2019-12-24 - Christmas With The Reedes

Isabella is clearly in good spirits - last night was amazing, after all - when she shuts off the engine and turns her green-gold eyes to look over at her companion, leaning in to press her lips against his cheek, if he permits her, in an effort to bolster or reassure him, possibly both. Her smile is encouraging. "The food will be good," she says, before unbuckling her seatbelt and slipping out of the vehicle. "Aunt Mary's been working as a professional chef in New Orleans in the last few years, she always insists on doing the cooking. If it makes you feel better, I'm staying out of the kitchen." She winks at him teasingly.

It's Christmas dinner with the family, and the young woman has elected to recognize the fact by the way she has dressed this evening. Underneath her black, double-breasted winter coat that is left open on her person is a soft, stylish cashmere sweater dyed a lush shade of green that highlights the color of her irises, and black, fitted slacks that molds over her hips and the curvature of her backside before the fabric flows more loosely over the legs. She has her hair up in that loose twist she favors, clipped back by a set of black barrettes that Alexander might find familiar - the same ones she wore the day she met his parents. Her moonstone pendant swings when her heels crunch into the salted ice, refracting golden light and leaving shattered rainbow shards playing over the front of her top. He'd also observe his gift hanging on her left wrist, the bracelet also catching the light, citrines from the most prominent dandelion charm glittering in the darkness.

When the door opens, there's a shriek almost immediately, but not from Isabella, and were she in her twenties and slimmer, it's almost like looking in the mirror. Mary Reede is well into her late fifties, but the energy she exudes belongs to a much younger woman. Her eyes are the same color, framed by delicate crow's feet, cheeks rounded by the plumpness of both age and career. She is shorter than her niece, only at around five-feet and three inches, but much about her aura is similar to the archaeologist's - she radiates mischief. She, too, is dressed nicely in a deep blue dress, with pearls around her neck. The A-line skirt flatters her curvy figure, and one that is already extending open arms to sweep her niece up in a hug, swaying her back and forth with unabashed enthusiasm.

And once the door is open, the smell hits them both immediately, sweeping outwards with the warmth accumulated from the interior of the home - of pine logs thrown into the fire, and whatever mouth-watering thing was roasting in the oven.

"Auntie!" Isabella cries, already embarrassed though there's laughter in her tone, but she returns the embrace. "Come on, I have company."

"And that's precisely why I'll be showing absolutely no mercy," Mary banters back, a grin only highlighting her apple cheeks, Like green-gold eyes move away from the younger woman to fix on the taller shadow somewhere behind her. Releasing Isabella, her hands plant on her hips, head tilted back in an inquiring fashion. "Alexander Clayton," she greets, her tone reflective in the fact that she knows who the man is - but unlike others who might be in the house, she doesn't look at all perturbed. She burns like a small sun, just like her niece, cloaked with the power, and word has it that she, too, was a local troublemaker in her youth. "Well, come in and get out of the cold, young man, and let me take a look at you. I don't think I even remember what you looked like when you were wee, it's been so long."

Alexander is absolutely nervous. It's clear in his hands, which spend the entire trip dancing up and down his clothing, checking the ironed seams on the dress slacks, the fit of the charcoal jacket, the buttons on the blue dress shirt, and the fit of his tie, which has been unearthed from the dark confines of his closet and is a respectable dark grey with pale blue pinstripes. And yes, he knows how to tie a tie, something he's demonstrated at least twice during the drive by fiddling with it until it comes undone, then hastily retying it. The black cuff, although it does not really go with the rest of the outfit, is being worn, and part of his hands' nervous journey is to return to it, stroking the leather and lightly touching each of the stones there. He doesn't resist the kiss on the cheek at all, although nervousness has him lapsed into near silence, he does spare a brief smile before following her to the door. His hair has been brushed to a faretheewell, and his beard clipped neatly.

At that shriek, he takes an instinctive step back, hands coming up defensively. For a moment, it looks like he might abandon the whole idea and just flee back to the Jeep, but he forces himself to stand his ground, and wait, anxiously, to be spoken to. Or attacked. His face says that he considered either outcome equally likely. When Mary does acknowledge him, the merest smile flickers to life on his features. "Mary Reede," he greets in return. "Merry Christmas." When invited in, he gives Isabella a worried look, but steps cautiously inside, trying not to slouch too much.

The archaeologist steps aside, and gives an approving glance towards Alexander, though at the presence of the jacket and the tie, she can't help but smile - she had tried to convince him that he absolutely did not have to dress up if he didn't want to, but here he is, giving his best effort anyway. Her eyes are soft as she looks at him, and whenever he glances back at her.

"Merry Christmas to you, too. And Mary, please, Alexander." The older woman shuts the door to keep the cold out, and waves the two newly arrived persons inside. "I know what Isabella's having, but what about yourself? The old folks are having drinks in the sitting room and with luck, Scylla and Charybdis are done setting the table before they eat everything meant for dinner."

"My cousins," Isabella supplies softly to her companion as an aside. "They're not actually named that, though."

"I should have named them that, with the way they eat. Like the ten plagues are about to hit us all over again." But the exasperated fondness in Mary's voice is a maternal one. Looking Alexander up and down, a smile hooks into the corner of her mouth as she beckons both younger people forward to walk through the hall leading towards several rooms - old houses are what they are, there is no such thing as 'open concept' back in those days. "You're taller than I remember, Alexander," the older woman says, conversationally. "What have you been up to, these days?"

For a Tudor, the ceilings are quite high, and its age is more apparent even inside - sturdy oak paneling run along the white plaster walls, and the floors are dark hardwood. Sound carries in the space, from the clatter of silverware in the formal dining room and their footstep as they follow Mary's wake. There are several archways leading to different corridors and rooms in the house, and a main staircase winding upwards to the second floor, where the bedrooms are. The scent of burning pine logs becomes more apparent the further they get inside, as well as the smell of the food.

"Are forks supposed to go on the right or the left?" calls out another voice - what sounds like a young boy, from the direction of the dining room.

"They all go on the same side, dummy!" pipes up another young voice - a girl, this time, from the same angle.

"Well, excuse me, I don't watch the Food Channel all day!"

"Better than the Dumb Channel."

"There's no such thing as the Dumb Channel."

"There is one if you're watching it!"

"Pbbbt!"

"You, pbbbt!"

And it goes on.

Alexander's hand sneaks out to lightly touch Isabella's back, and he doesn't drift far. As if she were a luck stone or a security blanket that he feared to have taken away. His eyes remain on Mary, watching her with that frank, almost rude, directness that he tends to fall back on in unfamiliar situations. But the banter about the names causes his lips to quirk upwards, and he ducks his head to hide the smile for a moment as he follows them through. He looks around, measuring and assessing the environment he finds himself in. "I think the last time you saw me, I hadn't hit puberty," he points out, tentatively amused. "I did get taller. Although not as much as some." A longer, more awkward pause at the asking about his current situation. "I do independent investigations on, um, various things. Recently, I provided some aid to the police department regarding the murders at the Sea View hotel."

He doesn't go on, although it takes some effort. He's done enough holiday suppers with his family to know that murders are not appropriate dinner conversation, by any means. He pauses when the voices come from the dining room, head swiveling in that direction. A grin, there and gone as quick as summer lightning. "They sound like they're having fun," he says - and he sounds perfectly sincere in that, with the air of pleasure and indulgence that often comes when someone who really loves kids gets to hear them bicker without having to do anything about it.

The touch on her back has Isabella turning her face up, almost automatically, to kiss Alexander's cheek lightly. The press is brief, however - an exchange that Mary watches with a sidelong glance and a smile, despite the saucy arching of a dark brow. Still, she keeps to his side as they move further into the house.

"Exactly," Mary says, nonplussed at Alexander's observation as to how much time has passed. Mischief lances towards him like an unforgiving laser. "You young ones grow up so fast." She winks at him, before continuing on. "Aha, so investigative consulting? You know, I didn't think detectives would need the help - it's their job to do that sort of thing after all, but considering how this town is and what happens here at a regular basis, I'm surprised the PD hasn't buckled under the pressure." The last words draw an interested look from the older woman. "Really? I heard there were some arrests made, recently. You had something to do with that?"

"Alexander routinely puts most of the police department's detectives to shame," Isabella remarks, her tone an audible comingling of glowing pride and a touch of frustration - not at the man, himself, but the fact that not many allow themselves to recognize that. "He's brilliant." And said with her usual certainty.

"And an early bloomer on that end, from what I heard as a younger woman." And for a brief moment, the investigator would see it - the old calling, the sharp, incisive stare as it falls on his face. Only a second or two, and at the brief grin, the older woman smiles. "My twins are inseparable," she tells Alexander. "Seph and Nica....Joseph and Veronica Reede. I had them quite late, I waffled about having children for the longest time, the switch in careers wasn't exactly conducive to family planning." There is no ring on her finger, however - not even a tan line and no mention of a husband. "I finally took the plunge a few years ago."

Alexander smiles at the kiss, and returns it with a brush of his lips against Isabella's temples before returning his wary attention towards Mary and the tour of the house. He seems oblivious at Mary's reaction to his observation, but he does nod agreeably to her counter. "It often seems like we do." A pause, then he clears his throat, torn between his inherent need to clarify his piecemeal work, or to let it lie so that he can look at least somewhat more professional in front of Isabella's family. Eventually he says, slowly and carefully, "I don't know that they always need it; the local department has several quite competent detectives, and I wouldn't say that I put any of them to shame. But occasionally I can help." A shake of his head at her question. "Ah, no. I don't have anything to do with arrests. I just gathered some information, but the police put it together with sources that they had access to so that it would be something actionable."

Not even Alexander will admit to breaking into a casino to steal a murder weapon, after all.

At Mary's sharp stare, he looks down at the floor, and clears his throat. But doesn't deny it. And doesn't look back up until the subject moves to safer ground. Then he smiles, a bit tentatively, "It can be difficult. But they sound happy, and you do, too. Which is all that a family usually requires. I think." He clears his throat again.

Alexander's measured response has Mary giving him a quiet reassessment with her stare, before turning to Isabella. "You could use some of that humility."

"Auntie," Isabella groans.

His quiet words about her family has Mary smiling at Alexander. "I would like to think so, Alexander," she tells him mildly. Her tone gentles there, having seen that look to the floor. "But you're very kind to say so."

When the trio finally find the sitting room, the scent of the pine logs in the flames is more apparent here, and observant eyes would find that it's already occupied. The Christmas tree that Isabella ordered for the house is trimmed and set near, but not too much, the fireplace, with wrapped gifts underneath it, a silver star glittering right on top. There's a man with white hair resting on the most comfortable chair in the room, somewhere in his eighties, with a blanket over his lap and a snifter of brandy in his wrinkled grip - there are liver spots on his skin, but when more people arrive, faded green eyes look up from where he has been contemplating the flames. Wrinkles grow in further prominence at his open smile, setting aside his blanket before he slowly rises from his chair. It takes a while, but when he finally does, he is straight backed and radiating a certain, remembered confidence.

The other man is standing by the fireplace close to the chair, also with a short glass with a finger or two of liquor. Over six feet tall and broad of shoulder, despite his infirmity, Captain George Reede stands as if he's still commanding a warship with several tons of nuclear ordinance somewhere in its bowels, fit, still, for a man of his age - a few years older than Mary and exuding a quieter, but sharper intensity than his fiery daughter. He turns, favoring his right side, compensated for by the walking stick in his grip. Most of his dark hair is gray, now, but its old color can still be glimpsed - as far as coloring goes, there's no question that Isabella favors her father's side. His eyes fall on Isabella first, and then to Alexander.

Isabella steps forward first, her enthusiasm in her greeting. "Grandpa," she says, moving forward to kiss his cheek; the oldest person in the room returns her embrace. Her own father earns no words, but she throws her arms around him with abandon, which the man returns, his steady observance broken by his daughter's unfettered greeting. Warmth bleeds from his stoic air by the way he squeezes her, and holds on for a moment or two before releasing.

"Ah, there you are, then maybe now we can eat!" Isabella's grandfather turns to Alexander and extends a hand, though it twitches spasmodically on occasion, whatever steadiness had been there early in life has been ravaged by the beginnings of a neural disease, though the man himself bears it with as much grace as he can. "Alexander, was it? Benjamin Reede."

"This is my grandfather, the admiral," Isabella supplies to Alexander. "And this is my Dad."

There's a moment when the former captain holds the investigator's stare, if he would let it happen, before he takes several steps forward. "Clayton." The greeting is low and doesn't reflect much emotion, but it carries clearly in the room and it isn't wary or hostile. He, too, extends a hand. "Merry Christmas."

Alexander hesitates for a moment at the threshold of the room, scanning it with a suspicious sort of look. Like he might get ambushed by male family members wanting to punish him for touching their precious Isabella. It takes a deep breath before he's able to square his shoulders and step into the room, trying to look respectable and not horrifically nervous. He scans both men, resting first on the older, and as he rises to his feet and extends a hand, Alexander braces himself, but steps forward and takes the hand in a warm, firm handshake. "Alexander Clayton. Yes. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir." His smile, though brief and nervous, has genuine warmth to it, although he steps back as soon as it's polite to do so.

He turns to watch Isabella embrace her father, and his expression softens more. It's impossible not to see the love there, on both sides, and the care and concern that daughter and father share for one another. Alexander notices the stare; in his fashion, he meets it with that blank and wary one of his own, like he's trying to stare through the former captain's head and read his thoughts. Isabella knows it's just his 'thinking face', but well, if you don't know it, it doesn't particularly look friendly. But he steps forward when Isabella's father does, and takes the hand that is offered. "Sir. Merry Christmas. Thank you for the invitation. You have a lovely home."

He's trying. Okay, it sounds a little like he's reading off a cue card or an invisible teleprompter, but he's visibly trying to navigate the situation.

"Good grip on this one, Izzy," Benjamin declares, a more impish look to the man as he studies Alexander with his faded eyes. His handshake is an enthusiastic one, but brief before he releases Alexander to greet George. "Probably seen a fight or several on his own right. He's got the look. Gonna need it, I think, to survive this town." There was, perhaps, a few decades where the older man was more like his son, but in the very twilight years of his life, he seems to have hit that point where he doesn't feel much need to hold back, because he says, "And you."

"Grandpa!" Isabella huffs. "It's not as if I'm holding him hostage!"

Green eyes twinkle back at his granddaughter, his feigned innocence palpable in the air - she has to get it from somewhere. "If she was, though, I wouldn't be surprised," he tells Alexander as a mock-aside. "Just try and send out a signal flare when she's not looking and I'll call the cavalry."

As the young woman's cheeks puff out and Mary chuckles and excuses herself to get the table ready, George takes Alexander's offered hand, fingers closing over it. Unlike the others in the room, the former captain stands out by the fact that he is the only one within it without any abilities; he'd be able to tell easily. But if there's any hint of wariness at the intense and piercing look from the younger man, he doesn't show it. The shake, too, is firm, and brief, though there's a moment where he pauses in the doing, falling silent at the investigator's teleprompter greeting. It can be interpreted as either uncertainty or judgment.

Definitely the former, if not just because George has never been in this position before either. Isabella has never brought anyone home until today, never displayed any serious interest. But he seems to recover from his momentary lack of social graces because he continues with, "Thank you. For coming." He releases Alexander's hand, and to his credit, he doesn't clear his throat or show any signs of hesitation. "What do you drink? Your parents are well?"

There's that moment when Alexander freezes at the declaration by Benjamin, and has to try and weigh: does it admit that he has fighting in his background and possibly win some sort of masculine bonding points? Or would that just make him look like a potential maniac and abuser? In the end, he just offers a soft, brief chuckle, and says, "Isabella has an entirely willing prisoner, I assure you, sir. Although I do try to be difficult enough that she doesn't get bored with me." Then he pretends to lower his voice and give Isabella a playful, sidelong look, "But I'll keep a flare on hand. Just in case I need the rescue."

When he switches his attention to George, he takes a moment to think about it. "Scotch would be fine. Thank you." He clears his throat, showing enough uncertainty for the both of them. The question about his parents does make him smile, though. "They're doing well. They asked that I pass along their regards." He retreats a little to stand by Isabella. "It's nice to meet you both," he adds, glancing to Benjamin to include him. "I'm not sure that I had the opportunity before. Even in a town this size, it's easy to miss each other," he admits.

The playful look cast to the archaeologist is returned by a mock-glower. "I'll have you know, Mister Clayton, that we also have a basement and it's very dungeon like, if you would like to test out the integrity of your flares," Isabella threatens, though she's clearly suppressing a grin. When he falls into a step next to her, her hand lifts, to twine her fingers into his own and give them a squeeze, and a slight lean of her shoulder against his.

The grandfather laughs. "Good lad." Benjamin grins; at least he still has all of his teeth, with a tone that suggests that he's about to clap the younger man's shoulder with his shaking hand, but doesn't do so. "Though something tells me I don't got to worry there overly much. My Anna kept me on my toes constantly." There's a fond look towards one of the portraits lining the wall, of a haughty, black-haired woman standing next to what seems to be a younger Benjamin in uniform. "Necessary, I think. When Reedes get bored, they get into trouble. Izzy was no exception. If you're the same way, you and I'll get along just fine."

The indicated preference for a scotch has George turning to the antique, rosewood bar mounted on the other side of the wall where decanters of different spirits reside. He retrieves another short glass for Alexander, and picks up a bottle full of amber liquid. It's guaranteed, at least, to be the good stuff - otherwise they would have just kept it in the original bottle. "Tell them that the family wishes them a Merry Christmas," he tells Alexander. "And I'm glad they're doing well. I trust Tom and Liz are enjoying their retirement." He pauses from his pouring to look directly at the younger man. "And no, I don't think we've ever met before." The man doesn't even bring up Alexander's reputation, because he's certainly heard that. "...but small towns are what they are - if not sooner, then later." He doesn't smile, but something about the way the investigator's expression changes when he speaks of his parents softens his aura a little. He takes several steps closer to Alexander and Isabella, and offers the glass of scotch to the former. There's a glance at his daughter's hand in his.

Before he can (thankfully?) say anything about that...

"Time to eat!" Mary calls from the formal dining room; her voice carries in an authoritative fashion - and when the chef calls, people better eat.

"Speaking of signal flares," Benjamin says, and despite his slow movements, he seems to get around just fine without aid. "I heard Mary made a roast. Do you eat red meat, Alexander? You're not one of those tofu-munchers, are you?"

Alexander lifts those twined hands so that he can brush his lips across her fingers, just briefly, and grin. "I must be doing something right, if you're offering to take me down to your dungeon, Miss Reede," he teases, and clearly for a moment forgets that her father is standing right there.

But only for a moment. Because then he turns brick red and shoots a mortified look in the direction of the elder Reedes. "I mean. Um. That she would want to keep me around. Not anything," danger, danger, danger Will Robinson, "untoward." Wait. What if they weren't thinking anything untoward, and now he's put their thoughts in that direction. "I mean, my intentions are honorable!" Oh god, that means he wants to marry her. Help. Help. He hangs his head in defeat. "I'm going to stop talking now. My apologies."

The scotch is mutely taken, and he sips it. Only because if he were to down it like he desperately wants to, he'd probably just choke and look even worse. So there's an awkward silence that stretches as George does the small talk, although he does give a quick nod when asked if his parents are enjoying their retirement. And then another, slower, nod when he points out that it was inevitable for the two men to meet - and he's almost certainly heard the rumors about Alexander. His shoulders brace, as if preparing himself for an interrogation.

And then? Saved by the yell. Alexander exhales an audible sigh of relief, and it relaxes him enough that he offers Benjamin a crooked sort of smile, and the very honest, "Sir, I was raised not to be picky. I'll eat pretty much anything that isn't still yelling about it."

Isabella's grin turns visibly wicked at Alexander's return fire, eyes lit at the challenge he's practically throwing in front of her. And she's about to say something when he suddenly colors and shoots that look at the rest of the elder Reedes who are both staring at him incredulously and for a very long, and uncomfortable moment, there is silence.

"..." The archaeologist turns to look at her male relatives, and parts her lips to speak, but the interminable quiet shatters, suddenly, by loud laughter from Benjamin, because he can't help it. My intentions are honorable! just clinches it, and a wrinkled hand presses against his sternum as he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

"Not with that earlier look in your eye, they aren't!" roars the old admiral, which only intensifies the growing look of mortification on Isabella's face.

"Grandpa!"

"By all means, imprison yourself in as many dungeons as you like with her, so long as I get to see the twins that produces before I die!"

"Oh my god, are you serious right now?!" Isabella cries as her grandfather keeps laughing. "I actually want this one to stay!"

Benjamin seems deaf to his grandchild's protests, mirth flowing free as he gestures to the rest and wanders towards the dining room. "Come on, you crazy kids. We better not leave Mary waiting. She'll get cross if the food gets cold." The white-haired head of the old admiral starts to vanish through the archway after he makes a left. Another long silence descends on the sitting room.

"...I should have mentioned that about a month after my grandmother died, the first thing he wanted to do was go on Spring Break," Isabella explains to Alexander in a daze. "...as in, Spring Break. In Cancun. To 'make up for lost time.'" She flashes a sheepish and somewhat panicked grin at the investigator, clutching his hand tightly - either to prevent himself from running, or prevent herself from running. Equal odds. "Though we should probably go do what he-- Dad?"

George Reede is still there, yes. And he is staring off into space, the glass of scotch in his hand forgotten.

"Daddy, are you okay?"

Another long moment of nothing before the former captain speaks, the picture of calm and reason in the midst of yet another situation that he's probably not prepared for as a father. His syllables are quiet as he says, "I'm fine, honey."

No. He is not fine. He is not fine with hearing about his daughter in the context of a sex dungeon. But to his infinite credit, he is taking it very well. Besides, all the guns are locked up downstairs.

"Alright, well....we're going to go eat." And with that, Isabella is vacating the sitting room, and tugging Alexander with her. She is doing her best not to run, but her steps are very quick. Later, she will probably laugh about this. But right now? She's still trying to recover from what her grandfather just said.

Alexander stares at Benjamin when he starts to laugh. As almost always, the laughter of strangers threatens to send him in a defensive tizzy, sure that they're laughing at him, or that it's mean-spirited, and he goes tense and rigid, a muscle jumping in his jaw. But that reflexive anger slides into confusion, and then to answering amusement, as Isabella and her grandfather quip back and forth, and by the time the older man turns to go to the dining room, Alexander has succumbed to sheepish chuckles of his own. "I like him," he tells Isabella, very solemnly. "He's lively."

Yes, very lively, as the Spring Break story reveals. He squeezes her hand comfortingly, although his expression turns more wary, again, when he notes that far away expression on George's face. Trying to reassure him, he says, "I assure you, sir; I don't even have a basement." His hopeful smile is clearly meant to convey 'your daughter is safe with me'. He's not very good at this. And there's a palpable relief when Isabella is dragging him away towards the dinner.

He whispers into her ear, "I'm sorry. I think we broke your father."

George's far away eyes finally focus when Alexander addresses him, the stoic man's attention homing in on the younger man's features and hopeful smile like a missile lock. For all that he exudes the air of a stern and no-nonsense father, it must be the hopeful quality of the investigator's smile that lends him towards trying. Or rather, trying to forget that the last four minutes ever happened. Lips twitch upwards. It doesn't quite make it into a smile, leaving it looking like an uncertain and pained expression instead. Alexander might not be good at this, but this, too, is foreign (enemy) territory to him.

"I'll take your word for it, Clayton," he manages to say, before his daughter drags him off.

With Isabella having dragged him out into the hall and walking quickly towards the formal dining room from where enticing scents beckon, she tilts her head sideways to capture Alexander's whisper. "I'm glad you like my grandpa," she tells him softly with a wry grin. "He can be a handful, too." And how. Though the words regarding her father encourages her more affectionate countenance. "Daddy's a navy man," she reminds. "He'll adapt and survive. Don't worry, you're doing just fine." Another press of her lips against his cheek.

As they head into the dining room, she continues: "...though just to be safe, maybe we shouldn't tell my family you tied me up with a pillow case on our 'first' date."

~ * ~

The formal dining room in the Reede house can easily fit sixteen dinner guests, though at the moment, there isn't even half that number present. Unlike the Clayton house where places are clearly set, while there seems to be a set pattern where people ought to go, plans on that end were quickly thrown into chaos by the presence of Mary's eight year-old twins. This was because Joseph wanted to sit between his uncle and grandpa, and Veronica wanted to do the same, which of course led to both children declaring World War III until George proposed, in his calm, level, authoritative voice, that there would have to be a compromise or neither of them will get dessert. After a spirited game of paper-rock-scissors (Best two out of three!, Nica had cried), the little girl was declared victorious, and settled on her grandfather's right, while Joseph sat next to his uncle. With Benjamin occupying the head of the table and George sitting by his left hand, this ultimately left Alexander sitting between Veronica and Isabella, and directly across Joseph.

The spread is as what one would expect from a woman who is presently working as an executive chef in one of the most competitive food cities in the United States. There is a trio of holiday appetizers on a platter, with spread avocado, mascarpone, and provolone on freshly toasted baguette slices, and sesame shrimp puff pastries with oyster sauce for dipping on the side. On a small tiered stand is a very festive platter of baked brie, garnished with a sprig of rosemary, topped with chopped, toasted almonds and drizzled with warm local honey, to be eaten with delicate, almost wafer-like savory crackers or piping hot cheddar biscuits nestled in a napkin-laden basket. The salad course is a Christmas salad made out of butter lettuce, pomegranate seeds and white wine vinaigrette, though there is also a casserole dish full of colorful roasted and seasoned vegetables, and two potato dishes available - one made gratin-style with cheese and rosemary, while the other looks unusual and gorgeous, with the potatoes cut up thinly in a mandolin and arranged standing up, crisped in the oven and brushed with rosemary butter. The star of the dinner is on a platter in the middle of the table - a sizable roast beef tenderloin with mushrooms and a white wine cream sauce on the side. And no self-respecting professional chef would dare neglect the cheese platter, set on a chopping board in a decorative angle at the end of the table, filled with a variety of cheeses as well as dried fruit and nuts, more crackers and accompanying jams.

"Alexander first, Mary," Benjamin says from the head of the table, nodding to the guest.

"I know, I know, Dad," the woman says, flashing the investigator a grin. "So how did you meet? Where was the first date?" Mary wonders of Alexander with a teasing, sing-song lilt as she sharpens a knife at the dinner table with a handheld honing steel, the scrape of metal filling the room. She is standing over the roast, cutting it against the grain. Very little of the meat's juices run out when she cuts, indicative that the woman has let it rest for the perfect amount of time, and under the blade, it parts like butter in her expert hands.

Isabella's hand freezes on her fork, her eyes swinging to Alexander. "Uh..."

Veronica, with her festive Christmas dress and her pig-tails, peers curiously at Alexander's plate, before looking up at him with those big, emerald-and-gold Reede eyes. "You should eat the crostini first," she tells him - perhaps only a eight year old raised by a chef would even know what a crostini is, let alone pronounce it correctly. "And then the salad, and then the potatoes. Oh! Are you all...all...aller..." She hasn't mastered the word allergic yet. "...does any food make you itchy?" she substitutes. "Because Mom says it's always important to ask!"

"Brown-noser," Joseph mutters from across the table. "She thinks she knows everything about food."

His sister sticks her tongue out at him, a gesture he returns. "Not yet, but I will!" she declares with confidence, nodding solemnly at Alexander. "I'm going to be the next Joll Robucheron!" ...she probably means Joel Robuchon, but she's eight, and not a native French-speaker.

Alexander sits where he is directed to without complaint; his eyes are on the food, widening a little. "My god," he says, artless, "this all looks magnificent." He moves to pull out the chair for Isabella, if she'll let him, before he sits down himself, his fingers ghosting along her shoulders, as if to reassure her. Or himself.

At Mary's question, he blinks. But answers with only a little hesitation, "It was actually through Byron Thorne. I was working on a research project that he was helping me with, and mentioned that Isabella might find it of interest, since it had to do with the history of the town." A pause. "Our first, um, date was actually something of an accident. Isabella invited me over, but got caught up in some research," and homicidal obsession, "So it ended up being more of a stay-at-home thing until that was resolved."

Every word perfectly true, even if he left out most of the more interesting details. "I did try to make the lack of a first date up to her, but only Isabella can say whether it worked or not," he adds, with a sly sort of smile, kicking the ball back into her court.

When Veronica speaks up, his attention goes to her, and his entire face changes with his smile. "Should I?" He does, and seems perfectly content to follow the eight year old's advice on the meal, smiling as she struggles with the word. "Thank you for asking, Veronica, but I'm not allergic to anything. Well, no food." A glance to Joseph when he cuts in. "It's okay to have things you really like, and the only way to become an expert at something is to think about it a lot, I've found.. What do you enjoy, Joseph?"

There's open approval from Benjamin when Alexander pulls out a chair for Isabella, who scoots into it and smiles up at him, her affection palpable and even almost embarrassing to witness, causing a long-suffering groan from Joseph across the table. "See, George? A gentleman up until when he shouldn't be with the dungeons and all." The last said with that exaggeratedly innocent air. "And here you are, worrying for nothing."

"Dad," sighs both George and Mary in unison. It's probably safe to say that the siblings have practiced this in the last couple of decades.

Joseph perks up visibly from his seat. "Are we going to a dungeon?!" he asks, eagerly.

"NO!" George and Mary say, in chorus. It only leaves Benjamin laughing again, clearly enjoying his well-earned role as the unexpected family menace.

The chef clears her throat primly and once everyone is settled and once roast slices have been cut up and distributed, everyone else is free to tuck into dinner. There's no formal process, but the honest astonishment from Alexander has Mary beaming at him. "Why thank you, Alexander. It's very nice to hear that from someone who appreciates the look of the food instead of just plowing into it facefirst like savages." A pointed glance towards Joseph, George and Benjamin, who are, indeed, already tackling their plates with relish. Not that they're actually wolfing down the food, but there is distinct enthusiasm in indulging in Mary's cooking. "I hope you enjoy everything."

George focuses on Alexander's response, there - mention of Byron gets a hint of surprise from the man's overall impassive mien. "Byron?" he wonders. "I didn't know he did research outside of risk assessments and financials." That sense of curiosity grows, slanting his attention to the younger man. "Are the two of you friends? You and him."

Mary's smile becomes more prominent at the sly expression from Alexander, turning to her niece with an arched and prompting brow. Isabella looks her right in the eye, and much like a cat with every intention of pawing things off someone's desk, shovels a big forkful of potatoes in her mouth, and chews around it. "Sorry, Auntie," she mumbles around it, though her smile is quite visible on the corners of her mouth. "Mouth full."

The older woman narrows her eyes playfully, her face emphatic with the silent promise that she isn't getting away with that, and will probably be exacting some manner of vengeance at some point in the evening.

Veronica, meanwhile, is keeping those intent eyes on Alexander, though his open smile earns one of her own. "You should," she says, with the same authoritative air that every Reede Alexander has come across, so far, has seemed to master. They start young in the family, it looks like. "And then you have to take sips of the wine, sometimes, because the food becomes more delicious that way."

Alexander's question towards Joseph has him puffing out like a proud owl. "Hockey!" he exclaims with enthusiasm, prompting a roll of his sister's eyes. "Any sport, really, and uh...I like science, and when I become a grown up, I'm gonna travel the world like Cousin Izzy, and be like James Bond!"

"You can't be like James Bond," Veronica points out, all calm and logic. "You don't like guns."

Joseph makes a face. "Fine. Like MacGyver, then!" A curious look to Alexander, easily glimpsed considering they're facing one another directly. "Are you an expert in anything, Alexander?"

Alexander coughs around a mouthful of salad as the dungeons reappear. He can't help but chuckle at the question and answer from the adults, and is careful to show his appreciation for each bite, although his method of eating is neat, tidy, and almost machine like. "it's amazing. Don't tell my mother I said that, Mary, but it is." A hint of playfulness there, in between bites.

It disappears when George focuses on him, although he nods. "Sometimes. I think he's more interested in keeping abreast of what's going on than in setting up shop and going through the books himself," he admits, with a flash of a smile. "And we're friendly enough, I think," he says, with a bit of a shrug. There's a chuckle as Isabella dodges the question with tasty food, and a sympathetic look towards Mary - although he notably doesn't volunteer to fill in any of the gaps.

He follows Veronica's advice, and gives her a grateful nod for it after his first couple of sips of wine. "Sports are fun," he tells Joseph with a smile. "Who's your team? And science is also fun - one of the people who went through high school with me has come back as the medical examiner for the town. He uses science to solve crimes and help people. It's not exactly as exciting as the world traveling Isabella does, but it can be fun." He takes a sip of his wine, and thinks carefully about how he answers that question. "Um. Investigations. Looking into mysteries or questions and finding as close to a right answer as we can manage."

There. That's reasonably kid friendly. He adds, "I don't like guns, either. I did like MacGyver a lot as a kid, though."

"Your secret is safe with me, Alexander," Mary tells him lightly, visibly charmed by the local troublemaker's playfulness. "Feel free to tell Liz that the potatoes needed an improvement." There's a glance at the gratin, though, suddenly frowning. He can practically see her make a mental note to improve that recipe.

A soft, contemplative noise leaves George. "He's a smart kid, Byron. Always been the enterprising sort. I suppose there's some merit to that, keeping abreast with what happens here." Years with his family and wife, he is the rare example of a civilian who has been 'read into' Gray Harbor's strangeness, and while faint traces of skepticism remain, the summer seems to have demolished most of that, after what had happened to Irene. He returns to his food, though his quiet observance of Alexander continues - at least, he seems content, at the moment, to have the rest of the family haze or interrogate him.

Joseph listens to Alexander with interest when he talks about Yule. "My team's the Knights!" he tells him eagerly. "It used to be the Bruins but I like the name more, and they're new, but they made it to the Cup their first year and that makes them awesome!" A pause as he considers a potential new career path. "That does sound fun," he admits. "Does he mix a bunch of things together to blow things up, also?" There's a hopeful note to his voice - he clearly has a completely different notion as to what medical examiners do, but that's largely due to the sanitized version that Alexander gives him. Mary does seem to approve of the fact that he did that, though, especially while eating dinner.

"He's the best," the little boy adds, grinning over at Alexander, and looks grateful that he also doesn't like guns. "You don't like guns too? Why not? I don't like them 'cause they're loud, and heavy, and get people into trouble."

"Investigations, eh? Kind of what like Mary did before she decided she liked cooking more." Benjamin gestures with a fork towards his daughter. "Got into plenty of trouble then, too."

"That was a long time ago when I was very young," Mary sniffs. She nudges her brother by the shoulder. "Alexander helped with the Kruger case that's all over in the papers, apparently."

"Did he?" It returns George's attention back to Alexander. "Are you officially consulting, these days? I wondered if you would end up in the police department in some capacity after all these years."

Veronica seems more interested in feeding Alexander, though, because every time he finishes an item on his plate, the little girl sneaks in another piece of something she thinks he should try. This time, it's a bit of the baked brie with honey on a cracker. She even garnished it with some pomegranate seeds from her salad, and watches him expectantly.

"I appreciate it," Alexander says, solemnly, to Mary. And he nods, briefly, to George's comments. "It's never a bad idea to be informed, I think. And Thorne does his best not to be blindsided by anything that might impact the things he cares about." And, to be honest, Alexander sounds approving of that. When George goes quiet, Alexander's attention moves on, although he's not unaware of the man's continued study, and he has to fight the urge for his shoulders to form a defensive hunch.

He relaxes a little when Joseph pipes up again, that bright smile reappearing. "That does sound like they worked very hard to get there. Do you have a favorite player?" He's forced to shake his head at the other question, although he says, "I believe he's quite competent at chemistry, but there's not usually a lot of call for blowing things up in his line of work. At least, not that I've seen. I'll ask him, and get back to you."

About guns, Alexander hesitates, his brow furrowing. "I. Hmm. Mostly that last part, for me. A person with a gun who doesn't know very well what they're doing is more likely to use their gun than their brain, and that makes situations more dangerous. And a lot of people don't know how to use them very well, or when to use them, or what to use them for. And, once you fire a gun, physics takes over, and you can no longer really control where the bullet goes. You can't take it back, or change your mind. I think that's a power that needs to be used very carefully, if at all." He shrugs. "But I know people who are very responsible, too. I just prefer other methods, and I don't think there's anything wrong with that."

His gaze shifts, with interest, to Benjamin, then to Mary. "I've heard a little bit about that. It sounds fascinating...and yes, I guess I do something similar." He looks uncomfortable when Mary brings up the Kruger case. Or maybe it's George's question, and the fact that he has to shake his head and say, "No. Not an official position. I don't really expect anything like that."

At least there's an adorable distraction; he notices immediately that his plate seems to magically creating more food, and he's careful to try each piece, and express his appreciation with a smile. The baked brie is eaten slowly, and then he tells her, "I like the way the pomegranate gives it a bit of tartness so that it's not all sweet and rich. That was good thinking. Thank you."

Isabella has been quiet for the most part, largely because she is too busy making sure there's food in her mouth every time Mary tries to interrogate her, in turn, and it gives her a chance to watch the way her father and lover interact. Underneath the table, her fingers brush over his nearest thigh, and gives him an encouraging, reassuring squeeze. But in spite of the tension she can sense between the two most important men in her life, in no small measure inspired by the uncertainty of their positions, her smile lingers on the corners of her mouth.

"William Karlsson!" Joseph offers to Alexander. "He plays offense and he's dangerous. But you made a promise now, Alexander. You'll ask your friend?" Because now the little boy expects to have his inquiries answered, nevermind that he's going to have to fly back to New Orleans with his mother once the holidays are over, but he radiates the aura of a child whose interest is easily ensnared by someone who talks to him like an adult. He nods solemnly at his short dissertation on guns and why people shouldn't be using them. "I know what Physics is," he tells him proudly, and looks over at Benjamin. "Alexander thinks guns are dangerous, too, because their Physics ruin everything!" Okay, maybe he didn't understand all of that with his oversimplification, but to the kid's credit, it's not inaccurate. "Does this mean I don't have to go to the Navy like you and Uncle, Pop-pop?"

"I never said you had to go to the Navy like me and your uncle, lad," Benjamin says, in a tone simmering with affection and paternal indulgence, winking surreptitiously at Alexander. "You can be the next MacGruber instead." What is this MacGyver nonsense. Still, there's a curious glance levied in Alexander's direction. "So what other methods, if not guns?" he wonders.

Mary smiles at Alexander when he calls her former career interesting, suffused with a quality that is both coy and secretive, though shadows pass over her eyes at those hints of remembrance. "Stories to be traded for another time, I'm sure, Alexander," she tells him with that mild, maternal air. "Gray Harbor is full of ghosts, though if you do decide to stop by for tea while I'm here, I'll make you something special."

"New Orleans is full of ghosts, too," Veronica points out, even as she busily puts a shrimp puff with a little bit of oyster sauce on Alexander's plate. "I see them, sometimes." His compliments on the baked brie cracker with pomegranates earns Alexander a beaming smile and some color on her pale, rounded cheeks. "See, Seph, Alexander likes what I make." Nevermind that it was her mother's cooking, but it was her idea to put the seeds on there, so she's taking the credit.

Joseph also nods at this ghost thing with a very grave and solemn air, though he glowers at Veronica as she attempts to bogart his new buddy. World War IV is brewing over the horizon.

If there's any judgment that he isn't officially consulting, there's nothing from George on that. He nods at the straightforward response, leaving the distinct impression, perhaps, that he values that over any exaggeration or overinflation of one's skills and abilities; a predilection easily guessed, given his former position and his own manner. But the uncertain air remains and the silent, but intense scrutiny he directs towards his daughter's lover. "Work that you clearly enjoy and are good at?" he wonders. "Isabella tells me you're brilliant. Is that something you studied in college?"

"He is," Isabella says, lifting her head to fix her gaze towards her father directly, though her tone is both light and confident. "He works himself to the bone on every case he receives, and he's just as good as I am with research. Maybe a little better." She sneaks a sly look towards Alexander. "But only because he's been doing it longer than I have."

Alexander's hand slips under the table to cover hers at that comforting gesture and he returns it with a brief squeeze of his own. And, if he's honest, this is not what he feared it might be, staring down at a gauntlet of people who held him in disapproval at best, and outright horror at worst, at the thought of him and their clearly beloved family member. And there are kids, and Alexander really does like kids. His eyebrows go up at Joseph's enthusiasm. "Dangerous, huh? Always a good trait in a hockey player. And yes, I made a promise. I'll ask my friend, and pass it on to Isabella, and she can pass the response on to you. Acceptable?" He glances at Mary for her agreement to this, as well.

He freezes, briefly when Benjamin asks that follow up question. His face goes blank and thinky. Carefully, he says, "Ideally? Not getting in a fight in the first place. I prefer not to, if I can. I know that's not always feasible, depending on one's career, but I do try." Which may not match the rumors of him as a younger man - but then, those were rarely about deliberate or planned violence, and more about violent and uncontrolled outbursts.

"I haven't seen very many ghosts," Alexander admits, moving on quickly, "so that'd be very interesting. Until this year, I'd never seen a ghost at all, so that puts you one up on me." This is mostly to Veronica, with a smile and a wink. Then George is speaking up again, and Alexander turns solemn once more. "I like to think I'm good at it. I don't...know that I would call myself brilliant. I just enjoy it enough to study it thoroughly." He shakes his head. "My major in college was history, actually, not criminal justice. I thought about the latter, but the former drew me. It helped me realize how variable and unreliable even primary sources can be. Which is useful in investigations, where you need to question every piece of evidence, rather than taking anything at face value. It's a useful mindset." He glances at Isabella and grins. "Also, it taught me Latin and Ancient Greek, which I think is the only reason Isabella says such nice things about me." He's clearly teasing her.

Either Isabella has already warned or threatened her family members to be nice to her guest, or the explanations must be simpler than that - Mary has been gone from Gray Harbor for years, her children were not raised here, and the Admiral has spent most of his career at sea, and his own retirement in Annapolis. The only townie, in the end, who would be fully ingrained with Alexander Clayton's reputation in the city is George, who hasn't exactly hid much of his uncertainty. But there's food and conversation on the table, and in spite of that, even the former captain seems to be relaxing, bit by bit; being surrounded by family and hearing them interact with one another at what promised to be a difficult evening with the absence of his wife and son must be a much-needed balm to a weary, broken heart.

"Sounds good," Joseph says, before smirking over at Veronica, who pouts openly. Watching her two children interact pulls a quiet chuckle from Mary, and nods in agreement - perfectly acceptable to her.

Benjamin, meanwhile, has finished his dinner and is opting for seconds, keeping his wine glass full. Still, despite his preoccupation with marvelous food and drink, he weighs Alexander's measured response on the 'other methods' issue, and may have laid it out in the first place as an innocent looking trap - the wily old admiral has his ways, and judging by the investigator's expression, it may very well have been because he grins at him in that disarming, but incorrigible way - though the answer does run counter to the reputation he had cultivated as a young man, because George and Mary exchange a look. "Can't help anyone if you're dead," he tells Alexander simply and pragmatically. "Besides, as an infinitely more enlightened man had said, once, those who attempt to conquer hatred by hatred are like warriors who take weapons to overcome others who bear arms." As spoken by the historical Siddhartha Gautama. Maybe there's a reason why the earlier generation of Reede twins grew up to be such nerds.

"That just means you should visit us!" Veronica tells Alexander enthusiastically, followed by Joseph's loud agreement. "I can show you where all the ghosts are, and where Marie Le-Bough used to live!" She probably means Marie Laveau, the so-called Queen of Voodoo. She turns to her mother, directing a hopeful look in her direction. "Can Alexander visit us in New Orleans?"

Mary laughs, eyebrows shooting in an inquiring fashion over at the investigator. "I think that's up to him, sweetheart."

The revelation that Alexander had elected to go for history instead of criminal justice does put a more open look of surprise on George's features, and for a moment, he's forced to reassess what he knows about his guest, brows drawing down in intense thought. Meanwhile, Benjamin takes all of this in with open interest, and laughs again. "History, eh? No wonder Izzy went for it!" He turns his eyes over to his granddaughter, who's busily choking on her wine. "God, I can only imagine how that first meeting went. Is that what you told her when the two of you first met? The unreliability of primary sources and how it encouraged you to question every piece of evidence? Back in my day, all I had to do was ask a dame to dance!"

"Listen, Grandpa," Isabella begins, before she pauses as she thinks back to that first night. "I'll have you know that we didn't talk about the unreliability of primary sources when we- " She hesitates, before a more comical expression slips over her mien. "...alright, close to that, but not completely!" There's a hapless look returned in Alexander's direction, but his grin sparks a flood of warmth pooling into every sense, and she doesn't resist leaning over to press her lips against his cheek. "Though I'm not going to deny him knowing Latin and Ancient Greek was a very huge draw. Do any of you even know how rare that is in a town like Gray Harbor?"

But it's all the opening Mary needs, before she scoffs and turns an absolutely cunning look towards the investigator and her niece. "Oh, no. Don't let this one fool you, Alexander," she begins, in a tone that suggests that a story's about to come out. "She may be ready to take over Oxford at any moment, but what her sneaky little heart isn't telling you is the fact that her academic record is not as golden as she makes anyone think it is."

Isabella's grip on her fork freezes. Her eyes grow wide. "Auntie, no!"

But revenge is nigh! And Mary turns to Alexander and gleefully tells him: "When she was five, Irene tried to enroll her in preschool, and she threw the worst tantrum I have ever seen, because she didn't want to go to school with babies. But her mother didn't give her a choice, and off she went and she..." And here, she laughs. "She raised such a stink in her first few weeks that the teacher thought her impossible, and George and Irene had to be told that Isabella could no longer go there, though Isidore could stay."

Isabella groans and tilts her head back. "I can't believe you're telling him this," she laments as her grandfather laughs.

"It's alright, soon-to-be Doctor Isabella Baxter Reede of Oxford University," Mary teases. "Nobody else has to know that you're a baby school dropout. Except your boyfriend, of course." She lifts her glass in a toast to Alexander there.

"He's already two up to my one, you know! So far all I have is a picture of him in a frog costume when he was five!"

Alexander doesn't have quite the appetite of the other men; he eats slowly, and if it seems a touch mechanical, he does seem to appreciate the food. "No, you can't," he agrees with a smile for the old Admiral. "And that's very wise. Even if you have to fight, the best way is always to keep a cool head and stay focused, not distracted by anger." He knows that. He doesn't DO that, but he does know it.

And then there's talk of visits, and he smiles, although it's a little wistful and sad. "It's a very kind offer," he tells both kids. "We'll have to see, okay? In the meantime, though, you can keep a log of all the ghosts that you've found. So if I do make it out that way, I can rely on expert guides." A grin. "I'd particularly like to see Laveau's tomb. I've heard intriguing things about it."

Alexander opens his mouth to address Benjamin's playful accusation, but Isabella gets there first. He laughs outright when she's forced to reassess her first response. "Guilty as charged, and I believe we did touch on the unreliability and inherent bias of even primary testimony in that first meeting." He leans into the kiss, and when she pulls back, returns it gently. "There are a few. But I admit that I'm a rare breed." A touch of dry, self-mocking humor there.

And then? Then there are CHILDHOOD stories. He relaxes back in his chair and drinks it in with obvious and unhidden delight. He shoots her a look. "My dear, I had no idea you were a delinquent. Now you get to be all bad girl and dangerous. I like it."

The log idea lights up Veronica's face, and she and her twin start chatting about the best way, and the best ghosts, to add on it. It sparks a lively conversation, and one that probably wouldn't occur in an ordinary household. But it seems that the twins have been read in, and Alexander would be able to sense their own growing potential, though there isn't much data yet, for now, to determine which aspects the children will be developing. It's there, though. His wistful profile and sad smile are observed, quietly, by his companion, though Isabella isn't quite sure what prompts it.

It could be the children issue, again?

But his laugh burns her concern away, and Isabella grins, flushing faintly herself - the laughter is at her own expense, but unlike Alexander, she happily trades whatever mortification there is for the sake of hearing it. Laughter, like anger, motivates her like no other emotion can and she squeezes his hand under the table. She turns up her cheek for his kiss; her grin takes on a giddier cast. "Rarity is more worth the earning," she tells him in return.

For a moment, the archaeologist seems to forget, if not for just a few seconds, that her family is around, because when Alexander looks so obviously delighted, she laughs outright. "Because being a preschool dropout is so dangerous! Yes, there I was, five and wee, shaking my classmates down for their applesauce and hanging out in playgrounds with my candy cigarettes!" Bantering with him with her silvery peals of mirth while the older people in the room exchange glances and look on as the two of them interact. Even the twins seem to catch on. George still looks uncertain, but there's the faintest hint of an exasperated smile as he watches his daughter.

Finally, it's Veronica who pipes up. "Alexander? Are you going to marry Cousin Izzy?"

Record scratch. All eyes are suddenly on Alexander, except for Isabella, who chokes on her food.

And then the adorable, pig-tailed girl smiles. "Because if she won't, I will," she says very sincerely.

Isabella leans forward so she could eyeball her little cousin. "Hey." Said seriously, fork pointed at her. "Get your own. Just because you're eight doesn't mean I'll go easy on you."

"She wouldn't," Joseph whispers to Alexander solemnly from across the table. "Game night is scary."

"I know that's not true," Alexander replies solemnly to Isabella's tales of pre-school racketeering. "If you'd turned to crime in preschool, I'm quite sure you'd have the town under your gorgeous thumb by sixth grade. We're all grateful you chose a more academic field to excel at," he tells her, very seriously. Then ruins it with a soft smile, and a lean in for a kiss on the temple.

He reaches for his wine glass, and nearly chokes at Veronica's question. Then her offer. He stares at Veronica, mouth hanging open juuuust a little. Then he clears his throat, and says, gently, "Do you know, I think that's the first marriage proposal I've ever received. Thank you, Veronica, and I'm very flattered. But," his eyes twinkle as Isabella steps in, "I think I'm happy where I am, at the moment." And then Joseph whispers, and he laughs again. "Your cousin is competitive. She blew up our cars when we played a racing game. Just to keep me from winning."

"I don't know if Izzy would be able to do crime to save her life," Mary declares with a laugh. "She's a hilarious liar." Not even a terrible liar, but a hilarious one, which could be even worse.

Isabella grumbles at her aunt's assessment, but doesn't deny it, and she's still doing so when the investigator kisses her temple, though his soft smile is returned in kind afterwards, her entire expression softening further at what he tells her little cousin. "Flatterer," she teases him, for both comments - including her ridiculous propensity to treat everything as a competition.

"Yep. Sounds like her," Joseph allows, sticking his tongue out at Isabella, who returns the gesture with a pbbt of her own.

It's how Alexander interacts with Veronica, making his rejection so gentle, that seems to win Mary over, because that maternal smile manifests again, though it doesn't encompass just the little girl but the man addressing her, also. "You're very good with children, Alexander," she observes. "Did you grow up with much younger cousins or the like? I don't think Tom and Liz had another after you, did they?"

"A gentleman until he's not, and diplomatic on top of it," Benjamin observes with a grin, lifting his own wine to toast his guest. "I don't know about you, George, but I'll allow it." Words that get a contemplative 'hm' from George, but not much else.

"Mom," Joseph cuts in, flashing imploring eyes towards Mary. "Is it time for dessert now?"

"Yes, dessert!" Veronica says, clapping her hands together, turning to Alexander again. She looks like she's making heart-eyes anyway, but really, it couldn't be helped. The investigator said he liked her food, and ate everything she put on his plate, clearly that means something! Or at least has put him in her good books. "Mom made three kinds! I think the baked pears with the cinnamon and currants is the best, but it's okay if you don't like it." She says the last solemnly. "Mom always says that nobody's perfect."

"Oh alrig-- "

Joseph doesn't even let his mother finish communicating her acquiescence, clambering down from his chair. "Help me get them, Uncle," he says, tugging on George's sleeve. "You, too, Alexander!" Another look shot at his twin, trying to steal his new buddy again.

George doesn't sigh, instead there's a quiet ruffling of the boy's hair, before he slowly stands up. He leaves his walking stick by the chair. "I suppose sugar calls," he observes not without some dryness. His green-and-gold eyes fall on Alexander. "Come along now, Clayton. You heard the boy."

Alexander shakes his head, a little, to Mary's question and comment. "I do have a couple of cousins, and they have kids. But they mostly live in Seattle, and I don't get out that way very often." And his cousins, like his parents, don't Glimmer, so they don't tend to want him to spend too much time around their kids, given his reputation. "I just like kids. It's not that they're not complex, but they tend to be straightforward about what they like and what they don't. I appreciate that." He clears his throat and turns just a touch red at Benjamin's compliment. "First time I've ever been called diplomatic, either."

And then there's dessert. He grins at the enthusiasm for it. "I don't think I've ever had baked pears with cinnamon and currants," he admits to Veronica, "but I'll give it a shot, and let you know what I think." But then he's being summoned to help. His eyebrows go up, but after a glance at Isabella, he rises to his feet. "Of course. Happy to help." He trails his fingers along the back of Isabella's neck before pushing his chair in, and then moving to follow George and Joseph. There's a low murmur to her, "If we're not back in an hour, try one of those signal flares." He can't help that there's a bit of a slink to his posture, a hint of wariness even as he seems to be enjoying himself.

The brush of his fingers at the back of her neck has Isabella looking up at him, smiling broadly at the enjoyment that she seems to sense - there's even a hopeful look, whenever he glances down her eyes, at the tilt of her head back. "Don't worry," she tells him simply with a hint of a wry grin. "If you're gone too long, I'll stage a rescue."

The hallway leading from the dining room to the kitchen is a wide one. Branching off another corridor leading to the back of the house, its overall warmth is more prominent here. Joseph leads the way with his running steps; true to his athletic leanings, he barrels down the dark hardwood floors without fear, with the two older men following. Alexander would be able to see more portraits, more artifacts mounted on the walls as they pass by a room converted for use as a laundry chamber, and if he peeks through another corridor, he'd be able to glimpse more open room, where an iron rail seems to be angling downward, leading to the basement that Isabella had mentioned earlier.

There's a bit of an uncertain silence from George when they move after his young nephew, proceeding towards a more open space where hints of pastry, spices and pears can be scented in the air. "She's never done this before," he tells his guest at last, turning that intense, but quiet scrutiny towards the investigator as they go. "Bring someone home. At least, not in a very long time. My children had brought few strays home over the years, and my son had plenty of girlfriends." His fond recollection is a brief one, passing over the man's lined face like flickering candlelight. "But Isabella never has. There was an incident with the high school mascot, though, when she was fourteen." Brows lift at Alexander, his thoughts plain and clear there, wondering if his daughter had ever told him.

Reaching the threshold of the kitchen, he inquires, straightforwardly, "Does she love you?"

The kitchen is as old as the rest of the house, but it is fitted with modern day appliances, replaced around five years ago. Stainless steel and chrome align with more antiquated fixtures, giving the entire room a sense that improvements have been made over the years. The wall closest to the back is made of brick, supporting the vent hood over the large gas range and it traps the heat accumulated by Mary's labors within the last two days. There is a stone counter in the middle, for food preparation and two sinks, and while the oven and stove have been disengaged, one of the metallic shelves is lit - the Reedes have installed a warming cabinet close to the microwave.

Joseph seems to know what it is, because he's trotting towards it. Like any child, he is eager to get his sweets. "They're over there, Uncle!" he points out, though he's too short to reach. And a good thing, too, because he seems to have forgotten that he's going to need pot holders.

Alexander murmurs, in Latin, "My life is in your hands," to Isabella, before moving away to join the other two. He looks like he might want to run with Joseph; less out of rambunctious inclinations and more out of the desire to avoid the interrogation that he expects, and slightly fears, is coming from his lover's father. But he resists the urge, although his hands do find his pockets, and he keeps pace quietly with George, his head a little bowed.

A brief nod at the information. The slightest of smiles. "I guess I fit better as a stray, in some ways. But...I know. I haven't done," a breath, "this, either. We're both sort of figuring it out." A sidelong look, "And our parents too, I guess. Sorry about that." But that slightly mischievous smile returns when her father mentions the mascot. "I'm aware." Not that Isabella actually TOLD him, but he's aware and that's probably all George needs to know. "I promise to keep that secret until my dying day."

He pauses at the threshold. "Yes," he says, simply. There's no equivocation or 'I think so' involved; Alexander is an empath, after all. And if there is one thing under sea and sky that he doesn't doubt, it's that Isabella Reede loves him. Even if the depth of that affection is something he finds occasionally terrifying. "And...I love her, sir." A pause, as he follows Joseph's path with his eyes. "I won't promise you that we're going to stay together forever, or that I won't mess things up. I can promise you that I never want to hurt her. Ever." He shrugs.

He smiles at the child's eagerness, although the flicker of worry that comes up quickly disappears when he realizes it's too high for Joseph to reach and pull things down on himself.

The fact that Alexander somehow knows about the mascot draws an air of amusement from the largely stoic man; it's nothing visible, but rather sensed. And while there's no surprise at the admission that Alexander hasn't done this before, the suggestion that he's introduced Isabella to his parents pulls it out of him. That, too, is more sensed than seen, flickering past his virid stare.

He gestures for Alexander to follow him in the kitchen. "Let Alexander and me get them, Seph," he addresses his nephew mildly, before reaching for a pair of pot holders to hand to the boy, and another set for his guest. "I'm...fully aware that there are probably plenty of expectations from meetings like this," he begins, attention falling back on Alexander. "You know. Threats and shotguns." There's a hint of a smirk, finally, toying with the corner of the man's mouth. "But I tried to prepare her for what's out there. Her mother..." A long pause, but whatever heartbreak he must be experiencing doesn't leak past the man's own impregnable fortresses. "...struggled. With what she had for a very long time. Perhaps I was ill-equipped to understand most of it, but I didn't want the same for either of my children. I tried to teach her to fight...and to go after what she wants. I'm relatively sure I didn't raise an idiot, either." Or so he hopes, his tone is touched by the dryness of experience with Isabella's recklessness. "If you're one of them, I knew there was a reason. I just wanted to know whether you were aware of what it was. And...I know. That you do." His smile returns, almost imperceptibly. "I have eyes."

At the very least, he didn't need abilities for that.

"Unnclleeeeeeee..." Joseph whines.

George turns at that, to open the warming cabinet. With his own pot holders, he takes out what appears to be a maple-glazed pear tartine, which he hands carefully to his nephew's potholdered hands. "Take that to the dining room slowly," he instructs sternly. "Don't run."

"Yes, Uncle." A flash of a smile to Alexander, before he starts toddling to the entranceway with the pie plate. The next thing to come out of the cabinet is a glass pyrex dish full of baked pear halves dusted with some brown sugar, cinnamon and sprinkled with currants. This, he hands to Alexander.

"I can't say I fully approve," George remarks meeting his dark eyes and speaking with that straightforward manner. "I've heard plenty about you over the years, but I recognize that hearsay can be extremely unforgiving, especially in a small town. This entire night, I've been trying to reconcile what I've heard with what I'm learning." After a momentary pause, he adds, "And I know that you helped her. That you saved her mind. She didn't tell me how, but she would never lie about that, not in a situation where she would have to admit being vulnerable, especially to me. If that did indeed happen, I'm grateful for it."

He settles the dish fully on his guest's grip once Alexander is ready to accept it. "So, if it all works out, if it continues working out, I hope that you're amenable to fixing that. Me not knowing you, I mean. I would certainly like to."

Alexander takes the set of pot holders that he's given, and his eyebrows go up as George speaks. "I admit that I did expect at least one instance of cleaning a gun and pointing out that you know where the deep currents are to take a body far out of discovery range. But I maybe just watched too many moves as a teenager." His own smile is a fleeting, flickering thing, a candle flame easy to snuff out. And go out it does, when talk of Isabella's mother arises. He closes his eyes. "I'm sorry. All crime is ultimately pointless, but that loss - I'm sorry. I should have said that before. Didn't really know how."

There's a long pause, before he says, "It's presumptuous of me to say. But...you did well. By her. I don't think there's a barrier in this world that can stop Isabella if she decides she wants what's on the other side of it. And...it's hard. Raising children who, um, stand out. I've seen it go bad with the best of intentions, and seen parents turn against their children because they don't understand - and don't want to understand - what they struggle with. But she loves you. And more, she trusts you with things that are difficult to understand, to trust in turn." There's something wistful there, in his observation of the family, and her father's willingness to take Isabella at her word that 'saving a mind' is something that can even be done, much less something that can be done by Alexander.

He clears his throat at the bland observation of his the obviousness of his feelings, and then chuckles when Joseph whines. He goes silent, waiting for his burden, and then takes the dish without hesitation. While he couldn't even identify half of the ingredients IN the dish, he can certainly haul it. And sniff it appreciatively. "I can see why Veronica is enamored of this one."

He glances up to meet George's stare at the man's final remarks. "The hearsay isn't entirely wrong," he says, quietly. "Most of it is from when I was a teenager, and has clung since then. But not all. And," he sighs, "I won't lie to you; there's a lot of things in my life I'm not proud of, and I wouldn't call myself a good person, if I were given the option. But I'm trying to be a better one. So, if you want to, um, get to know me, sir, then I'm...okay with that. I'd like to get to know you, too."

"I've had men who've had to do that with the ones who married their daughters," George observes, shutting the warming tray as he wanders over towards the refrigerator, pulling it open so he could retrieve several custard glasses there, filled with dark chocolate pots de creme. "And my own father told me that I might have to do that, when Isabella was born. Considering my bum leg, I figured I better teach her how to wield the shotgun herself, since now my balance is off." All said in a blunt, but deadpanned manner. He seems to like chocolate because there's the briefest flare of eagerness in his eyes when he sees them. He sets the delicate glasses on the counter, before looking for a tray to put them in.

Alexander's words about his wife give him pause, but it's a brief one. "In my experience, nobody really knows what to say to someone who is struggling with that sort of loss. There were templates, for that, back when I was in command, for letters that I had to write before, addressed to spouses and parents who lost their sons and daughters. But I think...from my perspective, it's enough when someone tries - there isn't much anyone else can do, at that point, but that." He sets the glasses carefully on the platter, and looks up to watch the younger man's face across the way. "Maybe some people find comfort in the silence, but Death is an unforgivably isolating factor enough as it is."

He watches the investigator throughout what he says, touching on whatever struggles he may have had in raising Isabella and Isidore, that steady gaze holding as he watches the play of emotions over the younger man's expressions, catching on that wistfulness. "I'm sure that Tom and Liz tried their best. I can't say I know them well, but I know that they're good people. You may not have made it easy, but as a parent, I can tell you that's a burden that any good one would have thrown over their shoulders without hesitation if it meant keeping you safe, and happy, and loved. It's part of the job. And if they're...ill-equipped, even moreso than I am, sometimes, at understanding your unique situation, I hope that you have others you can turn to. I've seen how hard that can be, and I know how frustrating it is from the outside, also, especially when it implicates someone you care about deeply. But it speaks highly of you, that you care about and keep in touch with your parents. This town's full of broken homes."

There's a glance at the pears, paternal fondness there at the mention of Veronica. "I haven't had anything I didn't like from Mary's kitchen," he remarks. "If Nica follows her footsteps, we're all going to get really fat."

Alexander's own quiet confessions earn him, once again, that quiet, but sharp assessment and for a moment, the former captain doesn't speak - unlike his daughter, he appears to be the sort who gives himself the time to think and consider his responses. It may be characteristic, or learned on the job - to make a subordinate sweat from behind his desk while he or she remained standing there, waiting for a verdict. There are equal odds of that, too, but when he speaks, he delivers it directly. "I appreciate your honesty," he replies. "And I'll take your word for it, that you've made your own mistakes, and I hope that you do succeed in becoming a better man. A little bit for Isabella's sake, because I'm certain that she would like to see you triumph there, but largely for your sake, and your parents' sakes, also."

It's the last that has George nodding, ultimately, and while he remains straight-backed with his impeccable posture, there's a palpable unwinding from the man, himself, uncertain tension threading out of his aura now that the words are out there, and that they've found some measure of accord. "Okay," he says. "We'll work on that, then." He picks up the tray and gestures with an incline of his head towards the door. "Let's go deliver these before the dining room riots."

Alexander chuckles. "A problem-solver. That's nice to hear." The chocolate desserts also get a slightly more appreciative look than the others - he's not immune to the siren song of chocolate, and does have a bit of a sweet tooth, at times. He can only nod to George's words about grief and comfort; that Alexander is awkward at the best of times when it comes to comforting others is a given, and this particular incident is even more difficult, considering the circumstances.

He clears his throat, and forges for (marginally) safer ground. "They did. Try their best. Always." He smiles, briefly. "And I do. Now. A few people," he admits, but reluctantly, as if to admit to such a thing might be considered tempting fate to have it taken away.

The remark about Mary's cooking and her daughter's possible following in those footsteps has Alexander laughing out loud. "You have to admit, there are worse fates."

Alexander waits, not exactly patiently but determinedly, for George to think, returning that gaze with that near-black, reptilian one of his own. He doesn't shy away from this; in some ways, it's the least frightening of the interactions, since he initiated it himself, and prepared himself for the worst. When George gives his response, he inclines his head. "Okay." Just that, but a flicker of that inconstant smile again at the idea of working on it. The smile even widens as he says, with an air of contemplation, "This seems like a large house. If that tray of pot au creme never got to the table, I bet it'd be hard for anyone to find out where it actually went." A glint of mischief there, before he turns and starts to return the dessert to the dining room.

"Good," George says, to both Alexander's acquiescence and his admission that there are a few people he can turn to for the more unique problems he must be suffering, the slightest of smiles at the sound of his laughter. Otherwise, he seems content with that and given that he is an extremely disciplined man, he does not steal a cup of the custard for himself, but he appreciates the mischief all the same. "Honestly?" he wonders as both men head for the door. "I wondered whether you actually had a sense of humor. Your reputation struck me as a man more prone to intensity than anything else."

How Isabella has managed to keep to her seat when she realized that Joseph has returned with the tartine, but left the two adult men in the kitchen by themselves, is miraculous on its own and when George and Alexander both return to the living room, she has engaged in spirited conversation with her aunt and grandfather. Their re-emergence from the kitchen has her attention snapping back towards them almost immediately, unable to hide both concern and curiosity. It isn't as if she expected her lover and her father to get into fisticuffs, she knows both better than that, but the idea of any interrogation towards Alexander by her father is an uncomfortable enough prospect that she has attempted to bleed off the restlessness that inspires with heated debate.

"Aha, finally! I was wondering whether the two of you decided to just hole up in the kitchen to eat those!" Mary declares, waving for them to set the desserts down on the table. "Your dear daughter was doing her level best to convince me that Godfather II was better than the original. Blasphemy, I say."

"That was the movie where Michael Corleone finally succumbed to the destiny he fought against in the first movie!" Isabella exclaims. "How is that less compelling than the first one? Is it because of Marlon Brando? Just because he was in the first one doesn't automatically make it superior!"

Benjamin gasps. "I won't have this heresy in my table, grandchild. You're grounded."

"What!"

"I don't know! Do parents even still do that anymore? Back in my day..."

Amusement finds George's features as he rejoins the family, Isabella pushing out Alexander's chair for him when he returns, grinning sheepishly at him. Otherwise, dessert continues without incident, the dining room filling with conversation. For an evening that promised some manner of solemnity considering the losses of the prior summer and the last decade, a formerly empty house, somehow, has been resuscitated to its old color and life.

It isn't long after that when clean-up commences, and Mary institutes the send-off of her niece and her lover, as well as a few bags of plenty of the food she had made, carefully packed in ziploc containers and handed, carefully, to Alexander to carry. Not that Isabella, herself, isn't burdened in turn - she had insisted on taking most of the cheeseboard with her, and she and her grandfather verbally dueled for the rights for it in the last few minutes of the dinner, with the twins playing referee (though they ended up bickering during their entire deliberations, also). So she's carrying the entire chopping board, jams and dried fruit and nuts packed in tiny jars on the accompanying paper bag in her grasp, and the cheeses adhered to the board by layers of saran wrap. The cold air hits their faces by the time they head for the Jeep, flushing color over Isabella's cheeks.

"Well, that wasn't so bad," she tells him, though there's a tentative edge to the words, sneaking a look at his profile in the fitful light of the evening outside. "It didn't look like you were having too terrible a time."

"I like puns," Alexander tells George solemnly, "so you can claim it's not a good sense of humor, but it does exist." A quick flash of a smile, before they rejoin the rest of the family, and he carries the pears to the table, putting them down where bidden. His eyebrows go up at the spirited conversation around the table, and once he's put the potholders where they need to go, he returns to Isabella, putting a brief but comforting hand on her shoulder before settling down.

In this conversation, he is probably forced to admit that he hasn't seen either Godfathers, but is happy to ask questions about the plot, the acting, and allow both sides to make their cases to sway his initial impressions of the films. He might even end up admitting that he doesn't read or watch much fiction at all, but he enjoys hearing about what other people enjoy - and he seems to mean it, remaining mostly silent, except to ask a question meant to prompt someone else to talk, and then listen intently to the answer and any ensuing conversation. If it resembles, in some regards, an interrogation, it's a friendly one. He just really only has one 'mode'.

He accepts the food with quiet praise and thanks; again, sincere, since the cooking was magnificent, and wishes the family a Happy Holidays, solemnly, when they depart. Once back in the Jeep, he notes the quiet edge, and smiles. "I enjoyed myself. You have a wonderful family, Isabella. Intelligent, interesting, and they love you and each other. Thank you for inviting me."

With the food loaded out into the back, including that precious cheese board, Isabella climbs into the driver's seat and shuts the door, fastening her seatbelt with a quick flick of her fingers. Starting up the engine, she lets it run, letting the vehicle's interior warm up, and for the engine to banish the chill and whatever damage that it would cause when forced to run so quickly in such cold weather. Her bare hands rub together, cupped to her face to blow into them to warm them as she waits.

Green and gold eyes lift to find his face and eyes in the darkness of the Jeep, smiling faintly before they turn to the steering wheel, examining its leather grip and ridges with feigned interest. "I'm glad you came," she confesses, leaning her head back against her seat and looking up the roof of the vehicle. "And that you wanted to come and meet them. I don't know about my father, but everyone else seemed to like you. Honestly, I was a little worried that it might be overwhelming, meeting so much of my family all at once. You were kind to introduce me to just your parents...I was prepared, in case you didn't want to. If you had wanted to say no. But I'm really...." She releases a quiet, breathless laugh. "I'm really happy you said yes."

A finger taps absently on the steering wheel, before she finally rolls her face sideways so she could look at him towards the passenger-side chair. "And I think...it helped us too, in a way. You being there." Her jaw works, in an attempt to find the words, but she tries and while they leave her stilted, and somewhat awkwardly, every note of it is genuine. "You gave us all something else to focus on other than the empty spaces that were there," she tells him quietly, meeting his eyes directly. "Thank you, too, Alexander."

Alexander listens, and reaches out for her hand, to cradle it in both of his. "I was a little scared. I didn't want things to be unpleasant for you, if it didn't go well, for whatever reason. But...I was really happy that you asked. That you wanted me to meet the people who matter so much to you. I wouldn't have said no unless I was convinced that it was going to end in disaster. And it didn't. I like your family." He chuckles. "And it wasn't kindness. My family doesn't really do the big gatherings like this. Maybe once a year, but that's mostly in the summer, and it's up in Seattle. A barbecue. I usually don't go," he admits.

There's a hesitation, then he nods, carefully. "I had wondered, actually. If that was a part of it. I'm glad that it helped. I have no pride in serving as a distraction." His lips quirk upwards. "Especially when it lets me learn about your preadolescent criminality. Expelled from pre-school. That's actually pretty impressive."

"I'm sorry, if it scared you." Isabella is quick to apologize, her expression twisting at that, looking much younger than her twenty-seven years would suggest; her missteps from the last couple of weeks have weighed on her like invisible shackles, and the idea of subjecting him to even more of the things he doesn't need drives a javelin to those existing wounds. Her voice is soft in these expressions, her hand easily taken, cold to the touch. The chill banishes slowly, though, the more her body heat amplifies with the help on his own, and vice-versa, if he wasn't wearing gloves in their brief traipse outside. But whatever immolation of the self that she is prepared to do ends up curbed by his quiet reassurances, her palm pressing against one of his. Her smile touches gently on her features - the rare, tender kind that unfairly pairs with her eyes.

"I didn't want it to be unpleasant for you either, but...I think I'm learning slowly that this sort of thing is just as much powered by faith as it is by desire," she confides softly. "I wanted to place it where it ought to belong this time, with the people I love." Not just in him, but her family, also. They've not given her cause to doubt before, and considering her own recklessness, she is fully aware that she isn't always capable of giving that its due.

She shakes her head at the last. "I only realized it until later," she tells him. "I invited you because I wanted you to meet them, and...um. This is my first Christmas with a boyfriend, something something, romantic milestones. Even if it did mean that you had to discover that I was a baby school dropout." She laughs, and reaches out with her other hand, to cup one of his hands at the bottom when they're sandwiching her own, lowering her head so she could press her lips fervently against his battered knuckles.

"Besides, I don't think any of that compares to getting your first marriage proposal ever." She lifts her head, and grins at him wickedly. "Despite the fact that I'm being forced to consider my cousin as competition now, it was still pretty adorable. You're really great with them...with kids."

Alexander laughs. "Don't be. It was a very normal, understandable sort of fear, based in the terror of boyfriends everywhere. I like that sort of fear." He brings her hand up to his mouth, and brushes his lips over the back of it, lightly, mindful of his chilly lips. "It went well. Your people are...good people. They're worthy of you." He grins, then. "And I loved discovering that. I can see it, too. Tiny Isabella, absolutely certain that she is not a baby and should not be schooling with the babies." Mirth dances in the dark eyes at the imagined scene.

And it spills free at her riposte. "Yes, well. If I wasn't already invested in a relationship, then I'd have told her to wait thirty years and then try again. I mean, whoever she finally falls for is never going to go hungry," he says, with a rueful look at the back where all the food is stacked up. He squeezes her hand and settles back. "Thanks. I like kids. Sometimes they like me. But your cousins are pretty great. At least, if it's not your job to wrangle them in a particular direction."

"...you do?" Isabella wonders skeptically amidst his laughter, expression perplexed, because why would anyone want that sort of fear, unable to help but backtrack to her embarrassment at trying to research something as basic as meeting someone's parents via bookstore. But his laugh never fails to put a small grin curling up on her lips at that, her adoration intensifying at the quick kiss on the back of her hand. She grumbles softly, but she always does whenever she's embarrassed. "You would," she grouses with a huff. "I have some catching up to do, maybe I ought to have tea with your mother next weekend." It's only a vague and idle threat, and she winks at him afterwards.

She squeezes his hand, laughing as she releases it, slipping her fingers reluctantly away so she could put the vehicle on drive. "Well, too bad for her," she sniffs, a slanted grin angled to Alexander as the Jeep starts pulling out of the driveway. "Because I think you'd make a very sexy septuagenarian." She inclines her head at him in an inquiring fashion. "Home?" she wonders. "Or do you absolutely need coffee at this time of night?"

"It's nice. It's normal." A pause, before Alexander admits, "If it ever comes up, I can talk to people about this, and they will understand. Most of the things that make me scared, people hear about, and assume I'm a lunatic. It's a nice change," he says, with a shrug. And then his eyes widen at the idle threat. "...although there's something to be said for supernatural apocalypses. We could have one. Next weekend. You'd best stay home."

He's mostly kidding. Mostly. A part of him is already cataloguing the embarrassing stories Liz could tell. At least one involves him painting himself blue, taking off all his clothes, and climbing on the roof. Oh dear. And then she's laughing, so he doesn't mind quite as much. He slips his hands from hers, and relaxes back into the seat. "Home would be fine. After that meal, I can't imagine adding anything else. Even coffee."

"I don't know about that lately, Alexander," Isabella says quietly. "At least, with the circle of associates and friends that you've developed, it's not as if they don't believe you when you bring up something strange. Ultimately you're right, though. That shouldn't be the norm." She tilts a glance at him, her smile returning. "What you want for me, I want for you, too. You've told me before that all you really want as far as I go is for me to live my best life, even if it meant that...you have no place in it. If I could have put the same in a box and left it for you under the tree, I would have." Watching his eyes widen, she laughs again. "I was joking, I promise! After what happened with you, and Dad, and Grandpa, I'm taking this as a win, and I'm definitely not pushing it. For now, I'm quitting while we're ahead."

Watching him lean back, she grins as she puts the foot on the gas and turns the Jeep towards the familiar avenues leading to 13 Elm. "Well, if nothing else," she says as they drive off. "If another blizzard hits and we actually get snowed in, at least we won't go hungry. After the last two weeks, I don't think we're ready for that relationship test."