seveninchmotto | Outside Room 512, So Late Sunday It's Really Monday

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Outside Room 512, So Late Sunday It's Really Monday

The good news was that Jace was alive. Of course, Isabelle had believed he was alive this entire time, but confirmation was a good thing to have. But that was where the good news ended, because Jace was with Sebastian, as they'd feared. And - according to Clary, who had seen them in the Institute's library – he seemed like a willing accomplice. Isabelle hoped it was an act. That he was tricking Sebastian and just couldn't risk sending a message to them. And they couldn't tell the Clave. If the Clave thought Jace was cooperating with Sebastian, the mandate would be to kill him on sight, because that was the Law. Sed lex dura lex, and Isabelle had never hated that fact more than right now.

And they couldn't go back to the Seelie Queen because Clary had gotten so upset she'd forgotten to get the rings.

So now all they could do was talk to Magnus and see if he had any insight. He wouldn't go to the Council despite being a member, because of Alec, and he'd been trying to decode Lilith's spell since the night Jace had disappeared, anyway. But Magnus had been busy all of Sunday. Alec had gone to him in the evening, but last Isabelle had heard, they weren't going to do anything before the morning.

And Isabelle had felt sick and angry, and a multitude of other things, and, well. Long story short: she'd ended up back on the island in the middle of the night. She needed Flick. But she didn't want to need Flick, and anyway, Flick was sick and she had the sickening feeling it was because of her, and that made her feel guilty, and she hated feeling guilty, especially over some mundie boy, and then she decided Flick probably wasn't even on the island, anyway, because he was probably hiding out in New York or Connecticut or something, like an idiot, so she ended up waltzing two doors past his, and banging her fist against the door to room 512 instead. Sharply. Also loudly.

Maybe she'd had a drink or two already. Or maybe she was just this off her balance for other reasons.

[ooc: NFB, and for the guy mentioned, pls and thank you! Summary and some of the content in the thread from City of Lost Souls. Up early as hell because Europeans. ETA: Warning for light alcohol abuse.]

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Who the bloody hell was banging on the door?

Edward pulled a pillow over his head. Then the blanket. When that wasn't enough to block out the sound, and it didn't seem to magically stop by its own power, he let out a loud groan and fell out of bed.

Literally; he'd planned to just roll over and get up, but instead he'd hit the floor with a loud thump.

"I can hear you!"

Yes, Isabelle, thank you. Most of the floor could probably hear you, too.

"Bloody hell!" Edward cursed, scrambling up to his feet. "I'm coming! Jaysus, calm yourself, woman!"

He pulled open the door and squinted against the light.

It was most definitely Isabelle, in knee-high boots, tight jeans and a red silky top with her familiar red pendant around her throat, glittering. But she looked thinner than she had just a couple of weeks ago, her cheeks a little more hollow.

She pushed past him into the room. "Finally."

Most times, Edward would be absolutely delighted to have Isabelle in his room, but he'd been asleep and she'd gone banging on his door. He squinted at her. "What's gotten into you?"

"I was looking for Flick," she said, looking him over. "But he's not around."

Well. She'd made a guess that he wasn't around. This was not her most straight-thinking time ever, and not just because it was about two in the morning.

Edward rolled that statement over in his mind a few times.

Sadly, said mind wasn't much awake yet. "Uh," he said. "...Why?"

Isabelle ignored his question and supplied one of her own. "Did I wake you up?" she asked, reaching out and flicking her fingertip against his chest. "Nice sleeping attire, by the by."

Edward looked down and realized, very belatedly, he was standing in nothing but his breeches, in front of Isabelle, in the middle of the night. "...Thanks," he settled on, feeling a bit dazed all of a sudden. "You did wake me up, but it's all right."

He thought? Different parts of him had different ideas on the matter.

"Is it?"

She scraped her nail along his skin before pulling her hand back again.

"Good." She glanced around. "Do you have anything to drink? A nice Barolo? Sagrantino?"

Edward wasn't proud of the fact he briefly lost his balance there, but could you blame him? Honestly?

"...There's a bottle of rum I took from the squirrels a couple weeks back," he offered. "There's coconuts on the bottle, so you know it's quality."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Get it out."

Phrasing.

She was going to go sit on his bed, now.

Was she trying to talk him into a drink or into bed? What in the blazes was going on? While his mind tried to sort out these very important questions, Edward wandered over to his bed and reached underneath, pulling out a bottle.

It was not high quality rum, no, and suddenly he felt stupidly ashamed for it. "There you go."

Isabelle didn't look like she cared much. She didn't even examine the label before uncapping the bottle and taking a swig.

Then she tilted her head back and swallowed once, twice, three times. When she set the bottle back down on her lap, her cheeks were flushed.

"Are you all right, there, lass?"

This was starting to look like less of a matter for his bottom half after all. Unfortunately.

Edward sat down on the bed and tried to remind his bottom half of that. He was not terribly successful.

"What like whether anything's wrong?" Isabelle asked, throwing up her hands. Well, one hand. The gesture lacked a little of her usual fluid coordination. "You mean other than the fact that my brother has disappeared and has probably been brainwashed by the evil demon who murdered my other brother, and my parents are getting divorced and Flick is off puking his guts out ––"

She stopped abruptly. And downed another gulp of rum.

Edward sprawled very casually across his own bed in a way that just happened to mean the blanket was now falling over his lap. That'd do for now, then.

He really should put on a shirt.

"You might want to slow down with that," he said. "...Both of 'em."

The drinking and the talking.

And here was Isabelle about to mess with his good intentions. She pulled a face, but set the bottle down on the floor for now. Then she turned more towards him, and she was most certainly not making a face anymore.

"Come closer, Edward."

She'd dropped her voice. It was soft, seductive. Yes.

... ohhhh hell.

Stupid lap-blanket did nothing now. But that was no problem at all, considering Edward was sliding forward fairly quickly after that command.

Isabelle leaned towards him, bringing the scent of a rosy perfume mixed with rum with her. Her hand slid up his arm, up to his shoulder. It was hard to tell what she was thinking.

It was much the same inside her head, too.

"You're gorgeous," she said. Her hand slid around to flatten itself against his chest. "You know that, right?"

This was a very, very bad idea, Edward was aware of that much.

He was just having some trouble remembering why. Having a girl like Isabelle say something like that to his face while touching him like that sort of had that effect on people. Him. People. Things. "I've been told?" he offered, the laugh a little less steady than he'd been going for.

She scratched her nails lightly against his chest, watching her hand against his skin for a moment.

And then, with a quiet, resigned sigh, she said, "And I just don't care."

No, really, what in the blazes was going on?

"All right?" he said, staring down at her hand, himself.

"I should care," Isabelle added, now sounding like she was mostly talking to herself. Her fingers stilled against his chest. "I mean, there are probably a lot of reasons why I wouldn't just rip your clothes off blithely anyway, but the thing is, I don't want to. Normally I would want to.”

Edward let out a little sigh as whatever spell had fallen over him dissipated. He reached for Isabelle's wrist and tried to pluck her hand off his chest. "How much have you been drinking?"

"Enough," Isabelle replied, shaking his hand off her wrist as she pulled it back. "Don't patronize me, mundie."

"You marched into my bed in the middle of the bloody night and you're drinking my liquor," Edward said. A touch of irritation was starting to set in. "Don't call me a bleedin' mundie."

"It's what you are, though," she pointed out, and for a moment she was all arrogant Nephilim. "And I'm not supposed to care about any of you. And now I think about one of you all the time. And it's awful. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before."

"Brilliant," Edward said. He collapsed back against his pillow. "No, that's perfect. Why don't you go bother him, then, instead of tormenting the stupid mundie with a crush two doors down?"

Isabelle snatched the bottle up again, because that was clearly what this moment needed. "Because he's not there," she spat out. "And I didn't know you have a crush!"

Except in the way where she assumed every straight boy she ever met had a fleeting crush on her.

"I'm seriously reconsidering it!" Edward hurled back.

Then he reached for the bottle. It was hardly fair she got to have it.

Isabelle jerked it away from him. "Well, I think I'm changing my mind about you, too," she said in a semi-threatening tone that would have been more frightening if she'd been able to really properly focus her eyes on him directly. She turned away from him, moving to get up. "I don’t think I like you so much after all."

She stood up, looked down at her feet with a surprised expression — and fell over backward. Thank the Angel the bed was right there.

... Oh, jaysus, please be joking. Edward scrambled off the bed in a hurry, practically tangling in the sheets in his speed to get to her and ensure she was doing all right.

"Isabelle?!"

Well, she was out cold. So, that was great.

And not at all embarrassing.

But she was breathing.

Which meant Edward could go right back to being profoundly irritated with her.

He snagged the bottle out of her hands and took a big swig. "I can't believe it, you bloody self-involved harridan..." and more insults of that ilk, until he got tired of ranting and sat down on the floor by the bed, bottle in hand.

So not only had she woken him up in the middle of the night, drank all his liquor, and made a fool of him in the worst possible way, but now he needed a cold shower badly and he couldn't leave the room because she was sleeping on his bloody bed.

He took another angry swig of his rum.

Dick move, Isabelle. Dick move.

Well, that's what her journal's name tag said. So, truth in advertising.

But if he could keep things together for just a few hours while she slept a dreamless sleep on his bed, she was going to make room for him. Because around four in the morning, her phone started ringing loudly in her pocket.

Not that she became immediately aware of that.

Edward did, though. There hadn't been enough rum left to give him more than a passing buzz, and he was already halfway to sobriety when the phone jogged him right out of his light nap.

"Oh, bloody Jaysus..."

Yeah, you got both bloody and Jesus, Isabelle. Feel special.

She would have, but the grogginess kind of overpowered that. She made a confused sound as her first show of being awake, before blinking her eyes open, and before managing to get her phone in hand after a moment of fumbling.

"What is it?" she asked, sounding affronted and annoyed. And yes, groggy. But then she seemed perfectly awake all of a sudden, pushing herself more upright. "Jace," she said. "Is that why you're here? Is he ––" Her voice cracked. She started again. "Have they found ––" She listened, then made a dry little sound in her throat. “Jace? Jace hurt Luke?"

She was chewing on her lip now, feeling sober and wide awake and hating every little bit of it. She forced that down, and nodded a few times as she listened to Maia at the other end of the line. "Okay. Okay. I'm on my way."

She was already trying to get on her feet as she hung up on the call.

That obviously wasn't Edward's business. No great new thing, that. He was still feeling petty and annoyed enough not to make some show of support of it.

He reached for the empty rum bottle and upended it. Sigh, yes, empty.

"Try to close the door when you leave."

Edited 2015-02-08 18:46 (UTC)

The look of surprise Isabelle threw his way – she'd been disoriented enough for a moment to not have caught on to where she was – turned into a look of naked hurt his way for just a second.

But then she was already on his way. She closed the door, and didn't even slam it.

That's how you knew things were bad.

That cold shower had seemed like an incredibly important idea a few hours ago, but now Edward could barely even think of it. He crawled back into his bed, under the covers, and pulled the pillow over his head.

He was going to spend tomorrow morning languishing in a hangover. Seemed about right, too.

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Outside Room 512, So Late Sunday It's Really Monday

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