part two.

"So I heard you're looking for me," drawls a voice, and Isabelle spins round in surprise. An accent- she hadn't been expecting an accent. Or any of...this, she thinks, No wonder I didn't notice him. She gives the man a quick onceover, and something must have shown on her face, because he straightens up from his position against the railing and scowls darkly, shoulders thrown back slightly and chin tilted up in a silent challenge. Minuscule movements, no one else would have noticed (except maybe Bobbi); Isabelle doubts he was aware of them at all.

"Yes," she replies, keeping her expression and voice carefully neutral.

Lance Hunter's scowl becomes even more impressive at her calm, monosyllabic reply, and Isabelle thinks his glare could give Bobbi's a run for her money, but suddenly the creases unfold to reveal a pleasant, albeit scruffy face. "Bet I'm not what you were expecting love," he shrugs, letting his shoulders relax into a casual slouch, "But figure I should take that as a compliment." He shrugs again, "Her exes were idiots to let her go." He extends a hand, holding her gaze with clear eyes, brown and sharp and honest.

Isabelle returns his handshake, and his face stretches into a smile.

-o-

Isabelle holds back a frown as Hunter props his feet up on the table and leans back, folding his arms across what seems to be a well-muscled abdomen. "So," he says, shrugging, "Why did you want to meet me? Might as well tell me what you think of me too, since it seems you're Bob's surrogate protective elder brother."

She appreciates his candour; at least he didn't beat about the bush and waste both their time. She smiles politely and nods, sitting up straighter in her chair and clearing her throat, hoping Hunter would follow her cue and put his feet back on the ground. No such luck.

She'd contemplated a number of ways to begin the conversation on her way here, to ease into the if-you-hurt-her-I-will-kill-you speech, but instead she blurts out something else entirely: "Bobbi likes you."

She immediately regrets the lack of mastery over her tongue for two reasons: first, Bobbi was going to kill her for saying that, after she'd vehemently denied the statement; and two, a lazy, smug, self-assured grin stretches across Hunter's face at her words.

"I know," he drawls, the smirk on his face like a cat who'd just gotten into and finished all the cream. Isabelle's hand twitches on her lap, itching to slap it off him.

She considers him carefully, and he meets her gaze laughingly, but after some time his face straightens and eyes grow thoughtful and serious. "I won't hurt her," he says earnestly, at the same time that she warns, "If you hurt her, I will hunt you down."

They blink at each other, and she's more surprised than he is.

Hunter drops his eyes first, laughing through his nose and straightening up to place his feet on the ground- Thank goodness, Isabelle thinks. "Admit it," he grins, "Your opinion of me just went up."

Isabelle rolls her eyes. "And it just went back down because you said that," she says, pausing for a moment before continuing cautiously. "It will be an uphill task to keep that promise. Bobbi is… An easy person to hurt."

He frowns, nodding, and she can see the question in his eyes.

"I don't mean she's hypersensitive," she clarifies quickly. "Bobbi's like a…" Isabelle hesitates, wondering how to best explain. "Bobbi puts up defenses very quickly. Job hazard," she shrugs, "We all do it. But she does it more quickly and more extensively than most, and it takes time for her to let her guard down. You can imagine our surprise when we learnt about you."

Hunter gives a small laugh at that. "So she puts up shields- pun not intended." He shrugs. "I get that. But I don't understand what you mean, exactly…"

Isabelle leans back in her chair, sighing. "There's no explaining it. Bob's been through a lot. Just try not to hurt her, that's all I ask."

-o-

"Tell me about yourself."

Hunter groans. "What is this, the bloody inquisition?" All the same, he scrunches up his face to think of an answer. "I-"

"Something other people won't know, not the stuff I can find on the SHIELD database," Isabelle interjects, anticipating a laundry list of his family background (absent dad, two sisters, middle child) and occupation (Special Forces- he must have some skills that she couldn't discern from his appearance).

He scowls. "Be more specific then, I don't know what you want. Bloody women, always thinking we blokes can read minds," he mutters the last part under his breath, and Isabelle rolls her eyes. She's starting to understand Bobbi's frustration with the man; his demeanour made people want to roll their eyes out of their sockets, but he somehow managed to endear himself to them at the same time.

She casts around in her mind for a suitable question and finally fixes her gaze on him, carefully noting his body language. "You're from the SAS. Have you killed people?" she asks bluntly. No point beating about the bush, and he seemed to appreciate straightforward talk- a point in his favour, not that she would tell him.

Hunter's body tenses immediately, then he slumps in his chair and looks away. "Yes. Ask something else," he grits out, already anticipating her next question.

She ignores him. "Tell me about your first." If glares could kill, she thinks she might be dead. She foresees plenty of glaring matches between him and Bobbi, and she and Mack would have a hard time choosing who to bet on- Bobbi's glares were known to frighten entire teams into silent submission. "Go on," she says when he doesn't reply.

He gives an exaggerated sigh and sits up in his chair, eyes fixated on a tiny ant crawling on the table. "His name was Ronald. Ronald Whittaker," he intones, and swallows several times. Isabelle nods, silently requesting him to continue. "He uh. It was one of my first few missions with the SAS. He was trying to sell highly sensitive intel to Russia, military info, yeah?" He glances up quickly to make sure she understood, then back down. "Treason. Sounds like something out of a movie." His fists clench and unclench. "We caught him, he turned a gun on us. Shot my friend- Will." His voice breaks on the name. "The only thing running through my head was, 'Bloody hell, how'm I gonna explain this to his fiancée?'" He shakes his head. "He'd just gotten engaged what, the week before. I panicked and emptied my mag at the guy." He swallows and falls silent.

Isabelle watches the way his shoulders tense; it still affected him, after so many years. "It was justified- you made the right call."

Hunter looks up at that, an incredulous look on his face. "You think I'm torn up about him?" he scoffs. "That arsehole got what he deserved. It's the faces of his wife and kids when they came to our offices. They had no idea what was going on," his gaze drops to the table again, "Scared out of their wits. She'd absolutely no clue what her husband had been doing. Was horrified, couldn't even process it." He raises his head, eyes haunted with the memory. "That's when I decided that secrets are a dealbreaker." He shrugs, "Sure, keep that one or two personal ones, the time you snogged your second cousin or whatever, but," he shakes his head, "nothing important. No double lives."

Isabelle nods, a frown sitting deep in the crease beneath her brows. They sit in silence for a long time, each lost in their own thoughts, and she finally gets to her feet. "Hunter," she says, and he jerks out of his recollection and looks at her questioningly, making to stand as well.

"You know who Bobbi is, you know what she does… That's not going to change. That means secrets Hunter," she says sadly, not missing the realisation and conflict in his eyes as he sinks back down into his chair. "That means lots of secrets."

-o-

Sometimes, she regrets getting involved in their relationship at all. This, Isabelle sighs as she lets Lance and his six friends into her apartment, is one of those times.

"Where've you been," he whines, kicking up his feet onto her coffee table, popping a cap off one of his friends and taking a gulp. "The beer's gone flat, the rest are warm. Warm, Iz. Is there anything worse than warm beer!"

She glares at him and points at his feet, and he removes them from the table with a dramatic sigh. She sinks into the couch beside him, reaching over for a beer. "What is it? You didn't wait outside my door for two hours to tell me beer tastes like piss when it's warm," she says, making a face as she sets her own bottle on the table.

Lance hesitates, scratching off the label on the bottle absentmindedly. "I… I came to ask you something."

Isabelle frowns and looks him over. His eyes are focused on a random spot unseeingly, he's bouncing his knees on her carpet to some fast rhythm only he can hear, and the beer label from his bottle is in pieces on her carpet. She makes a mental note to have him clear up after himself later on. Her eyes glance over his legs once more, and this time she notices a bulge in the pocket of his jeans. A very cubical sort of bulge.

"Hunter... Is that what I think it is?"

He looks up at her, eyes bright and slightly wild with panic. "I… I don't know what to do, Iz," he says desperately. "I've thought about it for weeks, months even; I know it doesn't make sense, and," he laughs slightly hysterically, "and as of this moment she's not even speaking to me because we argued last night." He wrings his hands, and a few more shreds of the label fall to the ground. "She's never going to say yes, she hates me."

Isabelle resists the urge to roll her eyes at his exaggeration. "And loves you in equal measure, we both know that. Take it out," she nudges him with her knee. "I want to see."

He reaches into his pocket slowly, pulling out a small box covered in faded blue velvet and popping it open. Resting on a black velvet cushion are pearl earrings embedded with smaller sapphire gems in a vintage setting. Elegant, yet simple. She raises her brows at him, impressed; she hadn't expected him to have such good taste. He notices her look and clarifies, "My nan's pearl earrings. She gave them to me the other day, with the imperative that I give her grandchildren in a year." He laughs nervously, and beckons her to take another look at the box's contents. Isabelle leans in, and notices a pair of plain silver bands tucked behind the earrings that she'd missed earlier, one nestled within the other. "I figured she wouldn't want anything flashy," he explains, knee bouncing again.

She looks to Lance for permission before lifting the rings and peering on the inside. Engraved in minuscule writing on the inner walls of both rings is Don't die out there. Isabelle smiles, about to return them to the box, when she turns the rings and notices a slight difference in the engraving. Lance's ring read 'jackass', and Bobbi's read 'hell beast'.

She hands them to him and rolls her eyes. "Yeah Hunter, way to capture a woman's heart. Seal your marriage with a token permanently engraved with an insult."

"What! She knows I mean that in the best way possible!" he says defensively, carefully snapping the box shut. He looks up at Isabelle after a moment. "You think she'll say yes?" he asks, not quite able to hide the quiver of nervousness and worry in his voice.

Isabelle picks up her piss warm beer to stall for time, picking her words carefully. "I think she'll want to."

-o-

Someone tugs at her elbow and pulls her into a side alley, and a spike of adrenaline rushes through her before instinct takes over: with practiced moves, Isabelle grabs the arm and slams her attacker against the brick wall, his arm twisted awkwardly behind him.

"Uncle! Uncle!" a familiar voice chokes, and she releases him immediately, annoyance lacing her voice.

"Hunter, what the hell?! I told you the first three time not to do that, do you ever listen?" She glares at him rolling and rubbing his shoulder, wrenching up the bag that had fallen onto the ground.

"You wouldn't pick up your phone or answer your door!"

"My phone is dead and I was shopping for groceries, idiot," she snaps in reply, and finally takes a proper look at him. The man looked worse than usual, his eyes red and bloodshot, as if he hasn't slept for days, and he had several more days of scruff than she's used to seeing. Her shoulders straighten with a familiar tension. "Hunter, stop pacing- what's wrong?"

"It's been a week Iz." He rubs his pace and stops his pacing long enough to throw her a desperate look. "One week. She said she was going to visit a sick aunt and would only be a few days, and, oh." His expression shifts from worry to grim realisation in a heartbeat. Ah, crud.

"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice-" Hunter shakes his head and shrugs off her arm and comfort and explanation.

"She could've just told me, Iz. Instead she left me back here to worry about whether she's dead or alive-" He shakes his head again and pinches the bridge of his nose, jaw clenched tightly. "She could've just told me."

Isabelle sighs as she looks after him striding off into the distance. "That's the thing, Hunter. She couldn't."

-o-

"I want a divorce."

The first thing Isabelle thinks, after it's too early for this shit, is that she needs a better lock. Or another address. Groaning, she pulls her pillow over her head, but Hunter's complaints reach her anyway. Not that it matters, she's gotten pretty good at tuning him out and still responding appropriately. This time though, she'd just gotten home from a mission at four in the morning with a killer headache, and she really doesn't want to hear any more of this.

"What is it now?" she rasps.

"We're getting a divorce." Hunter plonks himself down on her bed, lying across her legs over the duvet. Evidently she had been too friendly with him in the past- a mistake she fully intends to correct but suspects is too late.

"Uh huh. And what's the reason now? You forgot to refill the toilet paper, she yelled at you, and you couldn't take it?" She tosses onto her side, but it's no use, she's awake now. Damn the man. Growling, she kicks him off her and stalks toward the kitchen for coffee.

"No," he says with the hurt air of someone who's been unfairly accused. "She-" He shakes his head and sits at the counter, head in hands.

"What happened?" she asks in resignation, pushing a steaming cup toward him.

He scowls, throwing her a look. "I'm on the verge of divorce, you'd think I'd receive a little more sympathy than this."

"You would, if you weren't on the verge of divorce every few weeks," she replies airily, stirring a sugar into her drink.

That impressive scowl deepens, but he finally gets down to the story. "Yesterday I found a picture of her with a man. Tall, built, his arm slung across her shoulders like they'd known each other a long time." He rubs his face tiredly, taking a sip of the coffee and pulling a face, muttering about 'Americans and their coffee'.

"Picture was hidden in a closet. With her socks, of all things." He cups his hand round the mug, staring unseeingly at her sink. "Took three hours and the neighbours bangin' on our door before she'd tell me who he was." He looks up at her, brown eyes troubled. "Did you know she had a brother?"

Isabelle lowers her gaze a fraction, and Hunter scoffs. "'Course you would. Best friend and all that, doesn't matter that I'm her bloody husband." He practically spits the last word. "She can't even be honest with me about her family. I'm supposed to be her family, Iz," he glares at her as if this was her fault.

"I told you right at the start to be patient with her." Isabelle shrugs and gets up to make him a cup of tea. Really, she spoilt the man too much; it was her own fault if he felt he could waltz into her apartment at ungodly hours of the morning.

Setting it down in front of him, she leans back and crosses her arms. "What were you doing fiddling around with her socks?"

Her question takes him aback; he blinks and stares at her for a moment. "She told me to get them. That's not the issue here Iz, I-"

"She was going to tell you about her family. She wanted you to find the picture. I bet she was very specific about which box she wanted you to find?"

Hunter nods, dumbfounded, and Isabelle pinches the bridge of her nose. God, this man was daft. "And then you went and yelled at her for opening up, so she clammed back up. Can you blame her, Hunter?"

He gapes like a fish out of water. "Well- if she wanted to tell me she could've just bloody said so couldn't she! What's with all the secrecy!" His wild gesturing nearly upsets his cup of tea, and he shoots her an apologetic look.

"It's how Bobbi is, you know that."

It doesn't take long after that before the Brit is muttering about how he's an idiot and has to go and placate his hellbeast- the term uttered with affection instead of venom, this time.

"Thanks Iz. Wouldn't know what to do without you," he says earnestly, before leaving to buy his wife apology flowers.

"Anytime."

Ah, this one was her fault. Maybe she should stop encouraging 24/7 consults.

-o-

How much is too much, Isabelle wonders, tossing a curl of blonde hair over her shoulder and laughing at the joke the man on her arm had made. Her eyes remain surreptitiously on the man a few paces ahead of her, his lean build staggering onto a stoop of a random house.

"Damn drunks," her date mutters into her ear, and she forces a laugh as they walk past him quickly.

She'd sworn to Coulson that she wouldn't break cover and reveal the state of her undead-ness unless someone was in danger- mortal danger. Did this count? Watching her friends' relationship crumble to pieces, watching them bury themselves in drink and work respectively- a part of them was dying, surely that counted?

She doesn't need Coulson there to tell her it doesn't. They need to handle their problems on their own, Agent Hartley.

She'd asked once, and never bothered to again. But she couldn't just stand by and watch them sink into… Well, this.

Under the pretense of flicking dirt from the man's shoulder, Isabelle sneaks a glance behind her. Lance was clutching a bottle with one hand and his stomach with the other. She knows his routine, he would throw up after he finished this bottle- his seventh, she thinks.

Isabelle turns back and continues walking, away from her friend. She was technically already disobeying orders; dressing as a blonde escort surely wasn't what Coulson meant when he ordered her to 'stay low', but she was never one for strict adherence anyway. If Lance knew what she was doing, he would chuckle and drink to loose interpretations Iz, if he really wanted you to stay hidden he'd have ordered you to Siberia.

It's been much harder to see Bobbi, to figure out how she's coping. But for the one time she had spied on her at her supposed grave, shoulders heaving with sobs, she has no idea how her old friend is dealing with the divorce.

Still, her immediate worry is Lance- he was more likely to drink himself into an early grave than Bobbi was to get herself killed on mission- she's too much of a soldier to do that.

She just hopes that she will be there to kick away that last bottle from him, and pull her away from a bullet, if need be- and that it won't be too late.

If I wasn't supposed to be rotting in a grave, I'd kick both you hard-headed asses together until you made up.

… Please make up.

A/n:

Checked the dates- I started writing this in July. And wrote the last bit there today. *covers face in shame*

SO sorry for the lack of updates/ fics in general. Will try to post more to tide us over this mid-season break! :)