2019-07-12 - A Watch of Nightingales

She screams. Finch screams loudly. In the vast emptiness of Mallard House, the sound travels, and no doubt her house guest, a few doors down the hall, can hear it. She wakes tangled up in her sheets, the twisted cotton in a virtual stranglehold around her arms and legs as she struggles to escape both the reality and the dream. She can still smell the tang of blood in her nostrils, and hear the cracking of the little bird's bones. She knows, in her heart of hearts, that little purple finch is her. He's coming for her. The other birds she saw lying dead no doubt represent others she knows. The panic is as entwined around her as the sheets and she sucks in vast, deep gulps of air in between frightened sobs. She's in an oversized, sweat-soaked Cornell University tee and boyshort-style panties.

It's hot and humid and Ignacio was already awake trying not to hyperventilate clutching the sheets in trembling fists in the guestroom down the hall. The man fell asleep beyond intoxicated letting the shot of whiskey play havoc against the painkillers in his system and the Xanex he popped to just try to get to sleep without incident.

Needless to say that effort failed spectacularly.

Silent sobs wracked his scarred frame as the ghosts from the past screamed in consort with horrors anew waking him from a his own dead sleep. While he couldn't feel his fingers or toes the majority of his leg was screaming at him as fear caused all of his muscles to clench and seize while he was asleep making the neuropathy in his bad leg light up like a broken circuit board going haywire.

Seriously, there's go to be something more effective out there, but right now he's been left to deal with it as irresponsibly and efficiently as he can. He can see their faces clear as day and hear the chorus of voices both yelling for help and Ignacio, RUN!!! His eyes squeeze tighter trying to get the sound of old friends out of his head, and those tiny birds convulsing on the floor.

Christ! He can feel his breath be crushed from his chest with the lot of them suffocating. In vain he tries to desperately catch his breath in the humidity of the closed room with the window open that seems to just make it worse. For the life of him he can still hear Maritza screaming as vividly as he can still remember the last image of her being dragged off with Rico's body into the dark which should have been somewhere in Baltimore. It was not. He's not in Maryland, he's in Washington.

He's awake...
...he's here...
...he's in a room...

So why can he hear Maritza screaming still from so long ago?

Brown eyes fly open making the world swim as he realizes: Because it's /not/ Maritza. This is happening now!

"Finch! Shit!" From his half convoluted state he tries to gather himself together making his limbs respect that yes, he needs them right now. Hell this is going to hurt. He pulls himself out of the guest bed all Chili Peppers t-shirt and boxers and tries with no time to put the brace back on. Pushing himself to a stand he almost immediately regrets doing this, but a crisis loves to wait for no one.

First step is quick. He flinches. Second step he tries again and it's unsteady but he pushes through making a damn belligerent trip of making it down the hall, shoulder to the wall pulling the sides of his cheeks in, setting his teeth. He's not doing this shit a second time. No, Fuck you, Skelator! Making it to Finch's door he doesn't open it cause...creepy and fucking rude! Propping himself against the door frame the palm of his hand strikes hard to the old oak door with three slams. "Finch! You... You okay in there?" That doesn't have the confidence behind it he'd hoped but he's fighting to stand upright. The time for pretense has passed. His eyes squeeze shut trying to keep fewer tears from sticking to his face while fear and adrenaline fight for who gets to drive this train wreck. 'Please fucking be okay...' "Finch?"

Finch can’t tell, in the dark, what is binding her. Her crazed struggles redouble and hearing the thump on the door only makes her freak out harder. She yells, “IGGY!” with an edge of desperation in her voice, not sure if they are here, or they are there, back in that house, or somewhere in the Dream.

She reaches towards the door... and falls out of bed onto the floor with a loud crash, the tangled sheets dragging a lamp off the nightstand along with several hardcover books. It sounds BAD. In reality, it’s going to be quite a story to tell someday. Finch is on the floor, with her sheets wound about her like puppet strings, looking like a broken marionette.

Ignacio doesn't need to be told twice and taking his name to mean: Oy! Get your ass in here!

His hand twists the door handle and he throws his shoulder into the door. It swings open and there's a sight on both sides. He takes one step into the room to lunge-fall forward. His bad leg that here looks like Doc Frankenstein rebuilt Humpty Dumpty doesn't hold up. As Finch is on the ground it doesn't need to. He pulls himself the last foot or so across the floor letting quick hands try to snatch the sheets from her face and hands. He pushes himself to a sit and wraps arms around her to stop flailing. He winces, face a mask that tells a very uncomfortable story. "Shhhhh. Stop swatting. I'm not the ass you gotta kick. You're okay... you're okay." More really telling himself she's alive and history hasn't come back around again.

Not yet anyways.

As light from the hallway washes in with Ignacio’s entrance, everything becomes apparent. Finch has blackout curtains in her room, and keeps it pitch black when she sleeps. Yeah, she’s probably going to rethink that after this incident.

As Ignacio replaces the cloth wrappings with those of his arms she shakes like a leaf and clings to him fiercely. “He’s coming for me. He’s coming for me,” she stammers out, her terror palpable. With the physical contact she can also feel the pain emanating from the damage in his leg and that makes her sob harder. “I’m so sorry.”

Ignacio winces and just hugs her. Hell he's shaking and his heart is rattling around himself like a pinball. The time to worry about half his lies being held to the light will have to wait for later. He's FINE! Everything is FINE ask him! The words cut deep and he answers, "He thinks he's comin for a lot of people. Don't mean he'll make it here." He falls silent and asks hesitantly, "It's okay. I had a real fucked up dream too. These things happen. Sometimes they happen alla time but... they happen."

Finch’s Glimmer, that set of silvery strands she pictures in her mind’s eye, slither out along Ignacio’s body, tracing the path of his pain from nerve to nerve, finding the ones that are misfiring, the ones that make him hurt so badly. They weave like a single cord, focusing on a bundle where so many of them report, sending the information to his brain, telling him he is in agony. The silvery cords of spirit glimmer wind around the sciatic nerve plexus, forming a wall, calming the reports, blocking them from going further. The pain ebbs, then ceases. It’s not forever. She hasn’t fixed the cause, just calmed the signals. An hour maybe, without pain, is all she can give him. She’s not strong enough yet, to fix all that is broken in his leg. But he took on all his hurt to make sure she was safe, and she has to do something.

Tears slip down her face, worry for him and the others, worry for herself, sorrow for the agony he lives with. “The nightmare felt real. Too real,” she whispers.

Ignacio is, for lack of better terms, a playground of medical bullshittery. He doesn't complain about it, but it doesn't make it at all less real, just like the damn dream. His fingers tighten around her shoulders and the muscles in his leg tighten in a reflex before laying still like lead again. Spine going slack there's an exhale of relief that brings its own tears to the corner of his eyes all on it's own.

"I saw... feathers everywhere. I tried to cough but I couldn't catch air and ... I think Skeletor tried to eat you... it was super bogus." He bends his other knee up a bit and just shakes his head. "Seeeeeeriously did /not/ listen to me about the rules of consent... really hate that." Yeah, that's his take away, or the humerous, if not serious highlight of what he saw. Ridiculous framing, but there's comfort in teh familiar when one can strip the horror out of a situation... well... or hoping he can.

“Did you see the birds too?” Finch asks, putting a hand to the side of his face to turn it her way, to make sure she’s reading truth in his eyes, because it’s important. “There were four. A Robin, a Northern Cardinal, a Tropical Kingbird, and a Finch. A purple finch. They’re more pink than purple, like my hair when I do it pink,” she whispers, as if talking about it at a normal volume might summon Murray. Her other hand settles on his knee, the bad one. "I can only dampen the pain for a little while. I'm sorry. I'm not strong enough to fix you."

Ignacio's eyes are a bit dilated and bloodshot, but she knew that when she picked up all of those readings off of him. Still they focus, slightly confused when his head is swiveled around, "Que?" he boggles and it really shows how much more knowledge she has than him where ornothology is concerned. "I dunno. There was a robin and a bunch that were all snack sized and wheezing with me." And yeah the one getting smacked flat was kinda like your hair that time I met you." He notes unhelpfully. Yeah he couldn't tell you what birds are what. Still, it does sound like a yes.

it's when her hand touches her knee he flinches, and not because it hurts. Taking a deep breath he shakes his head and murmurs, "Hey, don't feel bad. thirteen surgeries later and guys with PhD's and shit are still tryin to figure out an answer. As good as you are with a hammer, a'ight? Sides, it's my fault. I don't expect anyone t'clean up after my messes. I'm... just glad you're alright..." Yeah his pulse hasn't slowed a bit, but it's trying! "Seriously though same dream? Thaaaat's fucked up. Should find out tomorrow if it's just us or what." Tilting his head he squints at her, "Big ugly fucker? Draging things into the basement where that guy tried to go? Yeah. Not so good times."

“Yeah, it was Skeletor again. I think we made him really mad,” Finch whispers, still trembling. “I need a drink, really bad. A strong one, or ten.” She can feel the essence of the nightmare hovering in the air, like a dark cloud ready to drop a deluge on them.

Ignacio looks around, eyebrow raised and snorts, "Shit I packed a small mini bar. I'm gonna remind you that /you/ told me you have, and I quote 'very good reasons not to', but I'll hook ya up, just promise me one thing?" Arching an eyebrow that half-smile tired and earnest resurfaces. "Don't make it a force of habit like I did cause I'll tell ya? It don't work so good." Looking around he makes a thinky face and winces moving to get a grip on the dresser to pull himself up. "Tell ya what, I got an idea. Grab your pillow and your sheets we'll hit up the other room, get everything and go camp out in the living room. Line up shots, and try to get away from...whatever the fuck this feeling is. Good plan?"

Finch watches his movement, mapping out the pain pathways automatically, like she’s studying an injured fledgeling. Someday, she’ll fix him. She will. She owes him that much. Provided she can manage it before the whole Harpy Curse comes to pass. She nods to Ignacio and gets up slowly herself. She’s going to have a few bruises from falling out of bed, but she’s otherwise ok.

She gathers up her pillows and hits up a linen closet in the hall for fresh sheets, since hers are twisted and sweaty and gross.

Ignacio is hugging the wall because he's at least smart enough to know that no pain does not equate to spontaneous structural integrity. He remembers learning that one the hard way. Still he makes it back and having more than a couple minutes fights withthe leg brace to stick it back on and grabs the sheet, his rented pillow and the duffel with the few things he has in there to make some damn fine improv shots from. At least with the work she's done there's time and he's making good use of that to et back to the living room. "If you can grab a couple glasses that'd be killer." Eeeeh, qestionable choice of words but he's not one to build up a mythos to give it power.

Finch also changed into a fresh nightshirt, this one a Seahawks jersey style that falls to mid-thigh. She’s thrown her pillows and crap on the couch and emerges from the hall with an armload of shot glasses, which she lays out on a coffee table that is probably an expensive antique, or would be if it was maintained or restored. “Way ahead of you,” she mumbles. Blue hair is sticking up in all directions.

Ignacio dumps his things, owned and rented, in a pile on the floor. Well, at least he's moving alright, but the wholesale reconstruction that's been done to him over and over and over is apparent. With the cat out of the bag he's not bothered to go back to hiding it. It's too hot about it. let him whine about that tomorrow. For now he sets stuff down and sorts out a place to nest in propping himself up against the couch. He pulls out his favorites noting, "Sweet or sour?" There's choices! Looking up he asks curiously, "You even go out for your twenty-first?" This has him curious.

Finch pulls cushions off the couch, grabs a couple of tv trays from a rack, and goes about making them a little pillow fort tent thing on the floor with the sheets. She plunks down beside him, setting a little blu tooth lighted speaker under the drape of the fabric for illumination for them. “My 21st? No, no, I was out in the field on a birding trip in the Catskills, measuring overwintering species for a paper.”

Ignacio arches an eyebrow and lets her get settles in picking the low road for getting them kicked off. Rum Chatta, then adding the honey whiskey to it and eventually the small thing of fireball which is almost expired but has enough to make a good fighting appearance. he news of her 21st gives him pause arching that eyebrow. "No shit you were right by me by a couple hours." With a sigh returning to somewhat normal sass . "Shoulda come by. We'd have hooked you up. You wouldn't know it but my brother doubles for bein a killer bartender. Heeee taught me." He hands her shot number one that's at least more sweet than burn. "Well, here you are then and happy belated 21st birthday, aaaaand to telling scary as hell monsters to fuck off."

Finch accepts the shot and she snorts about having been nearby. Not THAT nearby, but she lets it go. She raises the glass and, with hand still a bit trembly, announces “Cheers,” before downing the concoction. She squints and sucks air against her teeth as the Fireball hits on the back end. “I’m guessing you had a fun 21st?”

Ignacio would honestly rather talk about something that was a good memory and try to put the demons of the day as far back as possible. Still, they were awake in that house when things came crawling out of the actual woodwork. Being this house is no less haunted he both hates and is glad she isn't here by herself. He files this under shit not to bring up. "Yeah. It's kidna the last time I remember things not being all entirely fucked to be honest." Splaying his hand to his chest he pours the next shot which is half and half making the honey nut cheerio. Oh honey whiskey, you enabler you. His hand splays across his t-shirt announcing with tired, and casual triumph, "I was not always the handsome devil of a train wreck you see before you. There was a time yours truly actually had his shit together." He picks up the shotglass and examines it at eye level admitting, "Or I thought I did." Next shot gone. Really he should have hit up the par the other night, or maybe it's absolutely best he did not.

Finch watches him mix the next shot and she downs it without any hesitation. She is really shaken up by this. “I figured I couldn’t be killed or hurt, you know, until the whole family curse thing happened. But now I’m thinking maybe that isn’t the case.” She sets the empty glass down and scrubs a hand through her tangled hair. “What happened to you, Ig? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I’ll listen if you need someone to.”

Ignacio listens and offers a sympathetic look, "Uhhhh Shakespere disagrees. A whole lot of people die anyways. That's the things about destiny, sometimes we as mere mortals just don't live up which, in this case? eeeh could be great news ya know? Genetics are kinda a craps shoot anyways."

The offer's there to talk which is something he generally, as a rule, does not do. The liquor and meds in his system seem to just short out practical reason at the present. Well... shit. Shot number three is poured very carefully. "Growin up my pa had ideas. And for me? Eh growin up was good. Played some baseball, got into not too much trouble. Did alright in school. I had things I wanted to do. Itzhak can tell ya I used to race and," He grins on the good side with a fond smile that's brief but admits, "I used to be pretty fuckin good too. Even worked in the restaurant with pops since I was fourteen. It's what he called a 'real job'." His jaw sets and he looks back to Finch doing a world of good paying back the favour of listening, "I was supposed to inherit the restaurant from em when he retires. He was supposed to be a father to Rafael too though. He kicked Raf out soooo I quit. Then?" He shrugs, "Then teh world turned the fuck inside out and everything fell apart from there."

Finch listens intently, her eyes narrowing when the story turns ugly for her friend. She’s already starting to feel the first of the shots taking the edge off her panic. Her hand moves to rest on his leg lightly, just letting him know she’s there and a sounding board. She tackles the more mundane tidbit first. “Why did he kick your brother out?” Another shot gets downed. She weighs 100 lbs soaking wet, she’s not going to be sober for long.

Ignacio waves his hand and gets blunt, "Eeh he's gay and my dad's an asshole." He shrugs. That's all there is to be said about that apparently. "Growing up it was always the two of us, ya know? And he /always/ fuckign gave him a hard time and like nothing he did was good enough and like I could make the parents happy with no effort and Raf? it was always a fight. It didn't feel too good."

Next shot goes down and a tight smile forms. "Pops was... not thrilled when I wrecked everything, but someone's gotta stick up for em. When someone's your best friend all your life you can't sit there and watch." He leaves the shot sitting there though and sighs not swatting her hand away either.

Ignacio leans his head to tap the top of hers and assures her, "Honestly? He's the best of us. He's had problems other people created then blamed him for. He did the best he could ya know. It wasn't perfect, and really like a big brother's supposed to go look out for your little brother ya know? Didn't work so much like that with us. He messed up? He got yelled at. I messed up? /He/ got yelled at cause he's supposed to be responsible for me." He snorts, "I seriously pity the soul out there who really is responsible for me caaaaause we parted ways a long time ago." There's a faint, fleeting smile at that and his head rests against the couch wrapping an arm around her head.

"Your mom's scared. Messed up. Didn't take it well and... well okay maybe isn't the sterling example of motherhood." Hey it's true. He's not judging her for it but he's not about to make excuses for it either. "Sometimes we build out of what we have and what we find. Like the roof, or the porch, or whatever else makes a home." He falls quiet and reaches out and rests his hand on the shot but holds it there on the table. "It's pretty cool. The few folks around here? Kinda feels like that. Had... somethin like that before. Three friend and me after Raf took of." He doesn't mention the arrest. That's past Raf. "I missed havin that. Havin people. They're important and you dooooo, regardless of your... irregular and very, admittedly and respectfully like... fucked up circumstance? You got people too, and we don't ...wanna see you bird smooshed."

Finch gives him a crooked, tipsy smile, and then she’s staring at his mouth like it is something special. “I don’t want to get killed by that thing. I don’t want to go crazy like Great Aunt Starling. I don’t want to be alone anymore, Ig. But I’m so scared for anyone in my life,” she whispers with eyes gone watery.

Ignacio gives her noggin a squeeze and pulls her into a hug. He's no so damn discombobulated to be unaffectedly her fear and isolation. There's enough talk around the outside edge of hid own bullshit when everything went south that his tone is commiseration. "Well hey, hey we'll sort it out. Just one thing at a time. Don't try to do it all at once or you will drive yourself loco, yeah? So take the most time important one and start there." Eyebrows pick up and that natural optimism that fights so hard to hold the front he puts up suggests, "Let's start by not getting killed by that thing."

He falls silent.
"..."

He takes a moment to look around.
"..."

Finally he looks back to her, "Well so far that's going well. Good job!" If she slugs him that's okay if it helps her rally. "I've... lost people to this stuff before, Finch. Not excited about seeing it happen to anyone else, but like... gotta take it a day at a time."

She doesn’t slug him. Finch is drunk. And she’s lonely. And she’s had a really, really bad night. And he’s being kind and understanding and not running away from her despite all of her batcrap insane baggage. She leans in to kiss him instead.

This is one of those events where Ignacio is usually 50/50 on remembering anything by the time he sobers, wakes, and crawls past the hangover he's bound to wake up with. The nightmare of watching history come back in new and exciting ways devouring lives of friends and colleagues? Yeah, that's pretty stand out. Both eyebrows go up in not a hurry to emphasize, see you're not dead! And she's meaning into him and on pure instinct leans into that sentiment. Head still spinning and out of sorts he loses himself for a moment; dread punching him in the chest informing her of the brazenly obvious on all sides with a murmur. "This... is a super bad idea."

However, being the Earl /of/ bad ideas he lets the glaring internal klaxon siren that is the pending hangover in the back of his head go ignored. Leaning he kisses her, turning her head up and remembering for a moment what it's like not pushing the damn world away with evasive bullshit. This can get filed under really great terrible ideas later. Currently busy. He does promise, "I promise not to make this super weird. Your'e not allowed t'die. 'Just found you, and we got shit to do, ok?" As if life in the last 3 days could get more fucking strange! As if to punctuate that a bad idea doesn't indicate a lack of endorsement he kisses her again because damn if it isn't better than focusing no all the bullshit going on everywhere else right now. Sometimes a bad idea is better than not trying anything at all as that's gotten neither of them at all that far up to now.

Between increasingly heated kisses, Finch murmurs, “No dying, either of us,” as she kneels to take his face in both her hands, her lips warm and soft and tasting of all the alcohol they’ve imbibed. “Things to do,” she agrees. “Don’t make it weird.”

Ignacio ignores his leg, common sense, and everything not Finch right now. He might chide himself later for acting on his ID rather than reason, but it's been eight years since he has so, eh, fuck it. The chiding at being told 'don't die' carrying more context than most likely mean and it's amusing as it is endearing and just frightening in the need to ask such a thing. Hands find her waist swimming in that jersey so she doesn't fall over. The half grin forms not flinching from the affected side of his face touched, asking, between moments , "Can we... just do this... and forget about earlier... for..." a while? "Ever?" Okay a less realistic plan, but not his first or least fun.

”Yeah, yeah, we can forget for now,” Finch murmurs, dark eyes almost all pupil and half-lidded with need. It’s been forever for her, and she hasn’t let anyone this close in a long, long time. There is a moment of breathing, then she’s sliding his shirt up and off and redoubling her efforts. This is going to be so awkward tomorrow.