someone from letting me do something stupid, at least start with discouraging me, hmm?"

The last only gets a snort of amusement. "You vastly overestimate what I mean, I think. There was sex, which was fun, and they thought I was different than I was, and found out quickly that I was me, and that's not who they wanted the relationship with." Which isn't hard to imagine, considering how quick even adult Alexander is to defer to another's wishes and preferences - right up until the moment that he's not, without a lot of warning in between. "And you're picky," he adds, poking at her with his fingers. "Picky, picky, picky. Which I am quite sure is the only reason you weren't drowning in men."

"You can control your involvement, though," Isabella grumbles, though the resignation settles in over her visibly, her smile a touch rueful. "Acceptance, not absolution. Though I reiterate, again, that you're lucky you're cute and I'm the last person in the world to get mad at someone for getting into dangerous trouble." She dives into uncharted waters for a living, though given the cold, the fact that she hasn't explored underwater terrain in months due to the lack of additional equipment is starting to make her antsy, to add onto the pressures of the thesis and the stress of the holidays. It does not make for a pretty combination. But he provides an ample and much needed distraction from all of it, choking back the rare giggle when his scruff drags against impossibly soft skin at his nibbling, turned over into the cushions as he does. Her arms curl around him, a hand slipping through his hair, leaving him with a kiss meant to deprive him of breath, encouraged by these heated traces of life caressing her skin by his nose and lips.

"Me too," she murmurs against his mouth. "I get furious and I fly off the handle." And in ways that are so incredible that it's actually amusing. "Emotionally, I have no chill. None, Alexander." He already knows that, though. "The fact that you haven't been scared off is bewildering to me. But if it ever happens, I hope you don't go away. I'd rather you come at me instead with everything you have." Because she would, without a doubt.

His chastisement is accepted with good grace - it's downright miraculous that her jaw isn't tilting in that defiant, stubborn angle, or launch into scathing litany about how she'll do what she wants. It must be everything else that goes hand-in-hand with intense, unyielding affection, coupled with the brutal logic that he presents to her and his applied knowledge of her behaviors, because it's true. "I'm sorry." The way she looks at him is so contrite, with those soft, large emerald-and-gold eyes, she looks even younger than her twenty-seven years. "I couldn't help it, I was worried, and..." She chews on her bottom lip. "I know you're a grown man and that you can take care of yourself but..." Her expression twists in indescribable disbelief, because she's about to say the words she's about to utter and oh my god what is happening: "...I want to. Take care of you. And most of the time I don't know how."

She listens to the rest of it though her skepticism remains. "What do you mean different than you were?" she wonders, and the idea is baffling to her; he's always so unfailingly honest, certainly what his past lovers wouldn't like about him would've been blatantly obvious? But that confused face bleeds away into surprise, and then laughter when he pokes and prods at her, squirming at his accidental tickling. "I am," she says, breathless as she makes a serious attempt to try and catch his poking fingers. "Picky. But I guess that would be understandable, also. Most people aren't idiots like me who'll go for it anyway no matter how high the probability of rejection is." There's a smile at him there, the memory of barring his way in the beach before he could walk away from her again filling her skull.

Alexander makes a wordless sound at that breathless kiss, and gives back as good as he gets, all words forgotten as he focuses entirely on the feel of her mouth against his, of their bodies close together. Maybe it's his own way of offering acceptance if not absolution. When they eventually break for air, he chuckles. His voice is rough, barely audible. "I love that you want to take care of me, Isabella. But I don't know how you would, either," he admits. "I don't really...I'm not used to anyone taking care of me. I'm not even used to talking to people, and I fuck that up on a regular basis." He chuckles again, rests his head on the worn cushions of the couch.

"I like that you're picky," he murmurs. "Even if I find your taste and criteria deeply suspect, considering it's poor enough to take up with a weirdo like me." His dark eyes twinkle at her, his humor self-mocking, but not exactly self-cruel.

The rough, low baritone and the easy manner that slips over him at the wake of their kiss electrifies her like nothing else. She had told Lilith, once, that obsession in a relationship could be a good thing, albeit it is an opinion made not without bias. He could practically sense it, as if he had charged her with lightning, vibrating over every open nerve, lashes pulled low as Isabella does nothing but look at him. The hand cupping his cheek shifts, her thumb touching the underside of his lower lip.

"I know," she tells him quietly, solemnly, because she's the same way, reluctant to be looked after in that fashion - they even fought about it today. "But take heart that I'll remember this moment and take you to task if you decide to go beyond the acceptable parameters of difficult." She pokes his side playfully, mischief dancing over the curve of her smile.

Her head returns against his shoulder, eyes closing. "Growing pains, I think," she murmurs. "This is new for the both of us. We'll figure it out, so long as we do it together."

His self-deprecation earns him a quiet laugh, craning her head backwards so she could watch his dark eyes glittering in the throes of it. "That tells me nothing," she declares with that stubborn chin lift. "You're suspicious by nature." But the return fire broadens her smile, flaring brilliantly in the dim light of his living room; radiant enough to triumph over Twilight's encroachment through his windows. "Though that does mean..." She presses her mouth against the side of his throat, hiking a leg over him so she could crawl directly on top of his broader frame, soft kisses peppered along his sturdy jawline, the delicate touch of her teeth hunting the shape of it through his scruff.

"...that whatever I lack in experience due to my absurd pickiness, I have to make up for with unbridled, youthful enthusiasm," she quips against his face, palms finding the cushions on either sides of his head. She eases back so she could look down at him, grin turning wry, the tresses of hair he's dislodged from his earlier ruffling dangling above his nose and tickling it.

"But I am in the market for an instructor in that regard and I was hoping that you would be available, Mister Clayton. I can promise you at least that I'm a very attentive student." Her teeth clip on her bottom lip, though she's grin grinning through it, the shape of it shameless and absolutely wicked. "Though if you do take it up, I hope you don't mind if I'm always hot for teacher."

Her eyebrows waggle playfully at that.

For those late to the party - there was noise not that much earlier, with some shouting, crying, and all of that, before it fell back down into soft talk. Alexander was, at some point, putting together a small artificial tree, and the pieces are still heaped in a corner of the living room. Alexander is not working on that, though - instead, he's now slid on his back on the couch, and Isabella has just slung her legs to either side of him. His hands are exploring, one hand sliding under her shirt as they banter with each other. "Unbridled enthusiasm? Well. I guess that's pretty fun," he pretends to muse, and kisses her chin. "And I do like attentive students. And enthusiasm. And you. I like you." Each brief statement perhaps making up in earnestness what it lacks in quick wit and punctuated with one kiss after another.

He may have forgotten that there's someone sleeping in his bedroom.

The door to the one bedroom actually used as a bedroom flings open, an immediate wince from the Blonde that occupies the doorway as she stumbles one step to the left and braces herself against the jamb with one hand while the other goes to her forehead. By some grace or miracle, the sheet she's stripped from among the bed linens stays in a tuck around her torso. "Suck it, Thor, and put down the hammer!" Bennie needs water, god does she need water. Her brain feels like dehydrated into a raisin that's rattling around in her cranium like a maraca. With her eye barely open enough to navigate, she spills out into the living area in her bedsheet ballgown with full train.

There's a quiet laugh, punctuated by more. Long fingers bury into his hair as Isabella trades words with Alexander, though the inevitable is what it is - whatever quick wit he associates with her becomes more and more distracted at every kiss he burns against her skin. "Unbridled," she confirms in between hungry nuzzling, his last words drawing a quiet laugh from her that's promptly muffled by his attentions. His hands are moving, so she makes it easy for him; bandaged fingers tug at her own shirt, the dark green fabric forgotten somewhere on the floor. "That's good," she murmurs distractedly. "That you like me." She grins against the investigator's mouth. "That just means I'll be looking forward to doing some extra credit and work really hard for that A-- "

The bedroom door opens, and a half-naked Bennie appears. She spills into the living room like a disheveled valkyrie and while normally, Isabella would be the sort to keep going the fact that it is coming from that side of the house catches her attention immediately, and her eyes slowly lift towards the sunny blonde, frozen while she's still entangled with Alexander on the couch.

"...Bennie?!" she squeaks, her fingers tugging on Alexander's collar in an effort to use his body to hide her shame. "What are you..."

Green eyes fall on the bra, and the sheet. She recognizes it.

"...doing...."

It's clinging to her hips.

"...here...?"

Is that Alexander's imagination or is her grip getting tighter around his collar?

"Diligence and ambition. Also good qualities, that I'm happy to--" There's a little jump under her as Alexander reacts to the thump of the door opening and Bennie coming out. He actually had forgotten for a few minutes that she was sleeping in there, but give him a break, because he had a lot to distract him. He recovers quickly, though, tilting his head so that he can watch her stumble into the living room with something between sympathy and amusement. "Not Thor," he tells her, solemnly. "Tequila. Tequila is not your friend, Bennie. Glasses are in the cupboard across from the--"

And that's about the moment when he seems to recognize that Isabella's grip is tightening in unpleasant ways. And that there's a question on the table. He blinks dark eyes up at Isabella. "She's staying for a bit. She was wet and sleeping in the bed." There. A concise, factual explanation which surely should cause no dismay.

Bennie gives Isabella a nonchalant wave of the curling fingers variety instead of the beauty pageant winner parade type. Because let's be clear: with running mascara stains on her face, sleep dried and mussed hair, and wearing fashion from the home goods section, she's not winning Miss Gray Harbor anything. "Hi guys. Making out like teenagers. In love." She tries to walk but gets tangled in the sheet at her ankle, giving it a rueful kick, "Stupid love," as she quite immodestly flashes them both by unfurling it only to tug it up and clasp it closed again around her shoulders.

"Tequila is always my friend. It's just sometimes we fight. And break up. Because tequila can't keep its dick in its pants." While sunshine Bennie is typically family friendly PG-13 (with mild language and nudity), post break-up Bennie edges into Rated R category of who gives a flying fart.

Because August has a perfect sense of timing (honed by nearly eight years of college roommates and sharing small cabins with fellow Foresters), this is when he arrives at the door with a box of fruits and veggies (pomegranates, clementines, sweet potatoes, carrots, winter squash, onions, cabbage), and a frozen goose. He knocks on the door, three quick raps. Well, he can hear voices inside, so he knows he doesn't have to take the goose back to Eleanor's. (Good thing because there's two grouse defrosting in her fridge already.)

She's staying for a bit.

"Is she?" Isabella's smile turns up higher, her voice so light and lilting it's almost breezy when it's directed to the blonde paramedic and the investigator. But her eyes tell another story - the kind that may involve some poor, hapless traveler who suddenly found an archway with a very emphatic warning, before he's introduced to all nine circles of Hell.

She was wet and sleeping in the bed.

Sleeping? WET? The words rattle like explosions in her skull, in a very real danger of spilling outward. Somewhere in the young woman's colorful imagination, gophers are running away from the inevitable nuclear blast zone of a nuke with her name on it. "I see." Her tone is still light, still cheerful, even as her other hand slowly, carefully, picks up the nearest throw pillow, knuckles turning white in how hard she grips it. She doesn't even seem to be conscious that she's doing it. "Well, shame on you, Alexander. If you wanted a threesome, you should probably know that it's really rude and impolite to start before the third person arrives, especially if the third person had no idea there was going to be one in the first place!!"

There's the pillow. It finds his face. She jerks her shirtless body away from his as she snatches up her shirt off the floor and starts stalking out. "I'm sorry for the interruption, Bennie, I had absolutely no idea. I hope you find the Tequila."

And here, Isabella was JUST WONDERING why Alexander gets things thrown at his head in romantic relationships. See, he's teaching her stuff already! He blinks up at her a couple of times, clearly aware that things have gone sideways in some fashion, but still trying to figure out how. "Shame on..." he starts, sounding confused. The pillow smacks him in the face, and the rest of the words sputter to a halt. And then Isabella is standing up, which is not great. And talking about threesomes which is --

Oh.

He jerks upright, hands flailing. "Wait! No! Not that sort of wet! I meant rain!" He bounces to his feet, and can we all just not look in the direction of his sweatpants for a moment, because this was an interruption that parts of him are still trying to figure out, and are maybe enthusiastically hoping can get back to the making out. "We didn't have sex! She was asleep!" He scrambles after her, hoping to make it before she stalks out the door, and the fact that someone is standing out there and knocking on it hasn't registered at all.

His voice, though, is quite loud enough with panic to be heard on the other side of the door.

Bennie just sort of blinks slowly at the entirety of the situation, far too hung over to even begin to really get into the middle of this. But at least the scenery is interesting, what with Isabella shirtless and standing to remedy that situation and Alexander's own predicament south of the border. Her head just slowly tilts, with an impressed little 'huh' and a muttered, "Lucky for you, girl." Which is probably not abating the situation any.

As Alexander starts trying to explain things in his particular fashion, she resumes her shuffling towards the kitchen. "Not helping, Alexander."

August blinks very slowly at the sound of Alexander's voice and approaching footsteps to the door. A couple pairs of them. "That's, ah, great, Alexander. But if you all need me to come back in a few so you can finish things off, I can swing by the coffee shop, or go get some ice cream." He pauses, wondering if he's nosy and curious enough to stay put, or smart enough to retreat. He thinks, decides it's the former. (Also Itzhak will never forgive him for not finding out who is in this potential three-some gone horribly awry.)

Lucky for you, girl.

Isabella points at Bennie on her way out, because she's eyeballing the state of Alexander's pants, and despite her shirtless state, she still somehow manages to sound incensed and imperious. "Avert your eyes, Blonde Temptress!" she exclaims, because she has no idea what's happening anymore, and she was just telling Alexander that she tends to fly off the handle when she's jealous (and probably because she was saying something about Thor earlier, and all instincts are maybe putting her in theme). Now, he's getting a clear glimpse as to what that's like, this complete and utter disconnect between that analytical mind and tempestuous instinct. With that, she continues flouncing (oh god, she's flouncing) for the door.

And yes, Alexander is not helping. Her hand on the doorknob, she whirls on him one last time, pointing a finger at him. "Oh, well, great! Fantastic! I'm so glad the two of you did wait until I arrived. This sort of thing needs notice, you know! Like...months! Did it ever occur to you that I'd probably need to be eased into it?! I can't just go in there without...without...preparation!"

She jerks the door open, having had absolutely no idea August has been standing there waiting, chest heaving against her bra while Alexander stumbles after her in tented pants, and a sheet-covered Bennie somewhere in the background.

There's a pause, and that earlier bright smile.

"Hi August," she says, as if she wasn't just screaming about the possible need for lubrication just moments ago. "You're just in time."

Just in time for what?!!!

"Not helping? It's the truth! How does the truth not help?" Alexander tosses a wild glance in Bennie's direction. "You could help, here!" And he's hot on Isabella's heels, so when she whirls on him he almost stabs himself in the eye with her pointing finger. "I wasn't...I wasn't trying to ease you into group sex, Isabella! I was giving a friend a place to sleep!" And then she's whirling back and tossing the door open, and his eyes go wide. "August! Tell her I'm not having sex with Bennie!"

Like he would know?

Either way, Alexander has a brutally practical reaction to Isabella trying to leave when she needs to listen: he simply comes up behind her and grabs her around the waist, and starts carrying her back to the couch. "Oh, no. You can leave once you actually understand what is going on!"

Could help. Should help.

And yet Bennie is still really torn between that and pretending it's not her circus or her monkeys in the pursuit of water and a fist full of aspirin. Seriously guys, her head is pounding. Can you keep it down?

But then she's being called a Blonde Temptress for some reason and Alexander is hoisting Isabella up around the waist. No doubt there will be some flailing and shrieking and - oh hi August! - all of those things will hurt her brain more. "That's enough!" The blonde whirls right around, ready to explain everything and get the entire mess sorted. She even draws herself up to her most dignified height - hard to do considering her appearance - and starts, "I didn't come..." And that's when she takes a step forward, not realizing the sheet is choking her legs again. Her brilliant speech ends as abruptly as it started (in a very unfortunate choice of words) with a squeak and a trip, Bennie going ta-tas over tea kettle.

August glances from Isabella (and somehow doesn't look a centimeter past her collarbone), to Alexander, to Bennie in the background, back to Isabella. "I ah, really appreciate the offer. But my orgy days are kind of over." He clears his throat. "To the best of my knowledge, Alexander has not had sex with Bennie." It's, well, as good as he can do, given the tableau before him. His brow furrows as Alexander carts Isabella off to the couch. And then Bennie announces she didn't come, and her sheet falls off, and she flops onto the floor. "Right, so, like I was saying, I can just, leave, and come back." When you're all clothed, and maybe done with the yelling and whatever else is going to occur, his bland, 'I am so telling everyone I know about this' expression says.

He shifts so he's blocking the door enough to prevent passerby from seeing this catastrophic menage-a-trois in all its tangled glory.

Somehow, August manages to remain the Goodest Guy.

"No, no, August. Stay. I was just leaving--"

Isabella clearly doesn't care as to what state she's in - chances are even if she had been naked, she'd just march on out into her Jeep if that was the state necessary to achieve escape velocity from this confusion. But before she can say anything else, Bennie pitches forward, whatever helpful statement she was about to utter cut short and leaving it super incriminating, instead, and before she's about to make a comment about it, Alexander hoists her up by the waist. She fights, of course, to no avail, flailing while uttering a few choice words in Greek for the benefit of all kids and consenting adults everywhere as she's carted over to the couch and placed there.

Green-gold eyes spear through Alexander's skull with the most petulant and aggrieved look she can muster, before she HMPHS and crosses her arms over her chest, averting her face. Give it time, folks, she's about to become incredibly embarrassed and apologetic in a few minutes, unless August also decides to start stripping.

...somehow, compassion wins out, though, because she's easing off the couch again, but not to leave, so she can reach out to assist Bennie off the floor and even dusts her off, if the Blonde Temptress allows her.

Okay. Even Alexander in his state can see how Bennie's attempt to clear things up and...forward pitch, is as hilarious as it is frustrating, and he makes this noise that's half near-hysterical laughter, and half a groan of frustration. "Not. Helping." And since he's got his arms full of struggling Isabella to deposit on the couch, he doesn't rush to help her up. Instead, he calls over one shoulder, "Don't you dare leave, August! This is not what it looks like!" THUMP. Down Isabella goes onto the couch. He steps back immediately, his hands going up. "Please don't leave. I have not, would not--" and now he's wilting pathetically under that look she gives him. "I didn't do anything wrong." He sounds hurt and bewildered.

Bennie manages to struggle to a sitting up position by the time Isabella is reaching for her, the presence of mind at least to drag that sheet over lap. At least she's not completely naked, August! She's wearing boy shorts and a sports bra.

The Blonde Temptress waves off the assistance to help from Isabella, because honestly this has just become SO MUCH WORK. "I think I need another drink." Alexander's threat of laughter causes her to start her own, a desperate need for some sort of emotional release. Of course it's not long before tears are added into the mix, streaming down her face as she continues laughing uncontrollably. "Easton..." She's finding it hard to find her breath to speak. "Easton and I broke up. And oh god! HA! I walked all night in the rain...didn't know where else to go..." That's all she manages before the amusement part leaves her voice, leaving only a pitiful sob.

August sighs, steps inside and shuts the door. He pauses a second, wincing as Bennie's hangover becomes apparent to him. He shakes his head to clear it, and since Isabella is trying to help Bennie is up, moves to the kitchen to deposit the box, gets the frozen goose into the freezer. (It takes some work. There's probably things in here which could stand to be through out. Okay, there definitely are.)

He turns and rests a hip against the counter, avoids looking at anyone's anything on display, raises his eyebrows. "Since this apparently isn't an orgy gone wrong, I'm going to assume it can only be an incredible, misunderstanding." He lets that sit a second. "So before anyone marches out the door half- or fully-dressed, maybe we can get on the same page."

Bennie gets them--well, August, at least--caught up in short order. He sighs, runs a hand over his face. "Christ. I'm sorry, Bennie. But the only drink you need right now is some water. Want some?"

She's trying not to look at that kicked puppy face, determined to hold onto her ire.

With the wave off and the sudden fit of hysterical laughter, Isabella backs away to drop back down on the couch, though she seems cognizant now, at least, that she's still without a shirt and hastily puts on the dark green, long-sleeved thing that's clutched in her grip. She yanks it over her head, pulls her arms through her sleeves, tugging the cuffs over her bandaged fingers and when Bennie starts sobbing, confusion plays over her face, which dovetails, immediately, into realization - and the horrific wave of embarrassment that follows.

"You...wait...what? But I thought..." She talks to Easton, closes down the TIBS with him almost every night, recalls the struggles and insecurities he harbors in trying to repair things with her. Her expressive face, once it sinks in that the pain is real and this is serious, drains of color. "Oh, god, Bennie. I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

Alexander's woeful expression hits her, too, guilt manifesting plainly on her face. "I'm sorry," she tells him quietly. "I didn't mean to fly off the handle."

The freezer is actually in much better shape than it might be assumed, if only because Alexander doesn't do much cooking, and so there's not much to fill it. Some ice cream is all, and that moves out of the way pretty easily. He takes a deep breath as no one seems about to bolt, but his expression twists with pain when Bennie makes those sounds. "Glasses in the cupboard across from the sink," he tells August, with a grateful look in the man's direction. He doesn't move to help anyone. Instead, he's sort of withdrawn to the far side of the room, his hands behind his back like he's being very careful about not touching anything that he shouldn't. He gives Isabella a look, somewhat hurt and outraged, but shakes his head. "It's fine. Just. Can we calm down?" He takes a deep breath. "August. Sorry. For all of this. Um. Why are you bringing food?"

Bennie starts grinding the heels of her palms into her eye sockets, staving off the flow of tears before they can become overwhelming. She doesn't want to break down like this, in front of everyone. She wants to plaster on that bubbly smile and banish all the shadows in her thoughts with a beam of sunshine. "Please." That seems in response to August offering water, the blonde dropping her hands only to gather up the sheet again and pull it like a cape back around her shoulders and clench it closed over her collar bone with no fists. "No one needs to apologize. Easton and I aren't compatible, end of story. It's my fault and I'm...I didn't mean to cause any trouble. I just need a day to sort things out."

August nods at Alexander, goes to get a glass and fill it. "Because if I don't, you'll never learn how to cook," he says over his shoulder. "Besides, I have to give it to someone, and at least you have a kitchen." He fills the glass, brings it to Bennie, leaning over to offer it and then backing off. He's not sure she's comfortable being crowded by guys just yet. "Let's not worry about blame right now." He glances at Isabella, then Alexander, to include both of the in that. "Everything's kind of a mess. So, bad time to say anything decisive."

It's the hurt and outraged look that only intensifies that guilty expression, Isabella pulling her cuffs further down her bandaged fingers and watching Alexander as he keeps himself on the far side of the room, but she lowers her head and nods, green eyes fixed on the floor with such intensity, it's as if she's actively willing it to open up and swallow her. Considering what she specializes in, it's probably not a good idea, so she pulls her focus out of it immediately before she makes things worse.

"I'm the one who jumped to conclusions," she says. Her lips press together at what the blonde says, about she and Easton being incompatible, before she scoots over on the couch, nodding at what August says. "And I'm more worried about you," she tells the paramedic simply. "Would you like to sit?" She pats the space next to her on the couch. "Do you need any clothes? I have a go bag in my Jeep."

Alexander takes a deep breath. "It didn't look...good, I suppose," he admits, the outrage fading just a little. He sighs, runs his hand through his hair. "You're welcome here anytime, and for as long as you need," he says, to Bennie, and that at least is firm. There's a snort at August. "Well. I'm not sure I appreciate the aspirations, correct though they might be, against my culinary skills, but I do appreciate the gifts." A pause. "And your timing. Thank you." He starts to slink towards the kitchen. "Can I get anyone anything to drink? Non alcoholic," he adds, with a glance towards Bennie.

Bennie's hand emerges from cling of sheet to accept the glass from August with a murmured word of thanks before shifting to the couch at Isabella's invitation. Immediately the overly touchie feelie Blonde curls against Isabella's side and attempts to snuggle her head down on the woman's shoulder, despite being called a temptress by her moments before. "I vaguely recall packing before I left the apartment." But everything is a bit hazy after she hit the liquor store, to be honest. She has vague flashes of clothes trying to kill her, but that's neither here nor there. Her eyes go to Alexander and trail after him to fill in that particular blank before she accepts or denies the offer of any clothes. "I'm good with my water, but if you could find some aspirin?"

Glad that everyone's chilling the hell out, August moves towards the bathroom. "I'll get the aspirin." Because thanks to a once upon a time experiment, he knows exactly where it is. He comes back with a pair, offers them to Bennie. Then he takes a seat on the edge of a chair, folds his hands between his knees. "So. I can kind of guess about the ah, rest of this." He glances at Isabella, gives her a rueful smile for quality time being ruined by Alexander's forgetfulness. August has been there.

"Ben, you could stay at the cabin a bit, if you want. I spend maybe half my time in town with Eleanor now, so it'd be okay. It's a ways out, so I know that's not great for getting to work, but..." He shrugs, putting it out there.

Her earlier (jealous) fury having abated by the splash of cold water that accompanied the horrifying realization that Beaston has reached their last sunset, Isabella is more than happy for the opportunity to make up for her earlier, terrible missteps. As Bennie curls up in a smaller ball next to her, the young archaeologist's arms curl around her and give her a tight squeeze. She is never the most demonstrative when it comes to her affection - Alexander tends to be the sole exception to that rule, but it is easily drawn when it's time to comfort someone, and she turns her head to press her cheek against the top of the paramedic's head and for a few minutes, doesn't let go of that tight grasp.

When she speaks up again, it's quiet and concerned. "Do you want to vent or talk about it?" she murmurs against Bennie's hair gently. Her hand starts to rub up and down the other woman's spine. There's a shake of her head at Alexander's offer for a drink (and perhaps at the moment hesitant to ask him for anything else today) and a hapless smile returned in August's direction.

"I washed and dried your clothes," Alexander says, to Bennie. "They were rained on." And he totally snooped in her other stuff, too, but MOSTLY he did something nice. "Let me get you something." He disappears into the hall to grab a shirt and bottom from the dryer - these two items are chosen totally randomly, so good luck with it looking good, but at least they're dry and not just a bra and shorts. He sidles back into the room to offer them to Bennie, putting them down on the couch next to her, before skittering away from the furniture again and fetching up somewhere near August.

Bennie lifts a gaze to August that briefly portrays 'really? just two?' before she pops the pills in her mouth and downs them with a sip of the water without jostling herself out of the comfort that Isabella is offering her. It's not until the offer of talking about the situation that Bennie straightens up again. "I'm fine, really." Her smile isn't back up to her normal wattage, but if she can just get to her purse - and her stash that Alexander no doubt came across - she can perk the rest of the way up to hopefully more convincing level. "Just needed a night to blow off steam and sleep it off, that's all. And thanks, August, truly. But I don't need to put anyone out because of my poor foresight and planning by putting all my eggs in one proverbial basket."

August gives Alexander a reassuring look. He's well aware of how awkward this kind of thing can get. Thank God college taught him these things when it did, so he could get to the not caring part in a hurry.

August's anwering look to Bennie is 'yes, just two, no need to fuck up your stomach in a big hurry, you can have more in a damned second'. Raising a hand at her, he actually says, "Hang on, hang on. Not having somewhere to crash because you broke up with the person you're living with is not a lack of foresight, okay? Don't be in a big hurry to put it all on yourself. The blame train doesn't have to pull out of the station immediately." He pauses a second after saying that, straightens up. He points at Isabella. "Venting might help. I'm not saying to all of us," a sidelong glance at Alexander, "but it's okay to feel low about it and need to get it out. You don't have to put on some brave face, bounce back on the spot. Have some ice cream, be mad. Break some shit." He hesitates, adds, "Not Alexander and Isolde's shit, though. Come by the shop, I can find something for you to break."

When Bennie straightens up, she doesn't resist. Her arms fall away from her, though she keeps her place seated next to her as she speaks. There's a nod towards August, before swinging her green eyes towards the woman next to her. "He's right," Isabella says quietly, still somewhat floored that after all of those conversations, it was over just like that. The question is in her eyes, because she can't help but worry about Easton also. "It's okay to mourn, as hard and as messily as you like."

"Stop being an idiot," Alexander tells Bennie, flatly. "You're not putting anyone out." Look, he's still a bit agitated. And her stash is certainly with the rest of her things, where it was probably frowned at for a long time before it was replaced back with the rest of her stuff. Somewhere. Not in sight, however, which is a shame, because that might have triggered a very important conversation with Isabella MUCH EARLIER in the sequence of events. But no. Alexander had to be a tidy motherfucker, and now look at everything.

Be messy, save yourself hilarious arguments with significant others is the message to take away, here. There's a flicker of alarm at the thought of Bennie breaking his shit. "I don't have a lot of stuff. And Isolde has even less." So that's agreement, then. "But venting. Yes. If you want." A quick smile in her direction, and a nod to Isabella in agreement. "You can stay as long as you like, Bennie. You know that?"

Alexander calls Bennie on her bullshit, that one of the reasons he's become such a fast friend. But this time she doesn't crack this time and deflate. It only makes her muster harder. "Nothing to mourn! It's not like anyone died, right?" Bennie leans forward to set her glass aside on the coffee table and paw her clothing fresh out of the dryer into her lap. "There will be no breaking of anything." She did enough damage in Easton's apartment in the heat of the moment, and the thought of doing more twists her stomach into knots around that aspirin that August was wise to ration.

"I. Am going to go take a shower and try to feel human again." She declares.

August winces at Alexander's brutal practicality, yet he can't deny it, doesn't try to soften it either. His disagreement with 'nothing to mourn' couldn't be more plain, but Bennie is dead set on a shower, which he can't disagree with. It's a start. "Ice cream after," he suggests, and gets up.

He smiles at Alexander, an unspoken thumbs-up for offering to let Bennie stay with him. Then he turns for the door. "I should get going." He pauses at the door, nods at Isabella and Alexander. "Good to see you guys. I'll email you some recipes, Alexander." He glances at Isabella. "She can maybe help you out with that." A wink, and then he's out the door.

Concerned eyes follow Bennie as she heads for the shower, watching her silently for a moment, before August, too, starts to take his leave.

The idea of helping Alexander cook at the Combat Botanist's suggestion puts an indescribably complicated and comical expression on Isabella's features, her index lifting and lips parting to tell him in no uncertain terms that putting her near a stove is a dicey prospect at best. "I-- " she's about to say, but the door is closing and leaves the living room silent again. Because she remembers the last time she tried to cook - the oven saved her, but the vegetables? There was a fire. Her houseboat almost did not make it.

With a quiet sigh, she starts to extricate herself from the couch, pushing down the questions in her. "I should probably vacate, also," she tells Alexander, her attention moving in that direction. "Bennie needs her friends and you're a good guy, to be there for her."

"You know where the tub is," Alexander tells Bennie, not without a trace of humor, and a sneaky little smile. And then August is taking his leave, and he nods. "Always good to see you. Um. Thanks. Avoid complicated directions that don't involve knives," he suggests, a bit hopefully, and gives Isabella a...somewhat speculative look at the suggestion. "Might be fun," he tells her, sort of tentatively. When she stands up, and suggests that she's going to leave, he heaves a little sigh, but doesn't try to stop her. He does say, "I just gave her a place to sleep. That's all." He frowns. "I'm sorry. I should have mentioned it." A long pause. "But...I don't think I've given you reason to mistrust me, Isabella. If I wanted to have sex with someone else, I'd tell you." That's probably not as reassuring as he thinks it is. But his expression is earnest.

"I'm only leaving because I think I've done enough damage today," Isabella tells Alexander quietly when they finally face one another again, taking several steps towards him until she's standing toe-to-toe with him. Her fingers slide in her pockets, rocking on her heels and tilting her head back so she could meet his eyes. "And I know that now. Honestly, you don't need to keep...explaining..." She gestures to the side with a bandaged hand. "I was the one who went crazy. It was...a surprise." And she was all reaction and no thought after that.

He hasn't, and that is the root of her guilt, because she knows how honest he is. "You haven't," she tells him. "And...some part of me does know that, I just reacted." A breathless laugh. "And very poorly. I just..." There's a frown, glancing away from him. "Normally you're content to let me lead, and I don't really...I'm new at all of this, so I can really only opine on what I feel about certain issues, and I don't really have a lot of...past experiences...to call upon. But you've never really...told me about how you feel about all of that, also. Whether you would want to, or..." Her voice trails off. "So if I'm ever...if I'm no longer...enough..." Her smile is a rueful one. "Just tell me when you're sure we're alone?"

And, well, now that she's in range, Alexander reaches out and tries to slide his arms around her. "You're okay. We're okay. Little ragged, but I should have thought that through more." He shrugs. "It's never been a...thing. Before? That anyone has cared who is sleeping in my bed, or anything else in my bed, for any particular reason. It didn't occur to me to mention it. But I should have." He bends his head and tries to kiss her forehead, gently. "You're enough, Isabella. It's not...you know that it's minds I like. Sex is fun, and I enjoy being with you. But if I haven't touched someone's mind, then I'm," he shrugs, "generally uninterested. And even if I have...I don't need it. The mind is enough. And your mind is beautiful. I love it, and I love you. So," he clears his throat, "go if you need to, but you haven't done damage. We have learned things. Learning is good."

There's relief in her when he pulls her back in his arms, though he'd sense her mortification, still, at the mess she had caused twice this evening and for a moment, she is unable to look at him, green-gold eyes fixed on the space past his shoulder and towards his blue walls. But it seems that she elects to trust him, because Isabella's attention returns to his face, unable, in the end, not to look at him for long - she's constantly watching him whenever they're together, no matter the circumstances.

Slowly, her arms lift to curl around his neck, lashes pressing against her cheeks when he kisses her forehead. "It's not for me," she tells him. "The more modern stuff. I'd like to think I'm pretty adventurous but I know myself, too. Even if I was willing to try...and my life is complicated enough without tangling it any further with other bodies." And he's seen how she reacted today, and it was just a misunderstanding; she'd rather not subject her or anyone else to that. "I'm all in with you, Alexander. But I would...understand, at least, if that isn't you. Above all else, I want you to be happy." Her fingers stroke the black curls at the back of his head gently.

His emphasis on learning finally pulls a smile on her lips. "I don't need to go," she tells him. "But if I stay, I'd only jump you and...Bennie's hurting in the shower." She leans forward, kissing him gently. "I hope you know I only get this crazy because I can't get enough of you. I love you, Alexander."

Alexander gives her an arch look. "The more 'modern' stuff, huh? What were you talking about earlier? Something about the tremendous amount of penises in early artifacts?" He grins, but his eyes are gentle, and he leans in to kiss her again, gently. "I'm pretty happy right now, Isabella. And I love you, and I don't want to hurt you. Don't worry. Just...trust me not to be a complete asshole? At least, trust that if I am a complete asshole, it's probably not on purpose." His smile is crooked, and he lets his arms drop. "But, shoo. Go finish your thesis so that I can come over and celebrate properly with you, before taking you out to a terribly fancy dinner."

"In my defense, Mister Clayton, said penises were detached, broken off or fragmented, and to assume that they all went where they were supposed to go would be a conclusion that I, as a reputable archaeologist, am not comfortable attaching my name to just yet." Isabella sniffs, lifts her chin in a dignified fashion, but her bright, unfettered grin returns after that. "For all I know, they were simply freebirding." She returns that last kiss, before her features grow soft and serious. "I do trust you," she tells him quietly and sincerely. "It just takes a bit for my brain to catch up with my impulses."

Reminded about her paper, she laughs. "So you weren't just taking advantage of my drunken state when you proposed that? Alright, well, you're stuck with it now." She winks before she yanks him back down by the collar, tugging lightly to steal his breath with another kiss, hunger and intensity electrifying thorough and passionate contact, before she eases away again and practically spins off to the entryway of the house, the cheerful sound of her mirth floating behind her.

"I'll call you," she says over her shoulder, before stepping out.