2019-12-23 - Christmas Gifts and Fluke Cookies

Try And Bake Christmas Cookies (a NPC) rolls 4 (7 7 6 5 4 1) vs Well There Goes The Oven (a NPC)'s 4 (4 4 3 3 2 2) Crushing Victory for Try And Bake Christmas Cookies. (Rolled by: Isabella)

Whenever Alexander returns from his snowy walk, he'd find that his house smells...

...different.

Delicious, actually. The interior is warm in spite of the man's lack of insistence in using the heater, because it costs money, and the usage of the oven the entire afternoon while he was gone is probably to blame for the temperature that finds his face and immediately banishes the cold left behind by the ridiculous blizzard brewing outside. Luigi remains in his perch, keeping a wide berth from the kitchen, and Blue Bell is on the couch, grooming herself primly. There is no sign of Isabella, but he can probably guess where she is the moment he walks in - she's somewhere in the kitchen, within breathing distance of a stove.

Uh oh.

Whenever he finds her, she's clumsily prying cookies off parchment paper with a spatula, and it's a miracle that none of them crack or lose their shape when she transfers them into a cooling rack, because that's what the recipe says to do - it's on her phone, helped along by Google, her back to him. Her investment in the entire endeavor is a palpable thing; she is silent, and intense and focused, her shoulders hunched and her head bowed as she fully immerses herself in the work. With her body mostly blocking the view, he'd have absolutely no idea how they look. The mess that has been generated by the evening's endeavors are already soaking in the sink.

"Please don't break, please don't break, please don't break..." she chants softly when she pries off the last cookie and puts it on the rack. She practically wilts in relief when the last is transferred without incident. The sigh practically fills the kitchen. "Whew."

Alexander's nose is numb and red. He's been gone since four or so in the morning - he couldn't sleep after they returned from the Asylum, and he paced and fretted in his office until finally disappearing out into the snow. So when he gets back, he looks about one step from frostbite, despite being bundled up. So that warm air hits him like a welcome slap in the face. He breathes deep of it as he puts his coat, scarf, and hat on the hooks behind the door, and peels himself out of the thermal pants that are dripping melted snow onto the foyer. These, he hangs up above some linoleum, then starts looking around as he enters the living room.

Luigi immediately calls out and swoops to his shoulder, and he takes a moment to give the bird affectionate coos and scritches on the crest feathers. His eyes scan the area, and he moves quietly towards the kitchen, taking up a stance just outside of it so he can watch Isabella, his eyes glowing warmly with affection, and reassure his bird at the same time. He waits until she's finished moving the cookies before he speaks up. "I don't know what you're making, but it smells delicious."

There's a bit of a tiny scream when he speaks up, Isabella whirling around and the spatula brandished in a defensive fashion, green-gold eyes wide; as if he'd caught her in some compromising position or worse, committing a felony. And by the looks of the cooling rack, she could have been, because the moment she moves, he'd find cookies upon it, flat discs that are far from perfect, but as white and pale as she could make them, and dusted with red and green sparkling sugar. There are some that sport the unmistakable signs of ill-advised attempts at decorating, but the designs are...well. They're terrible. He may have had hints before that his young lover has all the artistic skill of a dead iguana by an Arizona desert trail, this only proves the suspicion.

"...they're just cookies," she tells him helplessly, the image of her all the more accentuated by the streak of flour on her cheek, the hollow of her throat and the bridge of her nose, her hair disheveled and skin half-dewed, drawn out by the warmth of the oven and the paranoia of a young woman who doesn't really engage in many acts of domesticity. She's worn an apron, at least, and she's hastily untying it off her body, her embarrassment growing at the sight of his glowing eyes and the way he's looking at her at the moment, her pulse quickening under the collar of her shirt. "I wanted to go for a run, but the outside world looks awful, so I stayed in, but I...got bored." She is not about to tell him she had to keep herself busy otherwise she would succumb to the temptation of peeking and cheating at trying to guess what the parcel addressed to her under his plastic tree holds. There's only so much temptation she can ward off!

But she flashes him a grin, moving over towards him once she dispenses with the apron. "How was your walk?" she asks, her embarrassment overtaken by concern. He had been restless since the Asylum, and she had gone to bed immediately due to a raging headache. He was gone by the time she woke up. "You alright?"

When Isabella screams, Luigi screams back, and decides that he has had enough of this already. He launches himself off Alexander's shoulder and flies back to his cage, followed by the curious gaze of Blue Bell. Curious and a little wistful, but she has better manners than to stalk or pounce. Alexander, for his part, puts his hands up when she whirls around with that spatula. "Easy there. I'm unarmed." He's not, but it's not like he'd ever pull a knife on her.

When she turns enough that he can get a look at the cookies, he shamelessly leans in that direction, eyes widening. "You baked cookies? Isabella, they smell amazing. And look very enthusiastic!" He's so sincere about it. "I've never tried to really bake anything, so you're one up on me." His eyes turn back to her - heart eyes, total heart eyes. "My walk was fine. I actually ran into Byron around six thirty or so." He yawns, hastily raising a hand to cover it. "He was out running. In this, if you can believe it." A shake of his head, blissfully ignoring the fact that the only reason he knows that is because he was out walking in it. "And you know that you can do whatever you want in the house, Isabella." He reaches out as she approaches, to draw her close enough to kiss. His lips are still ice cold.

"....they look enthusiastic? Really?" Isabella turns a skeptical eye on her handiwork. "I...guess?" She can't help it - he's so endearing; a silvery peal of laughter unspools from her, though as he continues gushing so sincerely about them, she's struggling against the flood of color that threatens to overtake her cheekbones because of the puppyesque heart eyes he's levying in her direction, beaming into her skull like laser beams. Because she's not blushing (it's like he's doing this on purpose!!!). She's not. It's the heat from the oven. "I don't think I've ever come across enthusiastic cookies before, but considering my lack of love for sweets most days anyway, I'll have to defer to your expertise in that regard. And they might not taste as good as they smell, I guess we'll find out in a few minutes once they're cool enough."

"You ran into Byron? Well, that's not surprising, I think he even tried to go for a run when he was well into the bad phase of the Veil flu. Nothing's going to stop that man from burning off all the coffee he ingests every day," she tells him simply, letting herself get drawn in, iron filings to lodestone. Her fingers and skin detects the Winter on him immediately, slipping through slightly-damp curls laced by ice. Her mouth against his is warm in comparison, and he'd easily feel the shiver down her spine at the first blistering contact of the blizzard against her. But she doesn't stop, returning his kiss until she can consume the frost from it, passion subsumed by thorough softness.

"Welcome home," she murmurs. "And I know...that's why I had to keep busy otherwise I'll ruin something for myself and I don't want to do that." She tilts her head back to meet his eyes, her own lit like emerald lanterns.

"Enthusiastic. Delightful. Warm and jolly. I can go on?" Although it's got a bit of a tease to it, Alexander's clearly sincere in his admiration of the baking. He kisses slowly and thoroughly between words, until his own skin has flushed warm and pleasant instead of chill and damp. "Mm," he agrees absently. Then blinks and actually pays attention to what she was saying. "Ah, yes. I did remind him he has a climate controlled gym, but he apparently likes the fresh air. Also, apparently Lilith is going to be organizing a giant snowball fight. He invited us."

He releases her, so that he can eel around her and go inspect the cookies close at hand. "Ruin something? I don't know of anything you could ruin here, Isabella."

"You're incorrigible," said warmly and affectionately, Isabella's lips brushing against the tip of his bold nose before she's released, stepping aside with an exasperated look because he's clearly curious about them. The way she watches him is almost indulgent as he investigates the new contents of his counter, leaning against the sink and sliding her hands in her pockets. She's wearing a hooded sweatshirt today, one of his, it hangs like a bag over her more slender frame, long legs peeking out under the hem - either she's wearing shorts under there, or just underwear, having clearly made herself at home.

A snowball fight? The change is immediate; the warmth in her eyes suddenly blazes a brighter green, set on fire by the prospect of competition. "Challenge accepted," she tells him with a laugh. "Of course I'm going! I was denied the opportunity when we were at the haunted woods. Now I get to have my vengeance." She slowly starts to unroll the sleeves pushed up to her elbows - they end up hanging all the way down past her fingertips.

The cookies are cooling rapidly at least. "Er, well...it's the gift with my name on it. I was being very responsible and trying not to peek. And you could probably understand what position that put me in being so curious, and with my thesis draft completed, I had to do something before I ruined the surprise, hence, cookies. And yes, they're for you. And Isolde. But mostly for you."

"Careful, Miss Reede. That's a strong accusation to label at a man. He might feel the need to live up to it," Alexander tells her, with a wink. His attention is on the cooling tray of cookies, and - perhaps as a follow through to his warning - he reaches out and pinches off a soft bit of the still cooling cookie nearest to him, and pops it in his mouth. At least the sounds he makes as he chews are appreciative. "Hot! Good. But very warm."

Then he laughs, and turns around to face her. "Why do I feel like we just entered into a war? But very well." His smile is indulgent. "If you'd like to open your gift now, we can do that. It's Christmas, after all. Or close enough." Then he steps forward and brushes his hand across her cheek. "Thank you. For the cookies. They're wonderful."

Eyes widen with exaggerated innocence, Isabella's low contralto growing light and almost sing-song as she ripostes with, "But Mister Clayton, didn't you just tell me that I could do whatever I wanted in the house?" He left himself open for it, so of course she has to take it, brandishing that invisible foil and going for the mark. But when he breaks off a piece, she waits for his verdict, expectant and...

...disbelieving, when he says it's good. "What?" she wonders. "No, that can't be right. It can't be. I'm not..." She reaches out around him to break off a bit of the same cookie, blowing it against her fingers as steam rises from the tear. She pops it in her mouth and chews.

The look of her is so astonished that she stares at the rack for a moment, and then the oven. "They are good," she utters, perplexed. "I don't understand...what did I do?!"

AN HOUR AGO

As Isabella wanders off from the kitchen to respond to a text, Blue Bell leaps on the counter, sniffing delicately at the mess of eggs, flour and vanilla on top of it. But there are no humans here who would lavish her with affection, so dainty paws tilt her slowly around, her tail knocking something into the mixture waiting on the bowl before leaping off it.

NOW

Nobody will ever know what Blue Bell accidentally put in it, and it's quite likely that whatever miracle Isabella thinks she pulled off today will never be recreated ever again.

His laugh inspires that grin; the one that cuts like a scythe and gleams like the corona of some far away sun. "...is it the cookies? You're letting me do this because of the cookies, right?" she wonders, hopefully, downright effervescent when he indulges her curiosity this way. His hand has her turning her face into it, pressing her lips against the heel of his palm, eyes hooding as she looks up at him from under her lashes. Her adoration plays over the glittering mischief he finds within the vibrant color of those irises. "Deal. I should fetch yours from...um..."

She's whirling away, rushing out of the kitchen in a flurry of energy. "Wait here!"

"It's really good," Alexander assures her, grinning widely. "You have to stop doubting yourself; you are capable of anything to which you put your mind, my love." He leans in to sneak a kiss on her temple - although it's mostly a diversionary tactic so he can break off half of the rest of that cooling cookie then pop it into his mouth. "And as long as you enjoyed baking them, then of course they'll be delicious," he mumbles around the soft and crumbly goodness.

Her accusation draws a laugh, and a shake of his head. "Nonsense. I want to see you when you get it. That's all." He smiles. "I don't give gifts to people often. Especially not where I have to watch them open them." He waits for her to dash off, and then he ambles his way to the small, plastic tree, and retrieve the small wrapped package from under it, ready to present to her. It's neatly wrapped, in a dark red paper that has little wreaths on it. And a golden bow that looks hand-tied.

They're even perfect texturally; crispy on the outside but soft and chewy in the middle. There are faint hints of cinnamon and cream, a play on Snickerdoodles with a more festive bent. Thankfully she's already turning away after that temple kiss, however, before the color on her cheeks intensifies and she would have to (badly) lie about the heat.

When Isabella returns, she's scrubbed the flour off her face, and she's carrying a gift bag - it's small, though, with a box within and unlike the care he's clearly shown wrapping her present, hers is clearly store bought, because that lack of artistic talent extends to almost everything. "I've always given presents to my family, but never a boyfriend," she tells him, stepping towards him and awkwardly, almost shyly offers it to him. It's in his favorite color - a deep blue with iridescent snowflakes, and a silver ribbon tying the handles together to keep whatever it is within additionally secure. She may be struggling with her embarrassment, persistent as it is since he returned, but her smile is broad and impish, pushing the rarely seen dimple from her left cheek.

"Merry Christmas, my love."

Alexander pretends disappointment when he sees her fresh-scrubbed face. "Aw. I was looking forward to seeing if that was flour or sugar when I kissed it off," he tells her, all innocence. Then subsides into a moment of awkwardness as she mentions that this is her first present exchanged with a boyfriend. "I...you know, I'm honored that we're both new to this," he admits, with a sheepish grin. Then hands over the box he's holding, exchanging it for the bag.

There's no hesitation in him once the exchange is made, though; he opens the bag with artless enthusiasm, untying the ribbon and pulling at the filling in the interior with cheerful abandon.

There's a blink regarding the sugar or flour comment, and then she laughs, taking his package. "I don't know, that sounds dangerously like Cosmo territory," Isabella banters back as she slowly sinks on the couch, so she could unwrap her own present carefully. "They keep publishing articles about food and sex - chocolate syrup and whipped cream antics..." A teasing look flashes in his direction. "Unless you've been reading them in the checkout counters at Safeway." She unties the gold ribbon, and sets it aside, and then slips her fingers through the tape to peel it off. She doesn't tear it off, mindful that he's taken painstaking measures to be precise and she admires the color of the wrapping, brushing her thumb against the glossy sheen.

"I am, too. Honestly? I'm relieved. I think I'd even be more intimidated if I was and you weren't." She winks at him from the cushions.

His present is trapped in a nondescript black box and when he opens it, he'd find a cuff, made out of sturdy black leather and meant to be worn at the wrist. It doesn't appear anything that could be bought wholesale; there's stitching by hand apparent, and two larger metallic links on the ends that brace against the structure a series of old runes carved into polished deep blue stones. The stones themselves are shaped irregularly, possibly wrought by ancient tools and imperfect, linked into one another by metal and wire - seven in all.

It can't be an artifact - at least, not wholly. The stones are certainly old - the rest of it is new, but it doesn't change the fact that his archaeologist girlfriend has given him a historical mystery in a box.

"Chocolate syrup can be fun, but whipped cream is overrated. Especially if you're not careful about the amount you use. Body heat tends to melt and curdle it," Alexander explains, quite cheerfully, watching her expression. He follows her to the couch, and settles down near her. Blue Bell immediately relocates to his lap, bodychecking the gift bag as she does so. "Hey, cat. Mind your manners," he says, without heat. He gets a fluffy tail to the face in return as she turns around to make his lap comfy for her.

Inside the paper that she carefully opens is a small jeweler's box. Inside the box, resting on an interior of cotton, is a silver bracelet. It's a simple, elegant thing, with three charms hanging from it. The largest of the charms has a dandelion bloom picked out in glittering citrines, and delicately inscribed on the side of it are the words 'The best is yet to come...' The second charm is a small glass ball, that has a piece of dandelion fluff trapped inside of it, perfectly preserved. The last charm is just a small, silver disk, with more bits of dandelion fluff engraved on it in a suggestion that they're floating away. He clears his throat. "I know you don't wear a lot of jewelry, but I thought this might be a bit of a good luck charm. For when you go to your defense."

Meanwhile, he's pulling the box out of the bag, and opening it. He blinks down at what is revealed, and plucks the cuff out of its box to inspect it from every angle. "This looks incredibly old," he murmurs, as if his voice might shatter it. "It's beautiful, Isabella." He turns it around, trying to find identifying marks with his rather...restricted knowledge of ancient history.

This is about the last thing she expected. Green and gold eyes fall into the interior of the box when she opens it with delicate, deliberate care and when she finds the silver bracelet within...

...her expression is utterly indescribable, emotions warring over her expressive features for prominence, but all of them good, brushing over Alexander's senses like a feather touched with fire. Fingers brush over the detail, for a moment slightly afraid that she might break it simply by doing so, but curiosity and enthusiasm slowly take over when the tip of her index dances lightly on the dandelion set with the small citrines, and the third charm with the fluff floating away, but it's the perfectly preserved fluff in the glass ball that inspires the sudden knot at the back of her throat.

All the things. The whisper of her younger, and more innocent self touching her from her most safeguarded memories.

Heat pricks from underneath her lashes. She's so happy that she doesn't trust herself to speak for a long moment. Turning around on the couch, she reaches for him if he allows, twining her arms around his neck and shoulders and hanging on for dear life. Joy tangles with that familiar sharp, bittersweet ache, spearing through her racing heart. "I love it," she finally says against his temple, the whisper fierce and fervent, squeezing him. "I love you. Oh, Alexander, it's so beautiful. I'll wear it proudly. I'll wear it always."

His investigation of the cuff is momentarily interrupted by her reaction, and his need to see it. His gaze slides over to her face, to watch her open it. Is there apprehension there? A little bit. But if so, it disappears as he drinks in her reaction. That brilliant smile appears, and he just watches her until she reaches for him. He takes her into his arms as she does likewise, and holds her and the cuff at the same time, his eyes closing for a moment. "Mm. I'm glad, Isabella. And I love you, too. I'm very glad you like it."

He pulls back after a moment of embrace, though, because she has handed him a mystery, and he can't resist examining it. "This is fascinating. I won't ask you to tell me its story. I will ask you to tell me if I get it right after I've had some time to look into it. But I love it. Thank you, my dear." His gaze is bright, warm, and interested.

She sets the box back down; she'll wear the bracelet later, but she presses a kiss on his cheek before she draws away. "I more than like it. I..." Isabella pauses, and she laughs, because now the color on her cheeks can't be hidden no matter how hard she tries, flushed and glowing from underneath her light tan. "...I've never given a gift to a boyfriend before, and tonight is my first time receiving any jewelry from a man I happen to be seeing." She tilts a sly glance sideways at him. "If you're not careful, Mister Clayton, you're in the very real danger of snatching up all of my more significant, romantic milestones."

When she watches him examine the cuff, it's soft and warmly indulgent. "It's more of a puzzle that I put together myself after a few hours of research, but it does tell a story," she tells him quietly as he inspects it. "Or rather, a bit of history. I simply used something I found in a prior dig as a base, and the color was perfect. The rest, I had made, because clearly..." And here, she grumbles. "I can't make anything for you to save my life. You won't believe how many artists I harassed the last two weeks to try and teach me. I even tried to knit. I tried to knit you a scarf, Alexander. I find myself tremendously fortunate that I didn't manage to eviscerate or blind myself with the knitting needles and trust me, I came really close." She's ranting now, just a little, but only because her affection - that intense, terrifying love - has been churned up like an unbridled hurricane within her, and she doesn't know how to bleed it off, so here she is, verbally flailing.

The rune stones are cold to the touch, Norse futhark engraved on the hard surfaces and gleaming under the light. The stones are semi-precious; lapis, perhaps, of a deep rich and blue color and somehow beautiful despite their imperfect, irregular shapes. Otherwise there is no indication of what it could mean, at least not without research, but as he inspects the band, camouflaged in the black leather, he'd find words embossed on the inner side of the cuff, in Latin:

Probitatum quam divitias. Probity rather than riches.

"I don't know if that's a warning that I should be more careful, or a request that I should be less, so that I might have them all to my greedy self," Alexander says, lightly. He continues to turn the cuff in his hands, his fingers pausing when he finds that embossed phrase. He murmurs the translation to himself, and although his joy is a quieter thing, as if hoarding it for a darker day, it's no less a real one. He looks up at her at the mention of the scarf. Amusement dances in his eyes. "Do I even want to know what happened to the scarf in this," he teases her, "or will it come back and exact its woolen revenge on us, one day?" He glances back down at the cuff, then slips it onto his right wrist, and fastens it close, inspecting the fit. "Interesting. I'll have to look into it."

He clucks his tongue at Blue Bell when she immediately tries to chin the leather and leave her smell on it. She ignores him, as she often does, and he laughs, softly. "Well. This has been a lovely exchange. And cookies. A good start to Christmas."

"I don't know," Isabella returns, all saccharine and unconvincing innocence - she could never wear the expression properly, but that doesn't stop her from trying, either. "What does your heart tell you?" Enthusiastic mirth, the ferocity of her stubborn, relentless adoration, roll from her aura; persistent, intangible waves that blanket her being and leave her utterly radiant in a way that is rarely ever seen by anyone else outside of Alexander himself. She reaches out if he lets her, to assist him in clasping the cuff around his wrist, metal and leather conspiring for a sturdy fit, the stones a cool brush against his warmer skin.

Do I even want to know what happened to the scarf in this?

"...you could see for yourself," she says with a sudden laugh, reaching out to take the bracelet gently from the box, and hand it to him. "I stuffed the evidence of my crime under the cushion you're sitting on." She extends her left wrist towards him in offerance, for him to clasp the lovely piece of jewelry around the delicate limb. "I think this is how it's done. In the movies anyway," she teases.