2019-07-04 - Bristling

And on the morning of the seventh day, Itzhak drives the big bucket truck over to Out on a Limb. The growl of the diesel engine is smooth, could almost be faraway thunder. The arm's sitting right, too, and the whole thing is clean and shining. It's clean inside too, detailed nice and pretty.

Pulling in across three parking spaces, Itzhak kills the engine and tugs his phone out of a tight hip pocket to text August. Out front w your truck

It's a good thing Itzhak texts him, because August is in the back storage shed mixing up some blood meal tea. It's a fairly intense task he mostly does himself, since Thomasina makes faces and Ully gets green around the gills, and neither of them want to come near the shed when he's doing it. The steeped tea goes into the beds, the leftover, used meal gets folded into various pots (and some will be helping the cutting from Lilith's orange jessamine along).

He pauses to pull out his buzzing phone, eyes it, tucks it away. "Stay put," he says to the straining set up, which is dutifully draining away into a five gallon bucket. He tugs off his gloves and comes through the display garden to the front, where Itzhak has helpfully taken up most of the parking. "Thanks for bringing it by," he says. In deference to the weather he's in a light gray, David Bowie Ziggy Stardust concert t-shirt and his usual jeans and boots.

Itzhak's leaning insouciantly against the driver's side door, phone in hand, boots crossed, when August gets there. The weather is unusually hot and humid, not that he would know; to him this is what July is supposed to be. In a word, miserable. He's wearing another snug, ribbed black tank top, the mirrored sunglasses clipped into the neck. He squints at August and slides his phone back into a pocket. Jerks his head towards the truck. "Check her over."

August, meanwhile, is beginning to wonder if he needs to invest in central AC for, of all the things, his cabin. Climate change sure is a bitch. Remember when summer was three days over eighty? He sure does, and wow, does he miss it.

"Sure thing," he says, and begins to do just that. He starts with the arm, checking that it's now raising and lowering without struggle. "Cleaned her up real nice," he notes, giving Itzhak a sideways look. "Thanks. Always nice to be able to show up at a job with a clean truck."

And then he starts checking it other ways. Not because he doesn't trust Itzhak, but because that's just how he does things. It's second nature to prod along the truck's structure and internals, comparing it to what he remembers from when he dropped it off.

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it." Itzhak isn't going to just stand there and accept a compliment! "I couldn't sleep. Was a good a way as any to pass the time." He does look tired, dark bags under his eyes extra obvious in the clear morning sunshine.

He's watching August go over the truck, rocking back on his heels idly like a guy with other things on his mind, when--a shudder races up his back and he sucks a breath through his teeth, involuntarily, like something very cold touched him. Reflexively he tries to rub down the hair on the back of his neck, not that it helps, as the hair on his arms is standing up visibly, too. "Jesus," he mutters, not meaning to.

"Wouldn't dream of it," August says over his shoulder. His tone's distracted; he's paying more attention to the truck. As he walks around it one hand is always on some part of it. He's in the process of popping the hood to check the engine when Itzhak says that, pauses and peers around the chassis at him. "Pardon?" he asks, brows up.

Itzhak looks at August with a troubled, unhappy expression, eyebrows going funny. Voice low, he says, "You got it, don't you." He taps his temple. "I can hear you."

August regards Itzhak for several, overlong seconds. He seems decidedly irritated, and given the kind of guy he is, it's not a friendly look her gets. It's a look someone like Itzhak will know well: he's trying to decide if he's going to pretend like he has no idea he knows what Itzhak's talking about, or, if he's going to come clean. The fact that Itzhak will know any denials are a lie isn't factoring into the decision to stonewall or not. Just how much of a pain in the ass it will be. All of this is plain as day on his face, alongside more than a little frustration at being so plainly caught out. Lilith and Finch and Ignacio are one thing. Itzhak is another. There's people you feel safe knowing about the bizarre shit you can do, and people you don't. Itzhak is not in the former category, not yet.

He closes the engine cover, leans against the truck. He doesn't look particularly calm. "I'm going to have to assume that means you do too." It's not a threatening tone, not quite.

Itzhak stares right back, his long face tense, mouth twisted down. A 'fuck off, pal' sneer keeps threatening to surface--all his instincts are riled up by August's reaction. Suddenly they're not a guy who fixed another guy's car. Suddenly they're two dangerous men facing off.

"I heard ya the other day, too." Despite the ballooning tension, Itzhak manages to keep his voice level. His big hands slowly clench into fists, however. "You get the dreams?"

Maybe it's Itzhak's reaction that makes August dial it back a notch. Maybe it's that he remembers it's way too easy to react this way to someone knowing something about you when you're not too sure about them, but that doesn't mean he should do it. Either way, the question about the dreams gives him pause. The tension eases out of his shoulders, and he looks away. In the garden next to them, the hydrangeas are heavy with bees dusted blue and purple and white with pollen. He takes to watching them, which helps.

"Yeah," he says, finally. "First one was...a long time ago. Most of those early ones were bad." Because of where he was, but he's not talking about that in a volatile situation. "They're different now. More..." Varied? Odd? "...more." He shrugs. There's not a word for what they're like here, in Gray Harbor.

Itzhak remains tense, tall lanky body ready to move. He kind of laughs, scoffing. "Yeah. More." Deliberately he makes himself relax, opening his hands one finger at a time. "I didn't think there was hardly anybody else like me. Now I come here, and..." He looks away too, finally. "I hear it everywhere."

Since Itzhak doesn't completely back off, neither does August. But mutual complaining about being surrounded by people similar to themselves, that he's willing to get in on. "Oh yeah," he says, folding his arms. "They're crawling out of the woodwork. Been that way since before I got here, apparently, and that was three years ago." He snorts. "It's probably something here, dragging people in--same reason so much crazy shit happens. All that stuff during the storm, that building blowing up? In a town this size? And that's just the recent stuff--history of this place'll curl your hair." He shakes his head. "Can't imagine another reason I'd run into so many after a long time of running across only a few now and then." Not that hiding in the forest for almost a decade had increased his chances there.

Itzhak's breathing a little hard, riding out the spike of adrenaline. He spreads his hands outward in the universal sign of backing-off-now, and even takes a step backwards just to make everything clear. "I didn't mean to..." 'scare you' is what he almost says, veers off. "I mean, I meant to ask you. But, you know. Maybe text you or something." He quirks a tiny tug of a half-smile. "I just heard you so loud. I'm. Kinda sensitive like that."

Then, to make everything more awkward, it starts raining damn near out of nowhere. A thunderstorm has rolled in while Itzhak and August were busy circling each other like bettas. Boom! The rain is warm and there's a whole lot of it. Itzhak kind of flinches. "For reals?" he says, all irritation, and bolts for the overhang of the shop.

August thinks back to the earplugs and the chain saw. "Yeah," he says in an acknowledgment, looks at the ground for a bit. "Sorry for getting my back up about it." His eyes meet Itzhak's again, and he gives him a rueful smile. "Not your fault everyone can hear me do, whatever that is, for half a mile any time I do it. Guess that's just me."

He blinks at the thunder, sighs as the sparkling clean truck gets rained on. "Wow, really?" he asks no one in particular. Well, the interior will stay pristine, at any rate. He doesn't haul ass out of the rain anywhere near so fast as Itzhak, though; he strolls with the speed of the resigned PNW native. Once at the shop overhang, he sees no reason to stop, and so doesn't. Opening the door, he says to Itzhak, "Coffee? Tea?" and heads in without waiting for a reply.

Itzhak's swiping raindrops off his tattooed arms and trying to shake water out of his hair. His black curls frizz up real good. "God dammit. You got any of that tea made outta lawn clippings that you guys all love out here?" He follows August in.

As they come in, August says, "Not sure we have that one. Ully, we got any of that lawn tea?"

Inside there's only a few customers, though more are filtering in from the outside area (or huddling in the greenhouses/under a few tables with umbrellas) to avoid the rain. The young man August has addressed--mid-twenties, with that 'grad student working through summer' look to his curly blond hair, freckled, dusky skin, and blue eyes--says, "Nnnnnnoooo?" in a slow, confused tone. Then he sees Itzhak, blinks at him, and makes an assumption. "We've got a spiced chai and a rose hip herbal and a lemon chamomile. And," eyes flicking to Itzhak again, he adds, "there's some gravenstein cider that Ms. Beech made, she always gives me more than even I can drink."

"There you go," August says as he leads Itzhak to the back office. It's a spartan enough setting, with an old, scarred, oak desk and matching office chair, a few filing cabinets, and a few more spare chairs around a salvaged fifties-era chrome table with a robin's egg blue top for other people if they need to have a seat.

"So, anything strike your fancy?" He goes right to the coffee pot and pours himself a half a mug.

Itzhak checks Ully out in a swift flicker of a glance. Cute. He hitches an eyebrow at him when Ully looks at him, not exactly flirtatious. More along the lines of 'yeah, I know I'm a lot to handle.' Then he saunters along after August. "Cider? I gotta admit youse guys do a great cider. All dem apples." Rather than sit, he leans a forearm along the top of one of the chairs, regarding August.

Ully eyes Itzhak, uncertain of how to take the look he receives. A little nervous, a little curious. He's like a wild deer assessing Itzhak, a guy who's just wandered into his meadow. What's he doing here? Why is the boss talking to him? Is there a problem? A customer distracts him, though, and he goes back to work with one more glance at the two as they head into the office.

August opens the minifridge and pulls out one of the aforementioned ciders. It's in a plain, up-cycled green glass bottle, with a simple, hand-written label reading GRAVENSTEIN on the neck. He offers it over, sips from his coffee. "Some of the others who work here are," he says without pre-amble. "But not all of 'em. Kind of why I hired the newer ones, if I'm being honest. Finally got tired of pretending I didn't want to know what was going on with me."

Itzhak takes the bottle, doesn't open it, just turns it around a few times like a habit or a superstition. "De Santos I know, from the street racing scene back home. Don't remember him with any shine on him, but--" he shrugs a mostly-bare, damp shoulder. "Heard him plain as anything." He looks at August from under those lively black eyebrows. "Me, too." He'd been cagey about actually saying it. Now he does.

"Mmmm. Might be like a lot of other things--can come in early or late. I know I wasn't born with it, or, I don't think I was. Wasn't until I was about nineteen I had my first run in." August contemplates his coffee, nodding when Itzhak comes clean on that part. "Near as I can tell, only we can...hear one another, like you said. Others just think something's up. Not us. We've got our finger on the pulse of something, and when it jumps, we know. Or, we can know." He chuckles, chagrinned. "I don't usally notice, I have to be honest. I don't know, maybe I just don't have the knack for it." He shrugs that aside. Does it matter if he can't tell? Are there people he needs to be afraid of? None he's run into yet.

Itzhak's mouth flattens. He's silent, tipping the bottle around to watch the cider slosh inside. Straightening from his lean on the chair, he shoots an intense, penetrating glance at August. Then he throws the bottle.

It sails six inches and stops, rotating gently, hanging impossibly in midair. Itzhak keeps his eyes on August's, hazel on hazel. The bottle lowers itself to the table, tips over, and rolls over to August. Should he try to pick it up, he finds that he can't; it's stuck to the table as if welded there.

August watches the bottle as it flies, stops, and rolls up to him. He nudges at it, not with his hands but with his own power, but Itzhak's grip on it is far too tight for him to do anything. He makes it vibrate, just enough for Itzhak to know what he's doing, then abruptly stops. "I couldn't even pick up a piece of glass earlier," he mutters.

He sits on the edge of his desk, continues drinking his coffee. It seems like he's not going to do anything, but after a second or two, Itzhak feels something brush at his ear.

...it's the spider plant on a filing cabinet next to the chrome table, reaching out a long, planet-festooned arm to prod at him. Something rattles at the window--the smokebush outside it is tapping the glass with its branches. "Most of the flashier stuff I can do's a little..." He pulls a face. "It's hard to really show off with," he says, finally. "Don't want to...short out my tablet or whatever."

Itzhak shivers as August tests his grip on the bottle. He gets a weirdly sensual expression, lips parting, eyes losing their ferocity. "...Never felt that before."

The spider plant tickles him. Itzhak whips around and--alas, poor spider plant!--punches it right into the wall, shattering its pot. Soil sprays everywhere. Itzhak jerks back, fists raised, teeth bared. "Shit! Was that you?!"

August gives Itzhak a narrow-eyed 'I bet not' kind of look. Then he just stares as Itzhak...punches the spider plant. He blinks a few times. "Right," he says, since it's mostly his own fault. "Well, maybe I can show you a thing." He eases off the desk, goes to the massacre against the wall. Out in the shop proper Ully and Thomasina are peering up from their respective tasks, trying to see what happened, but there's no yelling or flailing, so they go back to their work. (Thomasina watches a few more seconds, though.)

August crouches down next to the pot, picks up a few of the larger pieces. He starts setting them together, like he's assembling a puzzle, and...they just stick. There's no logical reason for them to do that, he hasn't glued them. But they do, a bit at a time, until they whole pot's all back together. A few left-over shards, too thin and tiny to bother with, and some powder from parts that simply crumbled, he leaves for now. Yet there are no holes, no cracks. The pot's whole.

Next he scoops up the potting soil, re-sets the spider plant. It survived Itzhak's vicious right hook, though some of its fronds have broken; these August repairs as well, by running them between his fingers. It takes a few passes, but each time, more of the bent and distorted leaves smooth out, until the entire assembly looks no worse for wear. (The floor does need to be swept, though.)

August puts it back on top of the filing cabinet. "Next time, I'll just break a pen, or something." He goes over to the sink, washes his hands.

Itzhak maybe looks a little sheepish. Maybe. A little. But not that much. He's a man who doesn't question his instincts when they tell him to punch something. He drops to a crouch, too, so he can see what August is doing. As he mends the pot, Itzhak breaks into a brilliant smile. His face completely changes when he smiles. "I can't do that. Wow."

It's easier for August to dial back his wariness a tad when Itzhak smiles. Not too much, but any lingering tension from before is gone. Now it's down to baseline wariness, the kind he uses on most people. "What's the heaviest thing you've tried to move? I can't manage much more than," he looks around the room, shrugs, "maybe this desk." He nudges it with his hip. It's a solid piece of furniture, easily near a hundred pounds. "Can't really do much in the way of maneuvering either, not like you did." He settles on the desk again, folds his arms.

Itzhak stands, unconsciously swiping back his hair (which is still frizzy). "On a good day? Four and a half bells. I went to a gym and tested." Taking the cider bottle, he pops the cap off and has a long drink like he needs it. "Give me a long enough lever and a place to stand, and I can move the world."

August snorts a laugh, nods. "That's pretty damned good. Probably also nice for working on cars, yeah? Weight of parts of stuff, way less of an issue." He says this like he expects everyone does what he does, which is use his abilities unconsciously in the majority of what he does.

There's a knock at the office door, and Ully sticks his head in. "Sorry, but the landscapers are here for their mulch order." August sighs and rubs at his face. "Okay. Be right out. Hey, send Thoma in, she can get him sorted on payment for Betty." He asides to Itzhak, "We can do check, charge, even cash if you'd rather." He gives Itzhak the knowing look of a man who is aware of the occasional need to work under the table.

As he's about to go, he pauses, offers his to Itzhak for a shake. "Good working with you, Itzhak. Don't be a stranger." The formality might be odd, but August flicks a glance at Ully and tips his head just so.

Itzhak may miss a lot of stuff, but he knows what that look at Ully means. He shakes August's hand. "Cash." Hey he's not ashamed to admit it...much. "Good doin' business with ya, Roen."

"Cash it is." August manages a smile, turns to follow Ully out into the shop proper. Thomasina bustles in a second later, and sets to getting everything straightened out for the truck repair.