Un-fucking-believable. He knew that Isobel was emotional, but this was much even for her. Didn't she understand the gravity of this situation? Didn't she understand that she couldn't just sit with a dead body in her apartment over sentiment? It was ridiculous. It was absurd, even, and he felt a coil of anger in his stomach as she stood in the middle of the kitchen amidst a sea of broken glass - in bare feet, no less - with a bottle of vodka stuffed in her mouth.
"No," he said, stalking towards her with a newfound power. Suddenly, he wasn't the brittle, passive scientist he had been in Chicago. He wasn't even the popsicle that had walked in just moments before. Archer, lit up by the chilly light of the full moon, was a metal skeleton cloaked in ropes of tension and anger. Reaching out, he grabbed the bottle of vodka in his spidery hands and yanked it away from her.
"You're not doing this," he huffed, holding the bottle away from her grasp. "I can understand that you're upset. But drinking this won't make it go away. I am trying to help you, Isobel. The last thing you need is to be caught up in Trenton's mess." Expression contorted by irritation, he took a step back, feeling a shard of glass crunch beneath his shoe. "Now I expect you to help me. We'll take care of this, but you can't be drinking to numb yourself when I need you here, present, with me."