2019-12-12 - Push

Ferreri Clothier, located somewhere in the heart of Gray Harbor, is quite possibly the only establishment in the area that manages to balance out affordability with quality - and she only knows of its existence because her father has been a long-time patron. The Ferreri brothers, Marco and Galdo Ferreri, come from a family of tailors who have lived in the city for two generations and for her entire life, she is familiar with them as those who were responsible for the careful maintenance of her father's dress uniform, as well as other things that he might need.

It's a simple enough space, with mirrors and dressing rooms, as well as an area for measurements. Rolls of fabric can be found at the back, categorized carefully in shelves and sample swatches kept in books. It hadn't been all that long ago that the brothers have decided to expand their business to include full custom work and hired on two other junior associates, both trained in Hong Kong, to make those dreams reality. They can't be considered competitive yet, they're certainly not the sorts that would be found dressing the likes of Byron Thorne or Vyv Vydal, but they're skilled enough and their market is focused on the mid-range.

Marco is the older brother by about ten years, a loud, boisterous Italian whose smiles run a very real danger of taking over his entire face, and it's one of these that he greets Isabella with when she arrives with her companion. "...Isabella?" He squints, before dark eyes widen in recognition. "Cara! Guardati, sei cresciuta!" He takes her by the shoulders and plants exaggerated kisses on both her cheeks. "I know those eyes anywhere!" Just like her father's.

Galdo remains at the back, chatting with a customer, but his brother's exclamation has him looking up. Unlike his more rotund brother, he is tall, and lean - the contrast he makes with him might remind Alexander of certain famous videogame characters that stomp on mushrooms and relieve boxes of gold coins in every stage. "Bella? Bella!"

"...it's like neither of you have seen me for-- " the archaeologist pauses, before she laughs, returning the kisses briefly, though she never makes contact, just the air past Marco's cheeks. "...nevermind, don't answer that. I need an incredible favor." She reaches over towards where the investigator might be standing, tugging him lightly forward if he allows and flashes a brilliant smile at the tailor. "I'm attending a couple of events in the holidays with this man and I think we need to rent a suit for one and maybe just a pair of slacks, a button down and a sports jacket for the other?"

Alexander is here. He's a lot like a dog who has been brought to the vet for the first time - all wary suspicion but radiating the desire not to disappoint the Best Human who has led him inside - but he's here, and has even managed to ditch his oversized jacket for a bit. It's no doubt in the Jeep, waiting to be donned again. Or to devour the car in its voluminous interior. Even odds. There's no getting rid of the ugly green sweater that is at least two sizes too big on him, bunching up around the wrists, and the worn jeans and work boots all of which look like their best days were a decade ago.

He prowls around behind her on an invisible leash, studying all that he can see of the interior, but not straying too far from Isabella herself. The tailors are given especial study, although a bit of humor flickers to life, both at their joyful greeting of Isabella, and at their resemblance to certain video game characters. It can't be said to put him at ease, exactly, but it does mean that when Isabella reaches for him, his expression is a bit lighter and less suspicious than it was a moment ago.

He inclines his head to them both. "Hello," he says, after a moment. There's a sidelong look at her judgement of what is required, but he doesn't argue with it. There are many things that he trusts her to know better than himself, and this is definitely one of them.

The Ferreri brothers pause when Isabella points out her companion - none of them actually really recognize Alexander Clayton by sight, though they've most likely heard of his reputation. Two pairs of very dark and critical eyes give him a once over, from the hair at the top of his head to the worn work boots on his feet. The silence lasts for so long that the customer that Galdo had left by the fitting area is starting to tap his foot impatiently on the pedestal upon which he is standing.

"....good god," Galdo murmurs, very, very quietly.

"Galdo!" Marco slaps his brother's arm. There might be a reason why he's in charge of the front of the house. "What he means to say is hello, it is nice to meet you and that we'll be absolutely happy to work a mirac-- I mean, assist you with whatever it is that you might require."

Isabella's already giving them a long look from where she's standing by Alexander's side. "It won't be that much work, believe me," she tells them both. "Though I see the two of you are as dramatic as ever. This is Alexander Clayton. Alexander, this is Marco and Galdo Ferreri."

The two Italians look at one another, though to their credit, it's brief and in spite of the puzzlement that manifests in their expressions for just a moment, they don't say much of anything but give their own introductions and offer their handshakes, along with instructions to wait until they're finished with their current fitting before they tackle Isabella's request. In the meanwhile, they're free to peruse the entire store and determine whatever it is that they favor. As both brothers step away, the young woman releases Alexander's arm so she can step up quickly to the rest of them, dropping a quiet murmur to both - whatever it is she tells them is unusual enough that it furrows Galdo's brows, and lifts Marco's. But the two of them eventually nod their assent before heading off to deal with the impatient customer.

"I told them I can handle measuring you," she tells him, moving towards the racks, pulling out a button-down shirt dyed a deep sapphire blue and holding it up in front of him with a thoughtful pursing of her lips. "I panicked a little when I had to give them an explanation so I said I'm an extremely jealous creature who won't abide by anyone else touching you. Naturally, Galdo asked whether my father knows." Impish eyes lift from her inspection to meet his own, a wry grin curling on the corners of her mouth.

At Galdo's murmur, Alexander's eyes widen. Then? He breaks out into sheepish, self-mocking sort of laughter. "Yes. I'm sorry," he says. "I recognize that it's a lot to ask, but Isabella is of an optimistic nature." A quick, fond glance in her direction, before that more restrained greeting comes out - he bursts out laughing again at 'work a miracle'. "Hello. Nice to meet you both," and if it sounds a bit like it's a rote memorization of manners, at least his eyes seem to twinkle with more amusement than humiliation at their reaction. He doesn't shake hands, obviously, but he does smile and nod.

Alexander watches Isabella whisper to them, then gives her an expectant look when she returns. "Ah, I see." Amusement again. "You didn't have to do that, you know. Even if I never turn down an opportunity to have your hands on me, there's no need to give the impression that you're unreasonable. I have a phobia. I'm aware." Which doesn't stop him from leaning in to kiss her forehead, briefly. "It's kind of you to consider it, though."

He seems to like them well enough despite their judgment, and his amusement only fuels Isabella's own when she angles a sideways glance at him from her inspection, still holding up the sapphire-blue button down in front of him. "My father's been going to them for years," she explains. "First to keep up his dress uniform and when he and Mom decided they were going to go out a little more, for other things." There's a sweep of the interior with her eyes, her smile growing somewhat absent in nostalgia. "It's been years since I've visited," she tells him quietly. "They didn't used to have that section over there, when I was young." She gestures to the flat tables at the back.

She folds the shirt over her arm, a small laugh escaping her, expression lighting up in the throes of it as she regards him with lifted brows. "This entire enterprise isn't really about having to do something and more wanting to, though I'm still surprised that you're willing to come with me to Patrick Addington's domain for cocktails. You know it's perfectly acceptable to tell me no, yeah?" A pivot has her facing him again, just in time for her forehead to catch his kiss. Her eyes close and there's a pleased murmur there. "Besides, it's the least I can do - I know social gatherings aren't exactly your favorites."

She pulls out another shirt from the rack and holds it up to him; this one is dyed burgundy with wide cuffs, and surprise slips over her face - his favorite color might be blue, but he looks great against this shade, also. "Have you talked to August lately?"

Alexander smiles. "They don't mean any harm," he says, with a shrug. "I'm accustomed to far worse things being said." He looks down at the shirt she holds up before him, but doesn't really seem to have much in the way of opinion on it. He does reach out to touch it, delicately, with one finger - but it's empty of emotional traces, and he doesn't even bother to try and read it.

There's a shrug at the mention of where, exactly, they're planning to go. "I'm not going to say that I can promise the night won't end with me punching the man, or him having me tossed out on my rear. But I'd rather you not go anywhere alone right now, especially not a public event that might prove," he makes a noise, "attractive, for certain people who like to make a show of things." A roll of his shoulders. "So, for that, I'll put up with the fanciness."

He inspects the new shirt with the same sort of distracted interest. "It's a nice color," he offers, offhand. "And only over the phone. Texting. Why?"

The fabric is soft, with a fine weave - and as he already anticipates, devoid of emotional traces. The shirt is new, probably mass-produced somewhere in China or India and relatively fresh out of the press. "I only gravitated to blue immediately because it's your favorite color," Isabella remarks; he expresses his preferences so rarely that those he does communicate are ones that she remembers easily. "But I've never seen you in burgundy before, it might be a nice change. It looks great with your dark hair and eyes. Though naturally..." Her amusement returns, deepening the dimple that manifests in her left cheek at the broadness of her grin. "...I only discover this while actually just putting the color in front of you. I do like my experiments."

She adds it to the growing collection on her arm. "We don't have to go overboard," she says with a laugh, bumping her hip with his. "A couple of shirts, a couple of pants, a couple of jackets. I can then push you into a dressing room and we can determine whether anything needs quick adjustments." She rolls her head back, the grin playing down to a smirk that only makes the trickster in her all the more overt. "Anyway, if Patrick Addington gets punched in the face, nobody will ever declare with a straight face that he didn't bring it upon himself." Fine lines temper into a more sober look. "I'll endeavor to keep this to the minimum level of fanciness required. You're sweet to look after me, though that isn't to say..." She pauses, fumbling over the words. "...I'm not accustomed to this, either. Having someone look after me."

Her head turns to press a kiss on his cheek.

"He stopped by the house the other day to re-supply your fridge. You know, he'd probably make a killer living as a private cook," she tells him. "He went to J.J.'s funeral the other day."

"Well, you know how I approve of experimentation, Miss Reede," Alexander says in a low and teasing tone. He takes in the remarks about colors and how they might look on him with a thoughtful expression; it's not something that he's ever spent much time thinking of, although he clearly does some preferences for color, as she notes. And that she remembers it brings a smile to his lips, and his fingertips up to brush lightly at that dimple as it forms.

The hip bump startles a laugh out of him. "That's fine," he says, in regards to going overboard or not. "I'll wear whatever you'd like me to." It's the simple truth as he sees the matter, whether because he trusts her not to put him in anything that would look bad on him - or whether he's just that easy to push around when it comes to things he's not invested in. "Yes. Well. Deserve or not, I'd rather not to punch out one of the Addingtons that's still in good graces with the family. I already feel like I'm on some sort of watch list." And then she continues, and his expression softens, dark eyes sweeping her body for the injuries he knows lie under the clothing. "...and you're never going to get used to it so long as I continue to do such a bad job of it, Isabella. I'll try to do better."

He smiles again at the kiss on the cheek. "August thinks we can't feed ourselves," he says, but it's more fond than exasperated. "And no, he wouldn't. Because he'd give people the food he thinks they need, rather than indulging their bizarre whims. And if they try to argue, he'd just give them that look." To the mention of the funeral, he just nods; he clearly knew about that, and just as clearly doesn't particularly want to talk about Peregrine.

"We can try both," Isabella tells him simply with a smile. "We're not exactly in any hurry and I'm not opposed to getting my hands on you every chance I get also." She flashes him a wink, her face tilting at the brush of his rough fingers, lips pressing delicately on the tips of them. "Besides, you'll only be more uncomfortable in a situation like that if you didn't blend in. So I'll do my best to provide."

With her perusal of the shirt rack concluded, she drifts away from him as her own fingers dance over the hangers leading towards the pants, though after a brief pause, she suddenly decides to switch tracks, scooting over behind him and leaning in against his back. Her head tilts back, to drop the words directly in his ear. "I'm not trying to get into too much mischief, I promise. I just need..." A set of light fingers find the waistband of his jeans, shifting his ugly, but comfortable and baggy sweater sideways so she could hunt for the tag behind it and check what the numbers say so she can have some idea as to how long his inseam is.

...and it also turns out that she's a filthy liar about not being too mischievous, because she presses her chilly hand, the weather outside clinging still to her skin, into the small of his back, lets out a small laugh and attempts to dance away in an effort to avoid any retaliation.

She points a finger at him emphatically. "Stop," she says, sounding and appearing genuinely disgruntled. "I love how protective you are, Alexander, but you have your own life to live also, and you can't be there for me all the time, no matter how much either of us desires it, and no matter how much it tears us up whenever something happens and we aren't there for one another." Shadows flicker over her expressive eyes, reminded of the summer and hearing him despairing over the phone while being unable to do anything about it. "I have to do my part, too, on my end. And so do you, when you find yourself embroiled in something dangerous. Besides, you said it yourself: If you can't be safe, at least be smart."

She is at least respectful of his desire not to talk about Peregrine, though, and her chastisement fades in lieu of a smile. "Injuries notwithstanding, they were worth it. The Lover's Jewel is officially no longer a problem."

When Isabella's fingers brush the small of his back, Alexander stiffens, his hand going to hers to cover it. It doesn't seem to be the cold that motivates him, though - the flash of expression shows worry, and not chill. And no wonder, since what she feels under the heavy, concealing sweater is something hard placed there - her fingers can feel it out easily enough: it's a knife in a flexible sheath, clipped to the waistband of his jeans. "Sorry," he mutters apologetically. "I forgot to take it off. I was going to in the changing room."

Then he brings her hand around so that he can kiss the tips of her fingers. "As for my protectiveness, I won't stop you from doing anything you feel you need to do, my dear. You know that. I just...worry." And carry weapons. "But I'm glad to hear that. Hopefully we will never see a glint from that thing again. But...how are the rest of you? Any longing for the damn thing?"

"You don't do a bad job of anything regarding me," Isabella insists with a stubborn set of her jaw. "I'm not...you know it's never easy to hear, when you put yourself down that way. My state of being is just as much as my fault as anything. I mean, who else do you know would get beaten up by a-- " Her rant cuts off when she nearly outs something she deems utterly mortifying, and her expression reflect is as she recovers with, "...as many ridiculous circumstances as I do. None of that is your fault."

She feels the knife; and there's a long pause when she finds it. Green-gold eyes fall on the sheath hidden there, and remains there, barely registering when he keeps her hand captured. They lift again, eventually, watching him kiss at her fingers. "...I know you value preparedness," she begins slowly. "And I'd rather you be armed than not, but nothing else has happened, has it? You're not in any immediate danger?" She's prepared for the worst, clearly - he could be being threatened, now that the Foster case has come to a head, or maybe he got another invitation from the Erinyes. But she is intent and focused on his face, that diamond-sharp intensity threatening to carve new paths over his skin.

"I know you worry. I worry, also." And how. "I appreciate the fact that you do and I hope you know above all else I just want you to be safe. Even if that isn't always possible."

Inquiries delivered about the quest, she shakes her head. "The only ones who were grievously injured were Tobin and me, and we're fine. We did get a reward from the Collector to see the second floor of his collection in about fifty years. From what I know of the guy, it takes literally forever to get anywhere with him so I'm really not surprised." Her smile returns faintly. "Speaking of Other things, Carousel stakeout is on by the way. Maybe sometime after Christmas. Anne and August are coming with us."

Never let it be said that Alexander isn't quick on the uptake, especially when the opportunity to divert attention away from something he doesn't want to talk about arises. When she breaks off identifying what she was attacked by, his eyebrows go up, and he murmurs, "Is this about the fruitcake, Isabella?"

Still, the knife should be addressed, and he does, although not without a quick look around to make sure no one else is paying too much attention - that knife is too long to be street legal, if you want to be pedantic about things. He shakes his head. "Things have been more hectic than not, of late, and I just got tired of being caught out without anything by my hands and my abilities. I'm not expecting any sort of specific trouble. Just a precaution."

He takes a sigh, lets it out slowly. "Well. That's something, I guess. I'm just as happy that the 'reward' isn't another strange Veil thing that's going to cause problems. So all's well that ends well, I suppose." A brief nod about the carousel. "That sounds fun. I mean, comparatively fun."

Is this about the fruitcake, Isabella?

"NO." As if emphasizing that single word would negate that embarrassing incident from her personal history forever. Her eyebrow twitches faintly at that. "The only thing people ought to be concerned about regarding fruitcakes is that they're a terrible invention and whoever decided they should be a Christmas tradition clearly hated Christmas. Did you know that archaeologists discovered a fruitcake made sometime in 1878 and it was still edible?! How the hell is that possible, Alexander?! Jay Leno ate it live in The Tonight Show sometime in the early 2000's and he's still alive! I think whoever invented the thing sold his soul to Satan for the recipe because why else would they last so long. Clearly so a single loaf can ruin Christmas in perpetuity!"

There's a quiet huff from Isabella's petulant mouth, though after a glance at the knife, she slips her captured hand away as she wanders back to the pants and starts comparing colors. The clear choice is black, but she finds two pairs that match his inseam - one midnight and one more of a charcoal shade with a single pleat in front of each leg. This goes into the pile. "Like I said, I'd rather you be prepared than not. Has Joey been teaching you...knife-fighting, or is that something you already knew how to do?"

A nod of agreement at the last. "I insisted we check the bag first before we accidentally brought the Apocalypse through the border," she tells him dryly. "Thankfully that's not the case. Though speaking of objects..." She stops from her shopping to slip her fingers into her pocket and produces a toy coin. To any ordinary pair of eyes, it would look like cheap plastic. But to someone with abilities, however, it's obviously more, pulsing with some kind of power.

"I received this from one of the costumed elves in this year's parade." She flips over the other side. "Have you ever heard of a manufacturing company called FCN before?"

Alexander listens to this recital, utterly fascinated. Just rapt. You want heart eyes? There are heart eyes. Although he's also fairly teasing, because he adds, "So...you're saying it was the fruitcake that beat you up. Miss Reede, I had no idea you were such a bad liar. It's charming." His grin gets wicked, and he leans forward to whisper in her ear, "Which means that when I get around to asking you about a certain high school mascot, I know you won't be able to lie about it."

Then he leans back, and gives a sniff of offense. "Kelly? I was killing things with knives when Joseph Kelly was trying to remember how to tie his shoes." Admittedly, Joey became better at fighting, eventually, because Alexander was off being a cultist and trying to solve crimes. But he started first!

The coin draws his attention, and he nods. "Yeah. And so have you, Isabella. You drank their soup."

This may be one of the reasons why she's so besotted with him, as Alexander stares at her in rapt fascination, looking endeared and attracted instead of finding her academic tears utterly hilarious like some of the other lesser learned people in her life. Isabella's cheeks puff out like a frustrated chipmunk's as he teases her. "The fruitcake didn't beat me up!" she protests, her petulance growing. "...there were two fruitcakes armed with cherry bombs and they were infernal and unnatural and I held my own valiantly against them!" No. No she didn't. She was utterly bested and reduced into a pathetic heap next to a wall. But when that wicked grin enters his handsome features, she is immediately wary, eyes narrowing dangerously at him...

...and they widen at what he says. There's a genuine how dare you gasp, lips forming a perfect 'O' as she stares at him. "No," she whispers. "Who told you about-- "

She's clearly ready to get off this train, because she wheels herself around him and starts pushing him into one of the dressing rooms, in the guise of trying to be a good girlfriend but more because she wants to hide her shame. "Tell me about the first thing you knife-fought," she says hurriedly, quickly, in a blatant effort to change the subject.

The correction is taken in stride. "What, really? I guess I misread that and thought it was a weird preservative..."

"Two fruitcakes. Two pairs of braces. Maybe it's just the concept of twos that is your true enemy--" And then Alexander is pushed into the room, and goes, his laughter rich and deep as he takes the clothes and closes the door. He's going to pay for this, one day. He knows that, and has accepted it as the price of having seen that perfect shock on her face and the outrage. There's the sound of clothing being shed as he moves to try on the burgundy shirt with the outfit, first.

As he changes, he says, "Um. I don't know if you'd call it a 'fight', really. I was eleven, and it looked like the neighbor's dog, except that it had clawed hands and grew a second head when I tried to feed it at the back door. It chased me inside, and tossed me against a counter. I just grabbed the first thing I could - it was the carving knife. The dog bit at my arms, but I got the knife into one of its eyes and just kinda jumped on it until it stopped moving, and I was back in my real kitchen." A soft little chuckle. "With a knife and covered in blood from a bunch of cuts that looked like knife slashes. My parents were, um. Concerned."

Now she actually says it: "How dare you!" Isabella exclaims, and if she had something to throw at him, she would, proving only the veracity of his earlier claims that he's never had a lover who hadn't tried to brain him with a flying object. But the words lack the necessary heat to make them worrisome, and when he closes the door, he'd hear it, the very girlish and petulant pbbbbttt!! from somewhere beyond the door. "You haven't even explained how you know about that story! Was this part of a background check? Did you background check me? Reveal your source, Mister Clayton! I promise I won't exact righteous vengeance."

She's lying. She's already resolved to find Milton Grier at some point and end him.

She waits patiently outside of the dressing room, though she can't help but side-eye the door. Her finger reaches out to touch the knob on her side and applies just a hint of her power to unlatch it. "Jesus, Alexander," she says - the experience he details is harrowing to say the least, and she carries on the conversation even as she tries to silently twist it and open it a crack. "What did your parents do after that?""

Alexander laughs and laughs, clearly delighted by her response and her protestations of non-vengeance. "You're a very bad liar. And you're my source," he says, a bit smugly. "You gave me a jacket. Your father was wearing it when he caught you in flagrante dental with your costumed lovebug. It's somehow a little reassuring to know that you've always had unusual taste in men."

Yeah, he's going to enjoy that particular memory forever.

When she slides open the door, Alexander is already sliding out of his jeans. He hasn't added any new scars, thankfully enough, so it's just the ones she already knows, cris-crossing across his skin as he bends over, all wiry muscle and a long history of damage. Clad only in his briefs, he reaches for the new pants, then the shirt, pulling everything on with care, and trying to make it look as tidy as possible in the mirror.

That's perhaps one of the most baffling characteristics of Isabella Reede - she must know she's a terrible liar, but that doesn't necessarily stop her from trying. "You-- in flagrante dental?!" The last rises high in pitch; bats could be called out of their caves at this very moment. "Ohhhhhh you are so going to pay for that. And it wasn't as if we were dating! He was...I only did it because...he wasn't my costumed lovebug!" she cries, and thankfully there's most of a door between them so he wouldn't glimpse her cheeks glowing with color. Somehow the only reason why it happened is even more embarrassing than getting caught in the act. She shuts her jaw with a click before she incriminates herself further.

"Anyway, mascots are infinitely more limber than football players anyway, so there!" More flustered lies, being sexually oblivious at fourteen while her other peers were already experimenting. She's not about to admit that, either, he's got enough on her obviously! But really, it's getting progressively difficult to hold onto her outrage when he's half-naked and bending over, her head tilting at an angle as she observes...

...and flicks her finger so the waistband of his underwear snaps against that well-toned rear before he manages to put his clothes on, grinning wickedly in turn.

"It does put you ahead of me," Alexander says, as if to reassure her. "I didn't kiss anyone until I was seventeen. Compared to me, you were downright precocious." He means this to soothe her agitation. He really does! But the fact that he's still laughing in between the words probably won't help. "But I imagine they are. It takes a surprising amount of physical ability to jump around in those big suits all day."

And then? snap Alexander lets out a high pitched yelp and jumps, his hands going to his waistband as he whirls around. But there's little genuine alarm on his features - he knew revenge would be coming, even if not what form it would take. "You!" He grins and lunges at the door, trying to grab it and open it just enough to pull her in for a fierce kiss.

...then push her out and slam it in her face. "And TRY to act civilized, Miss Reede!"

His laughter is one that she always encourages, not that it is difficult - she has never had any problems drawing these rare peals of mirth out of him even from the first few days of their acquaintance. Still, the sound of it is one she savors. "Seventeen, huh?" Isabella pauses and asks, with all the innocence she's capable of brought to sweet, saccharine bear: "What's his or her name and social security number? Asking for a friend." Even as she mentally makes a space in the list just under Milton Grier.

But the jig is up! As she's caught, there's another laugh, and she actually tries to escape, but the door opens too quickly and she's dragged partially in, the rest of her sounds smothered by his insistent kiss. She slants her mouth against his, dueling him instead of simply accepting it, though when she's finally released, her mirth takes on a more breathless quality even as the door shuts.

"Once you've got those on, I want to see," she calls through the door.

Alexander may be trying to move the object of his first affection higher on the list, because he gives a fond little sigh. "Her. Sophia." A pause. "I don't know her social security number," he admits, almost wistfully as he starts to pull on his pants on the other side of the door. "I remember that she had reddish blond hair, and freckles, and she tasted like...beer and strawberries. College student." He reaches for the shirt.

It's only a few moments more before he's opening the door again and stepping out. The shirt and pants combo is worlds sharper than his usual outfits, although it manages to avoid looking too formal, and the bolder color and more flattering cut also avoid making him look like a Mormon missionary. The worst thing about it, really, is his posture and body language, which hasn't really changed at all, so he looks like he's trying to pretend that these are his clothes and failing miserably.

"I'm almost sorry I asked," Isabella grumbles, falling back into her earlier state of comical petulance. Her fingers lift to toy with a loose strand of her hair, wondering, briefly, how she would look as a redhead. Not as well, she thinks ruefully as she twists that lock between them. Not with her complexion - strawberry-blondes paired best with porcelain, from what she remembers in the few fashion magazines she's read.

"But I'm definitely not surprised that she was a college student." Already on a different level intellectually than the rest of the girls and boys in his high school.

She drops her fiddling when she hears the door click and it swings open to reveal Alexander in the bolder color she's picked out for him, paired with the charcoal-black pants. There's a critically assessing look, a slight incline of her head, but her appreciation grows by the minute as she takes a few steps forwards him, her fingers reaching out to tug gently at his collar. "We might need to have the shirt adjusted a little," she murmurs, her fingers sliding over the line of his shoulders, and down his arms to test his sleeves, and then to fan gently on the sides of his ribcage. She tickles him there, mercilessly, but briefly, a smug smirk tilted his way before following the taper of his narrow waist. "Yeah, only a couple of inches, maybe. Draw your shoulders back a little and straighten your so I can see."

"You're not?" Alexander looks amused as he steps out. When she gives him that assessing look, he fidgets restlessly, his usual direct stare sliding off to the side. He doesn't object to the tugs or the touching. At least, not until she tickles him. Then he gasps, laughs, and grabs at her wrists. "Unfair!" he protests, laughing helplessly. He tries to follow her directions on his posture, straightening up and pulling his shoulders back. A glance at her to see if that's what she wanted.

In truth, the shirt only needs minimal alterations - he's in surprisingly good shape for a man of his age, and with his dietary habits. Must be all the walking everywhere.

"I'm not," she confirms, unable to help the grin playing on her face when he grabs her wrists. "I suspect you were always brilliant, Alexander, even when you were young, and I don't think your emphasis on the mind sprung from nowhere. Not to say that all college girls are smart, but Sarah or whatever..." Sophia, she knows, but she's not giving him the satisfaction that the name has been burned into the inside of her skull. "...was in uni while you were still in high school. She can't help but be in a completely different level when you were at that age."

She sticks her tongue out at him playfully. "We Reedes are unrepentant cheaters," Isabella tells him with the grave air of a philosopher, even as she attempts to struggle against his grip, poking at his side. "You should have seen game night in our house when I was growing up. Nobody was safe." Eyes glint with fond remembrance and amusement. "It was carnage. Plus I already told you, I don't fight fair."

When he gives it his level best, she smiles - affection and indulgence present on the dewy curve. Slowly, she turns him around so he could see what it looks like in the mirror, pressing her palm flat between his shoulderblades, her thumb dragging down his spine to find a pressure point there to push into and help him straighten up further.

"What do you think? I like it, but I think we should get you the blue one, also - you always look good in blue, anyway, so it's a no-brainer. That way you can decide what you feel like wearing on the day. Let me get the sports jacket." With that, she steps away from him and wanders into the dressing room to look for the blazer, picking it out from the hanger.

Alexander stares at her for a long moment. Then he grins. "Oh. Oh, no." A shake of his head. "That's not...we didn't exactly have much in the way of conversation, Isabella." He grins. "She sat down beside me at the bar the band had played at, put her hand on my thigh, and asked me if the band had a hotel room. I said we did, she told me to take her there. So I did." He shrugs as he lets her wrists go. "I suspect the fact that I'm good at following directions was of more interest to her than my intellectual abilities." He winks.

"And I'll keep that in mind, if I ever decide to try to play a game with you - cheat first, since you've already admitted you're going to." He doesn't resist being turned towards the mirror, or being encouraged to stand straighter. He studies himself in the mirror. "It looks nice," he admits, although there's a bit of unease there, under the admission. Still, he makes no objection to the idea of getting both shirts, or having the jacket added. The blazer is hanging neatly on its hanger. His clothes have been neatly folded on the bench, with the knife somewhere between the layers where it can elude casual inspection.

"Ohhhhh. You see, by the way you were talking about her, I thought she was some longtime crush that you happened to get lucky with, because if there's anything the advent of teen movies has taught my generation, it's that there were usually shenanigans involved to turn that specific head." Isabella looks over her shoulder, lips curled in a brilliant but dangerous smile. "I think some part of you likes making me jealous."

It's entertaining to say the least, whenever she is. Some part of her recognizes that, herself.

With the blazer relieved from the hanger, there's another brief glance at the knife, before she walks back towards him, holding it up, though he would have to bend his knees slightly so she could slip it over his broad shoulders. "You ought to congratulate me for either my daring or confidence," she teases him. "Because I have absolutely no qualms attempting to cheat in a game while squaring off against an accomplished reader. Let's see how quickly you discover how I plan to cheat." There's a challenging look, glimpsed by her reflection in the mirror.

She must sense his unease though, at his near-reluctant admission. "What is it?" she wonders. "Is it the red?"

Alexander just looks a little confused. "Why would you be jealous?" It's a genuine question, and he watches her with his brow furrowed. "It was just fun. I didn't know her, she didn't know me. She didn't want to, either." A shrug. "I don't think I had any crushes as a kid."

He turns his attention back to the blazer, and takes it when it's offered, bending his knees and sliding it on with her help. "That depends on if you win, Isabella. If you lose, then I will just shake my head sadly and remind you that cheaters never prosper." He straightens, and turns back to the mirror. Her questions make him frown. "No. The color's fine. It just doesn't really look like me." A pause. "You don't think I look too much like Thorne, do you? Like this." All dressed up, he means. And there is something of a resemblance, when he's cleaned up and not slouching, although that might just be because the men share similar coloration and short, neatly trimmed beards. Certainly, the gray that Alexander is picking up, and the additional age and wear on his features set him definitely apart from the younger man.

"Because Jealousy is an irrational emotion and trying to quantify it to a logical creature is a futile endeavor," Isabella sniffs at him, her chin tilting upwards in that familiar, stubborn fashion. "So just take my word for it on that, at least." That last admission, however, has her shifting a look of surprise his way. "What, really? Not a single one? I consider myself a late bloomer in many ways and even I had one."

It's a way to circumvent the galling, glaring truth that she tends to be envious all the time; it's as much part of her as her stubbornness and ferocity are.

His words about cheaters never prospering has her laughing. "And if I win, what would you say then? Or would I have the proud Alexander Clayton fully submit to my ill-gotten victory?" She is full of mischief today, in spite of her earlier words, perhaps still riding the high of telekinetically snapping his waistband when he least expected it. Power abuse! She's about to say more when the explanation and the clear apprehension in his tone clips whatever words she's about to say at the vine.

"...that's what I told you before, but you took issue with it and told me you could be a suit guy," she points out, because when it comes to him, she hardly forgets a thing. She turns him back around gradually so she could straighten up his lapels. "I don't think you'll ever be the type to dress up, Alexander, or be accustomed to the act - and that's perfectly fine. I like you just as much in your faded metal band t-shirts as I do your suit, so long as you're in it. All of it's just wrapping, and one that doesn't even really disguise you."

She must be missing something, but when he asks her about Byron, green-gold eyes lift to meet his dark ones, visibly surprised...and confused. "Byron?" Her hands slowly reach up to cup his face between both palms, taking the time to look at him. Her stare roams over the gray that is starting to overtake his temples, the crow's feet forming at the corners of his eyes. "I...if I was standing a few feet away and if my vision isn't as clear, maybe," she allows slowly. "But outside of those parameters, I would never mistake you for Byron or vice-versa. He's pretty. You're rugged." Now, there's a frown, because she's too perceptive not to think that the questions have been randomly spun from the ether, springing from nothing. "Why do you think you might look like him when dressed like this?"

Alexander smiles. "I'm not that logical, you know." Then shakes his head. "Not that I can remember. I wanted friends. And I liked some people more than others, because their minds were interesting. But I more wanted to...listen to them think, watch how they worked, have them want me around. I don't remember it ever being romantic, or wanting them to kiss me or anything. I sort of need someone else to be, um, interested first. Then I get interested. And," he laughs, "no one in Gray Harbor was ever interested." Or, at least, so he firmly believes. It's entirely possible young!Alexander had a few quietly pining sorts, but it's clear he never noticed them, if so.

"And I don't think I should be encouraging you to claim victory by being a cheater, Isabella." A mock-haughty sniff. "So I might have to demand a rematch until my cheating carries the day." Because that's totally fair.

He obediently turns around at her urging. "I could get used to it. It's just...different, is all. It's been a while since I wore things like this." His smile blooms as she reassures him of her liking for him, and his hands come up to settle lightly on her hips. "I'm glad." The expression fades a bit when she cups his face in his hands and subjects him to that scrutiny. "It's nothing," he assures her. "Just something that someone said. As long as I won't be easily mistaken for anyone else, this is good." A pause. "Thank you, Isabella. For this."

"Not when you're angry," Isabella laughs softly, but she allows that correction with an affectionate look spurred by his unfailing deference to precision and accuracy. "When you're angry, you're more like me. Willing to throw down everything, come what may." Those vibrant irises shift away from his face, busily straightening up the lines of the outfit - the sports jacket, the burgundy shirt and the matching slacks. "I don't think you need a tie and a waistcoat will be too formal - it's a cocktail party, so business casual for the men."

Her head tips backwards to meet his stare as he explores the more mundane aspects of his high school experience, though the more he talks, the higher those dark, elegant arches lift towards her hairline. It's only when he finishes his litany that she chuckles, turning her confused look directly at him. "So what does that mean? You were only interested in me because I was interested in you first? When I asked you to hang out with me for one afternoon so I could try to convince you to live a little, you had absolutely no idea I was interested in that way, so how did you become over-hopeful that it was an actual date?" That challenging incorrigibility becomes all the more visible, the devil in her pirouetting across gold-spangled emerald fields. "Or is this touching onto your earlier assertions that you're not that logical?"

His haughty sniff and promise of a rematch? Has her laughing more openly. "I," she says, tapping a finger against his collar. "Will take you on any day. Just because I love you doesn't mean I'll let you off easy. Don't be surprised if it ends up being another twin fireball situation the last time we played Daytona though."

Broader hands move to frame her hips, thumbs pressing against the bones, and her assessing hands slide in further so she could drape her arms loosely over his shoulders. "You know, when we first started, I wondered now and then what you would look like daily if I just took your style and put you in things that fit, but I don't know...I'm getting fond of your baggy clothes and ugly sweaters. Reminds me constantly of the night I first met you." She leans in to press her mouth lightly against his. "Anyway, you shouldn't get accustomed to it if you don't like it - that's something you ought to decide for yourself, if nothing else your preferences in that regard keeps you, you, if that makes any sense. I avoid dresses and skirts constantly for instance, unless I'm with someone or surrounded by people I'm especially comfortable with."

She seems willing to take his word for it, at least. "You won't," she reassures, instead. "I can pick you out of a crowd. I mean...you're the only one I know who'd willingly wear a brown, blue and purple sweater in public." She grins at him cheekily. "Who told you that you looked like Byron if you wore a suit? It can't have been Lil, can it?"

"I'm angry a lot," Alexander says, quietly. It's a sheepish sort of admission, but he doesn't flinch away from her adjustments, and listens to the judgements about the proper outfit with apparent interest. His lips twitch upwards, just a little. "You were interesting, Isabella. And you said that you hoped sex helped me sleep better at night," he points out, clearly remembering the discussion in the coffee shop where she first pitched the idea of yoga to him. "So I was...curious. A little hopeful. You were bright and fierce. I wanted to watch you think about things."

Then he chuckles. "I won that game," he points out. "Despite your attempt at fiery mutual immolation. I am not dissuaded by your determination to win at all costs. I find it charming." He makes a pleased sigh when she drapes her arms on his shoulders, and he holds her close, squeezing her waist gently and returns her kiss with an enthusiastic one of his own. "I'm glad that you like me. But it wouldn't be bad. To learn to be more...normal." His gaze flicks away as she asks again about the concern with them getting mixed up. His shoulders rise beneath her arms in an uncomfortable shrug. "I doesn't matter, Isabella. It was just something stupid. And no, it wasn't Lilith. I don't think she would ever be fooled by any impostor."

"Is that improving at all?" Isabella wonders during her adjustments. "Being angry a lot."

His own pitch - indicative that he, too, remembers that conversation with crystal clarity draws a surprised mirthsome sound out of her, brightened eyes turning back to his face. "I did, but you were also looking so intently at the other woman who walked into the coffeehouse at the time, because she wasn't from around here, that I had to tease you. I won't lie, though, how you turned all of that back around on me was delightful. I didn't expect it." Her impish expression returns. "Told me clearly that you at the very least wanted to sleep with me and the first time you flirted with me in front of so many people. Though you had the gall to apologize for it afterwards. It would've been the perfect salvo if you just worked on your crossword puzzle after that."

When he does remind her that he won, there's another laugh and her arms tighten around him in a squeeze. "I don't know if I should find that as a compliment or a brutal insult. 'Oh you want to prevail against me? How adorable'." She even attempts to imitate his baritone and inflection. "Not taking me seriously at all!" A hand drops, to give him a poke on his side, though his next words sober her up, some. "If that's what you want." Words that should find familiar, because he's told her that many times, but there's nothing grudging about it and she even looks...well, pleasantly surprised, as she usually does when he expresses a preference. "As long as it's something you want to learn. I like you for who you are, Alexander. I don't give a damn what anyone else thinks of you and how you dress or anything else. And you already know what I'm willing to do if anyone makes the mistake of turning it into an issue in front of me."

It doesn't matter, he says, but he clearly looks uncomfortable and her eyes narrow faintly. "...so stupid that it's something that you worry about?" she asks, skeptically.

Alexander considers lying to her. Of course, because he's a terrible liar, that desire is written all over his face. As is the moment he ultimately rejects it and shakes his head. "No. If anything, it's worse. I think I'm getting...a little better at holding it back? But no. I care about my f--about the people I care about, and a lot of them are hurting, or doing stupid shit, and that makes me angry. All the time. Which," his smile is brief, "I know is my issue, not theirs. They have to do what they feel they need to do. And I'd be wrong to try and cage them. Doesn't mean I don't want to scream at them."

He chuckles, a little. "Uh. I suppose it did. But you didn't see the look Thorne gave me. And he wasn't wrong; it was a line I shouldn't have stepped across without some idea that you were," he clears his throat, "interested in something other than teasing me." He leans in to give her another kiss. "And it's always a compliment, my dear." The rest, he just listens to with complex expressions flitting across his face. It's clear that he's not sure what he wants, nor that he should be liked for 'who he is', but there's still pleasure that she would say so, would think so.

To the last, he just shrugs. "I'd rather not go into it right now, Isabella. I'll tell you once it's in a different place." He turns his attention back to the clothing, slipping away from her to model the blue shirt and accouterments, as well. He looks no more or less comfortable in this clothing than the last, but it's a good fit, and certainly makes him look better, discomfort or no.

She has no expression - or rather, as always, her inscrutability is often measured by how many emotions are warring over her face at once and it is just as obvious to him when Isabella senses the desire to lie. She is, in fact, about to say something cutting when his decision to go the other way renders her silent and forces her to recalibrate responses that she has already prepared, quick to act on foresight whenever she feels the need. But his words causes a faint twisting on the delicate lines of her. "Your friends, Alexander," she says quietly, looking visibly aggrieved, her conversation with August tapping across her mind with its own persistent pattern. "They care about you, too and that reciprocation is what makes those relationships possible. Otherwise August wouldn't be delivering food to your house every now and then, or trying to understand you and where you're coming from - and he does. Don't think that any of them don't find you frustrating, also, because they do. And yet..."

Did she see the look on Byron's face at the time? "I actually didn't notice," she tells him, a sly look angled his way. "I'm not saying that was the case, but I think I was too engrossed with yours." The kiss he sneaks on her is returned in kind, fingers climbing up the back of his head to dive and savor the feel of those ink-black curls slipping through them. The indecisive face he wears after is one taken in, but she doesn't comment on it. Her hands slip away from him instead.

With the change from red to blue, she subjects him to the same earlier scrutiny. "Yup, I think we should get both shirts at least, though I think..." She chews on her bottom lip thoughtfully. "...just the charcoal sports jacket and pants, though? It's a festive occasion, and as much as black makes you look intimidating, I think we should go with a subtler shade."

And that's when Marco steps in. "Ah!" he says, clapping his hands together and giving Alexander a critical eye. "Much better. Makes it less likely for my brother to call the police on you, ah?" He winks at Alexander, and turns to hand the chart and a rolled up tape measure to Isabella. "Precision, cara. Very important."

She takes both items from the tailor, that innocent smile returning. "I won't forget a single inch," she declares.

"My friends, then," Alexander says, quickly, placatingly, his head ducking down a little at the expression on her face. "Sorry." He tries to shove his hands in his pockets, and they're not in the place he expects them to be, so he just sort of wipes his palms along his thighs instead. "And I'm aware that I'm frustrating, Isabella. I know that." And now he's starting to feel frustration, too; like everything else, it's plain on his face to be seen.

It sours him a little through the rest, although he still bears up through the inspection without complaint, and nods at her decision on which clothes to buy, seeming content with it. That whip-quick flash of temper and strained patience comes out again when Marco tries to joke with him, though; his reply is immediate and defensive, "I haven't done anything wrong. We're paying for the clothes. There shouldn't be a reason to want to call the cops on me."

Well, that was surprising, when Alexander had been laughing throughout their initial introductions. Marco levies a long look at the investigator, before arching a brow at Isabella.

"We'll take care of it, Marco," she says, rolling the tape measure with her fingers. "Now let me work, yeah?"

He seems content with that and if anything, he seems faintly relieved not to have to interact with such an infamous figure in town for too long, shamelessly using his longtime patron's daughter as a social buffer, of a kind, for whatever inevitable transactions there are. As the brunette watches the older man go, she sighs.

"It's not as if all of that isn't understandable," she tells Alexander, sliding her hands in her pockets to look at him squarely. "You trusted the wrong people before and it hurt you - you'll probably tell me that the vice-versa is also true, and more severely, but just because it is doesn't mean that it didn't leave scars that aren't worth tending to. I don't know if there's ever a set recovery time for that kind of thing, and you may never...not really. It's just difficult to hear you doubt your own heart, as if it's not worth listening to."

Guilt flickers across Alexander's features at Marco's look, and he makes an apologetic noise before the man turns away. "Can we finish this up?" Alexander asks, quietly, when Isabella turns back to him. His shoulders are hunched and his posture is somewhere between contrite and trapped, especially as she continues to talk. "It's not really the location I want to have an extended talk about my personal insecurities. And I'd like to...go take a walk, for a while. I need to cool down."

Her jaw sets stubbornly, words piling up from behind her teeth and the frustration that wasn't there earlier starts to become visible through the cracks. But Isabella, eventually, takes a breath and nods.

"Sure," she says, gesturing for him to return to the dressing room. "I'll make it quick."

And she will. She gives him the space to undress, and when she fills out the chart, she's uncharacteristically silent - there's no light chatter, her smiles nowhere to be seen, the imp that perpetually lives inside her caged up. She's silently going through the numbers when he finally finishes returning to his own clothes, pencil running over the more uneven ones. Precision, Marco said. It was important.

Oh. Oh, this is terrible.

But, Alexander clearly recognizes, it's also a hole he dug for himself. He follows Isabella's lead in the measuring, going utterly silent and lifting and moving as she needs to take the measurements, his expression set in that combination between stubbornness and guilt throughout the whole thing. Then he dresses with visible relief as the old clothes settle around him, and he reaches out to pet them, a swirl of Glimmer noticed as he accesses whatever memories the old, worn cloth has. It has much the same effect a drink or a mood stabilizer might have on another person, and his lips curve up into a brief, sad smile, his attention turned to whatever is playing out in his head.

When he returns into the other room, he seems more relaxed, at least, and he pauses to watch her go through the numbers. He sidles closer, and tries to let a tentative finger caress down her arm.

She doesn't look up though she must sense his approach; she wouldn't be able to ignore it if she tried, even if he didn't feel like the nuclear core of some far away sun with how much power and skill he radiates, these days, pressing into her hyperaware senses like a crushing weight. By her admission, Isabella's abilities do not work the way they should - she would never reach the heights Itzhak Rosencrantz, Easton Marshall...anyone else in her acquaintance can reach, but that potential is still there and she can do enough in all three aspects to keep her open and sensitive to fluctuations and fuel that already formidable perception; to detect space, injuries, emotions...how strong one is in the power.

But these new channels come with their own headaches; these days, literal ones.

Her green-gold eyes lift at the touch of the finger sliding down her arm, wildfires and hurricanes churning around the volatile tangle of her, but she was never one to make it obvious when she feels vulnerable. She meets his look head-on. "Ready to go?" she asks, lowering her pencil.

Alexander lets his fingers fall away, and takes a step back, his hands going into the pockets of the old jacket. "I," he starts, then stops. He bobs his head, instead. "Yeah. If you have what you need, then I'm ready when you are," he says, voice quiet, eyes meeting hers square.

He takes a deep breath. "Thank you. This was a nice thing. To do, for me." A flicker of a self-mocking smile. "I'm sorry."

"You're welcome," Isabella says, reaching out so she could fold the things they've picked out, or rather, she'd picked out for him. There are more words, but they somehow remain within the stubborn blast doors of her. That she had been happy to, any reason, really, to spend time with him. But at the moment, these are sentiments she doesn't communicate.

"Alexander." Her expression changes then, more of that frustration burdened by an ache that isn't easily quantified, her low contralto alive with these irrepressible shards of her passionate spirit, unable to help it even while she looks at him. "...oh, darling. I don't even know if you know what you're sorry for."

After a moment, she hefts up their things and pivots so they can return to the main area. "Anyway, we should deliver the chart, pay for these, and you can take your walk, and I can get back to work." Her smile returns, however faint. "With luck the damn thing will be done before Christmas actually arrives."

"Probably not," Alexander allows. "I feel like it's better to just...generally be sorry. In most of life," he mutters, although not without a flickering hint of humor. He reaches out to help fold things; he's neat and quick about it, and hands each item to her once it's done. Once everything is in hand, he trails behind her to the main area. "That sounds good," he says, quietly. "And you'll let me know when you've finished your draft?" He stares at the back of her neck. "So we can celebrate properly."

"That sounds confusing and counters your usual preference for accuracy directly," Isabella observes, as always the first to challenge, outright, every one of his beguiling and frustrating contradictions, though never to bemoan their existence in the first place. As he stares at the back of her neck, the pendant's chain stands out against the golden undertone of her skin, glinting faintly under the light.

Galdo is the one who rings them up as Marco chatters away at the couple, outlining the timeline as to when they can expect the garments to be finished. The alterations to the sports jacket, shirt and pants will not take long and will be done by tomorrow, just in time for the Addington function, but the suit for the New Year's Gatsby Ball will take longer, though will be prepared before the event itself. Whenever the things are paid for, and kept, which relieves them from having to deal with the burden of carrying the purchased items, they both head out of the clothier and back out on the street.

"I'll let you know," she says at last when they stop at her Jeep. "I've been working at it like the Devil himself is on my back, so it's been easier and easier to take a break. It'll be off my plate for sure by the time that Easton probably asks us to raid the Asylum." She makes a faint face, reminded of the Prozac bottle among her things. "Be careful, while you're walking."

"I know. I'm sorry." Is he doing that in purpose? It almost seems like he HAS to be doing that on purpose, but Alexander's expression betrays nothing but contrition. He doesn't really look at either of the brothers as things are rung up, standing there like he's hoping that if he just doesn't move, it will render him invisible. He does manage to make the right polite noises at the right times, then follows Isabella out into the street, the chill of the autumn air hitting him like a bit of a slap. Instead of flinching, though, he takes a deep breath, and lets it out, as if it's cleansing.

When they stop by her Jeep, he offers a faint smile. "Good. Maybe we'll schedule it for after the visit Over There, and have both things to celebrate at once?" He leans in to give her a brief, warm kiss if she allows, before pulling away. "I'll be okay. You be careful. Don't stop for anyone," he adds, with a frown. Then he turns and starts walking away, head down and shoulders rolled in.