2019-08-10 - Frustrated Incorporated

Finch is home this afternoon, and can be seen crossing the grounds, heading towards the converted carriage house beside Mallard House with a pitcher of lemonade and some glasses. Clearly Granny Dove is home, because she didn’t make it unless it’s Kool-Aid brand and just add water. Ms. Mags, her pet rat, is riding on her shoulder. She’s in shorts over tights, combat boots, a colorful tee, and her goggles.

Inside the carriage house is a battered old 1961 Lincoln Continental, as well as equally battered Ignacio and possibly battered Itzhak, the latter currently trying to get the ancient land yacht into working condition so Finch can stop taking the bus everywhere.

After this last week, Itzhak is feelin' the urge to be in control of something, and that something is now the Lincoln. As he's been working on it, he's set the carriage house up as an away workshop, including Bluetooth speakers. He let Iggy pick the music today, and he's shoulder-deep in engine grease and parts, tapping a wrench to the beat.

Ignacio is doing the dreaded oil change. He may need a hammer and fucking chisel for this. Back down on the rolly dolly he laughs, bandanna over his face at least, "Maaaaan, It-Z it's like old times when we used to work on my car. I don't think Abuela's gonna let us pop a spoiler on this old gal tho." Idly his feet rock moving him back and forth on occasion for better leverage. His hand flaps around for the pan he's going to drain into if there's anything liquid gonna come out of there after he's tried for the second time to flush it. "Wiiiiiish you coulda seen it before, Finch. You'd be all like," Oh yes his voice gets ridiculously high-pitched and not at all Finch like. "Oh guys, if you drive that you'll peel the concrete up!" He does brace for the rolling cart he's on to get toe kicked. "Yes. Yes it did. Was gloooorious."

August's car pulls up, which is a little odd, because he should still be at the shop. But here is his black Subaru hatchback, except he's not driving--Alexander is. And when the two of them start to get out of the car, well, it's clear why August isn't driving, and why Alexander maybe shouldn't be either: they both look like they went about ten rounds with something slimy and vicious and lost, badly. August's shirt is in shreds and there's someone's hasty gauze and bandaging attempt all over his torso, but it's mostly serving to hide the gross results of what seems to be a mauling. And the rest of his clothes aren't in much better shape. A lot of this blood might be his own. And yet, he's determined to haul himself up against the car door.

"Stop. Stop moving." It's irritable from Alexander, who does at least seem to be in slightly better shape. He's buttoned his long-sleeved shirt over the wounds in his abdomen, but that's already bled through. His nose is still bleeding, as well, with one nostril caked with and trickling blood. But he's still better off than August. He piles out of the car, and stares at the others. "Hope someone's got a first aid kit, or something. He wanted to come here instead of the hospital. Where he should be." Although the tone is flat, the irritation suggests that Alexander already tried to pitch this to August, and was overruled. He moves slowly to the door, and starts trying to help get him out.

Finch glances over at the sound of a the vehicle, and when August and Alexander emerge in such bad shape, she drops the pitcher of lemonade with a shattering of glass. Fuck it, she can repair it later. “Guys! 9-1-1, injured incoming!” she shouts at the carriage house, then she’s running towards the pair of wounded men.

Itzhak's not so crabby today he's constantly telling Ig to shut the hell up, at least? He's even laughing, his rough New York accent echoing in the half-stripped engine compartment. "Fuck yeah it did. Burnin' up the strip, baby."

He glances up sharply when Finch yells, then tosses his wrench aside and ducks out from behind the hood. Striding fast out of the carriage house, he realizes it's August's car and August and Alexander and he springs into a flat out run fueled by pure adrenaline. The passenger-side door of the Subaru pops open on its own (not actually on its own).

Ignacio jerks the heels of his boots against the concrete driver ro-o-o-oling the dolly out to see. Hey the oil is draining more of the old junk out and that... it can do itself. He' greasy and grubby. He looks to Finch confused and then sees Itzhak tear off running. He does the first thing that comes naturally to him: Wipes his hands off and pull like a reflex, Miss Mags from Finch's shoulder into his hands like he was passed a football.

Grab the rat?!? Really? Well what else can he do here?

"Not the hospital," August says for about the tenth time. His voice is barely above a whisper, and no wonder; his throat is black and blue like something tried to strangle him, the bruising extending up to his jaw and cheeks. "I can't listen, to..." He stops, sags. "Not the hospital," he repeats. "Finch." His eyes half close. Breathing's more important right now. Also the car door opened without his intervention, but he's going to let someone else sort that out. (Did he get autoopening doors? Were those available in 2009? He's not sure he sprung for that package...) Anyways it's not his problem right now. He can sense Finch outside the car so that means they're here and not at the hospital! His work is done.

Alexander does NOT run into the door when it suddenly pops up in front of him, but it's a near thing. He places a hand on it to reassure himself it's real, then use it to help support him around to the other side, his shoulders cringing and rolling at the crash of glass and the shouts, grating on already frayed nerves. He doesn't try to sustain the argument further, just gives the man an exasperated look, then reaches in to help August up and out. A glance back at Itzhak's rapid approach. "Where are we taking him?" A pause. "Did that rat just fly?" He's starting to look worried that he fell into another Dream at some point.

Mags squeaks as she’s plucked off Finch’s shoulder by her other BFF and she wiggles her nose at Ignacio curiously. Meanwhile Finch gets passed by Itzy like she’s standing still, thanks to those damn long legs of his. She skids to a halt in front of August and Alexander, eyes wide, concern in them. “What happened!?” she asks breathlessly. “Just hold still, either of you moving might make things worse.”

She lifts her hands and begins to move them, her fingers weaving in the air like she’s a puppeteer pulling strings. The invisible strands of Spirit slither in just her sight, like silver filaments, to August, and then into his skin, tasting, reading, measuring the injuries, diagnosing before she works on fixing. Her eyes squint, brow furrowed, as she works.

"Inside," Itzhak answers Alexander in a sharp brisk single word. He was about to squeeze past him to grab August, but at Finch's words he freezes. "Tell me, Fincheleh, do I move him or not?"

Ignacio watches with concern, "Oh shit boss... the fuck?" He looks to Alexander wading over to the pair but leaving room for the responders to... respond. "Nah, she jumped. Rats are suuuuper athletic. Also it wasn't even far." He lifts the rat up and smooches her head and keeping her out of the way for now, but the concern is real. It's blood. Not a fan. Nope, not even remotely, but hysteria is no one's friend either. You can tell he's scared because he stopped talking.

Some of the bruising on August's face and neck recedes, but the wonderful gouges in his chest stay put. It looks to Itzhak, for all the world, like a snake with huge teeth tried to chew through him. And the other, slimy things on his clothes...don't smell good either.

August takes in a deep breath, lets it out slow. Finch feels it as a sensation crawling up her back, like fingers trailed along her spine, then a sharp jolt. "Try again," August murmurs, barely able to focus on her. He winces against something, raising a hand to his ears. "Gonna hear that song forever..."

Alexander moves to one side as Finch steps up. He leans against the hatchback, letting it support his weight. "We got lost. August got the worst of it." There's a skeptical sort of look in Ignacio's direction at the talk of the rat's athleticism, but he doesn't argue about it. Just reaches up to wipe his nose. From the smears of blood on his sleeves, he's done this a lot. He gives August a startled look. "You're still hearing it, too? Fuck. I thought it was just me."

The rat gives Alexander a curious look as he is a newperson. She is wearing an adorable little gingham bonnet. A. Dor. Able. She curls up and nuzzles Ignacio, trying to help him stay calm, as if she can sense his distress. Pets are like that.

Finch shushes everyone, then her tongue pokes out on one side of her mouth as her fingers twist and weave, working to close up the wounds from the deepest layer, upwards: bone, muscle and tendon, nerves, blood vessels, skin. Then she draws her hands up and back, pulling the invisible sutures tight, binding what was once torn. She shakes herself a bit to get back into the now. “You need help too, hold still,” she says to Alexander, before setting herself into a stance again. August she’s healed a few times, and she knows the pathway of his biology. Alexander is new.

Itzhak shushes. His heart is galloping in his chest, so hard it's audible where he hovers next to Alexander and August. Two men he really, really did not want to see showing up torn open. The bite marks are familiar, like a python's U-shaped mouth full of needles, but bigger than any extant python. He's ready to grab either of them, long muscles in his arms bunched up ready for action.

Ignacio keeps his attention on the guy who may or may not have an attention span. There's concern though looking at August, then back to Alexander, "Hey, You look like you got trapped on teh Small World ride. You're back. One step at a time, man. You're back, ya did good. What... happened?" his hands curl MAgs to him in that way he doesn't register he's really doing it but there's that subdirective: keep tiny critter safe, and it brings a sort of clarity to it.

Being healed of something so severe is a weird sensation, and a startling one. August sucks in a breath in surprise. "Fuck." He half sits up, hand over his chest, eyes watering. He stays like that, panting, for a few seconds. Gradually his breathing eases, and the bruising and swelling on his face and neck vanish. Blood doesn't actively flow from his chest and torso anymore, either, though of course the clothes are a loss, and the bandages are soaked.

"Thanks hon," he murmurs, putting a hand to his forehead. He's drained, emotionally and physically, but hey, he's not dying now. He nods at Alexander, eyes squeezed shut. He starts to giggle at Ignacio's question; there's an edge of hysteria to it that's unsettling. Then he gets himself under control. "They were worms, and...us. But not us." He blanches, swallows. "It was bad. Christ I need to soak in a bath for a year."

"The bites didn't get through the abdominal wall, or cut any major muscle groups, I think," Alexander says, wearily. And a touch warily as he eyes Finch. "You don't have to. It attracts attention. Just some disinfectant and some bandages will get me home. I have supplies there." It's not quite a 'get your Glimmer off me', but definitely offering her an out if she doesn't want to risk nasty things happening for a stranger. His eyes flick to Ignacio. A brief smile comes to life, although whether it's for the man or the rat is hard to say. "We got trapped on the Small World ride. And worms exploded from our bodies and then tried to eat their way to becoming us." His eyes unfocus for a moment. "I think I pulled one out of my brain." That's very quiet. But it's definitely not an image that's going to be leaving Alexander or his nightmares anytime soon.

Finch’s fingers begin moving again, and the manifestation of her power slides into Alexander this time, moving beneath his makeshift bandage and into his abdomen. “Yeah, you clearly didn’t take any bio classes Clayton. Gall bladder and the transverse colon were both punctured.”

She weaves those spirit strands to close the holes and undo the damage. Then upwards from there, until the blood is no longer leaking from him, and his skin has is smooth where it the massive holes were. “If the motherfuckers want to come for me, let em come. I’ll burn them to the ground,” she notes, with a faint smirk. When it’s done she looks tired, but content that it was successful. She sets a gentle hand on August's shoulder.

"Let her help you," Itzhak says to Alexander, those eyebrows tilted up in desperate concern. "Please." He said please. In order to counterbalance that he was maybe pleading a tiny bit, he adds, "You look worse than you think," trying to get his aggravation back. He grits his teeth when Finch lays out exactly how much worse.

Ignacio blinks to Alexander and then August and THEN ALEXANDER. He can't not say it, though it's not funny, this is some genuine shock trying to wrap his brain around this. "Some rotgrubs... literally tore you a new asshole, dude." He offers his own support to the newcomer, "Seriously I tell her no all the time and She don't listen. You'll be grateful." Looking to that spark light up in Finch saying that he adds matter of factly to keep teh situation even keel, "Look, I know I don't know ya, and maybe that's my failing, man, but I think all of us would rather deal with bullshit and have you be closer to alright than have you not be alright... and the bullshit show up anywyas."

August rolls his head along the passenger seat headrest. "You drove me here like I asked, least you can do is let her patch you up," he says to Alexander, too tired to sound properly argumentative. He points at Itzhak, "Also, what he said," now Ignacio, "and what he said." He sighs, lets that hand fall onto Finch's at his shoulder. "It was, uh, awful, and I'm never going on that fucking carousel ever again."

He squeezes Finch's hand. "Okay. Now I need to drive home and shower for a few months. Unless," he opens his eyes, arches an eyebrow at Finch, "you mind letting me scrub this first layer off here. I've got spare clothes in the back. These I'm gonna burn." With his own fire, if he can manage it.

Alexander scowls at Finch, proving what the local hospital staff already know: Alexander Clayton is a lousy patient. "I've been patching myself up after these things for more than a decade, Miss Celaeno. It will heal--" it's choked off as her power settles into him. A shudder runs through his body, muscles abruptly relaxing as the cessation of pain. He breathes more easily almost immediately. "I...thank you." Although it immediately turns into a scowl again at her cavalier dismissal of the dangers. A shake of his head, a guttural sound of irritation that grows almost into an active growl under his breath as Ignacio speaks. One hand twitches in a fist-like direction, then relaxes. But hey, he's feeling better, so he can push himself off the car and try to calm down by humming--"Goddamnit, that song." He strangles it before more than a few bars of 'It's a Small World' get out. A sidelong look to August. "You should not be driving. Even with the patch job." A glance at the other three. "If you are all going to be stubborn, you can at least back that up. Don't let him drive until he's had some rest."

“Come inside and get cleaned up,” Finch orders. “I think there are some of Uncle Merlin’s clothes here still that he left behind before he moved with the twins. And we have like 37 bathrooms, so that’s not a problem either.” Ok only 5 but it’s a big fucking dilapidated mansion ok? “And don’t worry about me, Clayton. They won’t come for me until it’s time for the old family curse to kick in. So I’m sorta safe.” Or so she thinks.

Is this an extremely inappropriate time to get smitten over Alexander? Is Itzhak doing it anyway? Yes and also yes. "G'wan, go in," he tells him, gruffly, before he does something stupid like hug him. "I'll drag Roen's stubborn ass in. Shut up," that's to August, "I don't wanna fuckin' hear it." He gets an arm around August.

Ignacio sighs and murmurs, "Duuuuude, I'm not stubborn. I am just resigned that we're pretty much all fucked. But, even if we're at disadvantage a bit, if things do happen you aren't down and out and that helps us... help you." Reason? Reason he can do. It's Finch he turns to though and steps over murmuring something to her, curious.

August groans at Alexander. He wants to say, 'I've driven while worse,' except it's not actually true nor would it be a rock solid argument even if it were. Also now everyone else is agreeing, and Itzhak is grabbing him. He's trapped here. "Fine, fine," he says, like he's fifteen and being told not to drive after taking Nyquil rather than forty-five and recovering from being 99% dead. "My duffle's in the back," he says, though maybe that can wait for someone to get while he's taking a five year soak in a tub. No hurry, he and water and soap are going to become the best of friends.

As Itzhak helps him out of the car, he says, "Oh, uh," but it's too late. There's grease on August now. That's fine, he's already going to be scouring himself. But there's also worm guts and a fair amount of August's blood and...other things?...on Itzhak. "You're gonna wanna burn these," August tells him.

Alexander looks down at himself, and lets out a sigh. It's the resigned sort of sigh you get when someone realizes that they're now covered with blood with no significant enough wounds to account for it, and walking home is going to end in either a psych hold (if he tells the truth), or with the GHPD looking for whoever he murdered (if he tries not to tell the truth). "We're all fucked is a very good philosophy to hold, Mister DeSantos." There's a short, sharp nod towards Itzhak, and he has the basic grace to look abashed as he turns to Finch. "I apologize. For the inconvenience. If I could borrow some clothes and a shower. I would be grateful." Then there's a sudden burst of snickers under his breath. "Didn't think you could make that mess worse, but adding grease just might manage it. Gonna have to power wash the interior, too." Surely that's a joke.

Finch leans on Ignacio lightly, letting him partially support her as they move towards the mansion itself. “Mind the stairs, still haven’t fixed the bannister since that bad storm,” she calls to the others. “Gran! Got company! They’re gonna clean up. Something, ah, local messed with them!” Dove knows what that means and yells back from an open window, “I’ll put on some tea and scones!” Finch grins and opens the door to usher people in. “Bubble bath is under the sink in the bathroom down the hall to the right, August. Alexander, second floor, turn left, second door on the left. Towels should be there. Don’t wander further in, a lot of rooms are locked up because the floors or ceiling are in bad shape.”

"S'fine, just shop clothes." Itzhak's playing it down more than a little; this is way grosser than he anticipated, and he was anticipating a lot. Weirdly he is even grateful for the grease as it provides a sort of protective layer. He shoots Alexander a Look, then half-grins at him. "Yeah, yeah. C'mon, boys." He hauls August down the hallway to the indicated door.

Ignacio leans over and kisses Finch's forehead passing Miss Mags back to her. Eyeing Alexander he reaches behind himself and peels his t-shirt off. Sure it's got some shop smudges on it but it's not covered in viscera. He holds it out to Alexander. "Here. It'll help. It ain't new, but it doesn't look like you're a cast member of the Walking Dead either." He looks to Gran and waves, "It's alright, we got it." He consider, quieter, "Seriously you were stuck on a Small World carousel?! I imagined worst scenario. I didn't think you'd hit it."

Fortunately August is with it enough that he's not unwieldy as they make their way down the hall. "That's why I didn't want to go to the hospital," he asides randomly. "Didn't want to get...fucking...stuck there." He also didn't want them hauling up his massive medical history, because that always leads to questions. (And also he didn't want to be hovering on the edge of a panic attack while doing all of this.)

Into the bathroom they get him, out of his clothes, and into the tub. He just kind of lays there in it at first. Well, sits--he's a bit tall, and has to bend his knees. He comes close to falling asleep a few times. But a couple changes of water and furious applications of a washcloth and soap later, and he's right as rain. He gets into his spare clothes (slate blue, slub t-shirt, black commuter pants, charcoal hoodie, deck shoes), stuffs the ruined ones into a plastic bag for burning. His boots he decides to save, gets them soaking in the sink. Then he goes to join everyone in the parlor, walking slow and ginger, and not humming that song.

"Some day, love will find you," he murmurs under his breath to counteract it.

"Second floor, turn left, second door on the left." It's got a rhythm to it. It's hard to make those words scan to the tune of 'It's a Small World', but Alexander is doing his best without even realizing that he's doing it. He follows behind the others like a stray dog in unfamiliar territory, all slouched shoulders and wary looks. Like it might all be one big trap waiting to spring on him. "Boys? Pretty sure we're both older than you, Itzhak." It's a mutter, amused and annoyed all at once. Ignacio's offer gets a flat stare for an impolite length of time; Alexander isn't actually covered in wormstuff, just blood, but it'd be hard to argue that he wouldn't prefer not to be. So he takes the shirt, carefully, trying not to immediately smear it with his bloody hands. "Thanks. Appreciate it." Once in the doors, he keeps his head down and heads directly to the indicated bathroom for cleanup. Since he's NOT as covered in gross as August is, he emerges first, in borrowed sweats and tee-shirt from Finch's uncle, and his own clothes rolled into a neat bundle that almost hides the bloodstains. His hair is slicked back, out of his eyes and tidy for once until it dries. Ignacio's t-shirt has been neatly folded for his other hand, and he starts to drift downwards to look for the others. There's also a healing wound on his arm, since he had to take the bandages off - an 'X' has been crudely carved into the underside of his forearm and is scabbed and healing.

Itzhak strips off his shirt to burn with August's clothes, scrubs down. While he does this and while August soaks, he helps by singing, phonetically, jaunty Cajun songs in French. "Les Mardi Gras s'en vient de tout partout, tout le tour autour du moyeu, Ça passe eine fois par an demander la charité..." A bit slurry, an actual Cajun would laugh at him. When he rejoins the fellas in the living room, he's shirtless and damp. He's got yet another tattoo on his chest, over his heart: a calligraphic flowery circle, in an unknown language but Hebrew is a good guess.

Ignacio is sitting in the wooden chair, not the nice furniture and still on a hand towel because dirt and jeans and she put it there. His elbows are on teh table and his fingers just hold his head . He sits there shirtless and tattooless, but with a couple scars from his former life as a daredevil. Feet on the stairs get him to loo up. "Better?"

August heads straight for the fireplace. He upends the smelly, ruined contents of the bag into it, steps back, snaps his fingers. The clothes burst into flame immediately. He flips them off. "Fuck you," he says, wadding up the bag and going to toss it in the kitchen trash. He comes back, sits heavily on a divan. "Yes," he says to Ignacio. "Much." He glances between the three of them, eyes lingering on Alexander's X'd arm, Itzhak's tattoo, Ignacio's scars, then closing.

"So that absolutely just fucking happened," he says. In a second he'll work himself up to having some of the tea and scones Dove left for them on the hilariously ornate coffee table. For now he's sitting here, trying to get his head in order.

Alexander blinks at the two shirtless men. He stares with a directness that is frankly rude, noting and cataloging scars and tattoos. There's a momentary look of uncertainty, even though he knows why they're in their current state, like the social rules might have changed and maybe he's suddenly overdressed. He takes a few tentative steps in Ignacio's direction and offers the shirt back. "Better. Thank you." The burst of flame makes him twitch, but not flee. He just sort of hovers in place, looking out of place. "It happened," he agrees. "Not one of the best days I've had in Gray Harbor." It's dry.

Itzhak is utterly casual, in contrast, about the shirt-or-not situation. He drops on the couch next to Ignacio (also on a towel because Granny Dove put them there). However, he does stretch himself out, just nonchalantly peacocking while Alexander stares at him. "Nu?" he says, hitching his eyebrows at them. "That looks just like a snake bite," he nods to August. "'Cept no snake for fifty million years got a mouth that big."

Ignacio got glued back together like a fucking puzzle more than once the hard way. At the waist of his jeans on the left side this is evident, but the rest are mostly old dings and scrapes. A spill off a skateboard here and there. Trying to jump a fence on a bike and flipping. Dog bite. Nom nom. small potatoes. He takes teh shirt back noting he found another so he can hang onto his and crawls back into it. "Glad it worked out at least... You're here. You're whole. It's a start."

August grunts, convinces himself to get some tea and a scone. As he's stirring in honey and cream, he says, "They were...more worms than snakes. Except for the teeth." He glances at Ignacio, nods and rubs a hand over his mouth. He has a sip of tea.

"I guess they were trying to turn into us." A chilling thought; what if one of them had made it across? "When the one that--" He stops, makes a face, has more tea to clean the taste out of his mouth. "When the one that looked like me attacked, it was like getting hit by a Mack truck. Those teeth landed and," he shakes his head, "everything went black. I didn't come to until that guy was patching me up." 'That guy' being Carver, but August didn't catch his name.

"The carousel made them. So," he looks at Itzhak and Ignacio, "stay the fuck away from that thing on the other side."

Alexander's eyes linger at the waist of Ignacio's jeans so long that it might be considered sexual harassment, except that there's nothing particularly lustful about his gaze. Just curious. His mouth opens - then he clearly rethinks the question he was going to ask, and sort of slinks across the room to stand near Itzhak and August. "When they ate parts of us, they became less worm and more human," he adds, filling in a (horrible) part that August missed by being out. "I suspect it would have been," a pause, "inadvisable for the process to complete." He rubs at his arm. "Or wear earplugs. I don't know if it was the carousel, or the song." One corner of his mouth rises. "It was an earworm." And yes, his words are trying hard to fall back into the sing-song rhythm of That Damned Song.

"Uh," Itzhak says, face paling. He gets up, that story is so gross he can't sit still. "One looked like you? They can look like us?" He looks at Ignacio with an expression from their racing days: 'this is fucking broken and we need to fix it'. Then he rolls his eyes, trying for annoyance rather than outright disgusted. "Earworm. Great, the Unshaped have a fabulous fuckin' sense of humor"

Ignacio remains stoic, but hey, even when the chips are down he's dependable for that at least. He stops though, and stares, and blinks at Alexander staring at him. "If you're thinking about sliding me a fiver I won't stop you." Har har. Looking to August, then Alexander againsand finally back he squints. Itzhak is slooooowly given a nod. "Some clever fuckin work. No joy ridin. Got it." Seriously he adds to no one in particular he murmurs, "When you are riding like hell on a horse and you got a lion nipping at your tail... it's time to get yo' drunk ass off the carousel." Yeah long sigh on that one, but he's not trying to be funny so much as thoughtfully put the rest of 'normal' back into teh room so he can focus on a solution that's eluding him. Yeah, man. We got shit that's broke. "I've had enough things pulled outta me you got my sympathy for a lifetime, guys."

August nods at Alexander, toys with his beard. "I gave myself tinnitus, didn't seem to stop it--but maybe I did it too late."

He glances at Itzhak, snorts, nods. "Yeah they sure as fuck do." He sips from his tea, has a bite of scone. His gaze shifts to the cheerily burning clothes in the fireplace. "I guess we could see about...cleansing it, somehow, though I don't have the faintest idea how we'd do that." He pulls a face. "Could be that's part of some, territory they have, or something."

A few more bites of scone. The pastry and tea seem to be perking him up, at least a little. He's going to try and drive home soon. He gives Ignacio a wry smile. "Well, same. I've got a better appreciation for what you were talking about." He flicks a glance at Itzhak, intending it to be reassuring. "But if that's what's over there, waiting to grab us when we're not looking, we should find ways to fight back. Kick them the fuck out."

Alexander's brow furrows. He stares at Ignacio in irritated bewilderment, like the man has suddenly started speaking in a language he can't comprehend. He shifts from foot to foot, moving a little when Itzhak also gets up. Although the mechanic has enough trust that he holds his position for now. "You can't kick them the fuck out," he says, with a touch of exasperation. "They'll do whatever it takes to hurt you. You can...endure, find the way out. Like we did. But it doesn't kill them. I'm not even sure it inconveniences them. As long as you're angry, or sad, or hurting, they're pretty happy, I think." He rubs at his arm. "You just survive. That's all."

Itzhak rubs his magnificent nose, sniffs. "Jews have known that for five thousand years. That's what we do. Whole damn world's happy when we're hurting. We can't kick them out, maybe--maybe, 'cuz I don't think that's a given--but we fight 'em, because they don't get to decide what we're for. They eat us? So what. Snakes eat rats, but it's dangerous for the snake, because rats bite back."

August leans back on the divan, sets his tea cup aside and shuts his eyes. Operation: Perk Up has stalled. He makes a low sound of agreement, nods in the direction of Itzhak's voice. He's actually off a bit thanks to this incessant song rattling in his head, winds up nodding somewhere between Itzhak and Ignacio. Close enough. He cracks an eye open. "They're not everywhere, over there. So there might be ways to drive them off." The eye falls shut, and his breathing evens out.

Ignacio considers the equation smoothing out his grubby shirt o his body. "Well Julia and I had the idea maybe tackling them like they did the Dementors. Now," the hand goes up to quell Alexander's ire by cutting off arguments adding "I think this is a long term fix? No. I think it'll hurt anything? Not even close. Do I think it might help to starve them out? Oh yeah. Sure. WHy not. So really what we need is a sort of fire drill set of skills to fall back on. I recomment bad humor and bullshit because it honestly? Well it breaks the damn tension."

It's probably for the best that Alexander is touch-phobic. From the Look he gives Itzhak, he'd be affectionately strangling the other man if not for the fact that it'd probably trigger a panic attack and his day has been bad enough. August comes in for his own exasperated stare, but the older man is drifting off into sleep, and so he contents himself with pacing. He does stop to stare at Ignacio. Practically vibrating with ire that is not quelled. "I don't think cracking bad jokes is going to make anything better," he says, bluntly. "You are all going to get yourselves killed. In deeply unpleasant ways."

Itzhak watches August drift off, relaxes a touch. Good, he needs it. Then, with a wry chuff, he says to Alexander, "He's real annoying, ain't he? I'm sorry to tell ya gettin' mad at him only makes him worse. But he ain't wrong." He flips his hands over, fingers spread, in a gesture part placating and part coaxing. "Look, you been at this a lot longer. You're not wrong either. You're righter than the rest of us. You know 'em best, you're the expert here." He hesitates, groping after words, falling silent. What he wants to say isn't coming; he glances at Ignacio, eyebrows up, for help.

Ignacio snaps a steely loo to Alexander at the words to him. It's not often that Ignacio looks fucking pissed, but the words that come out are completely bereft of hostility and are, quite to the contrary, quiet and tired.

"Dude I can't... DO ... what you guys do. I got nothing in the tank. All I have are wits to survive on and barely that when I got pulled across. I've lost more than I would ever even think of wagering and wake up in the middle of the fucking night still hearing screaming 8 years later. Sooo unless you can arm me with something I can use? Yeah. I'm gonna try it cause while yous guys are packin i'm bringing fists to a gunfight."

He'd love for this to be one of the times he can fight for something but Alexander's words and the evening and Finch passed out and overall futility may have just broken him. He doesn't even argue the point. "I have no faith that it'll work, Alexander... but right now ti's all I got to work with."

"I don't know anything," Alexander tells Itzhak, flatly. "All the rules I thought I knew are changing. People go over there, now," a wave at the mechanic, "people bring things back. People work with the darkness. Everything is...changing, or it was different all along, and I don't know what to do, but I'd rather not see good people get killed because they treat this like it's Harry-fucking-Potter!"

And then Ignacio speaks, and Alexander's mouth shuts with a snap. He listens, and as he does, his own anger drains away, leaving equal tiredness. "Sorry," he says, after a long moment of silence. "I don't...I don't mean to say it's futile. If you're here, alive, then you've had at least one win, Mister DeSantos. I don't mean to say don't fight. I just," he takes a deep breath, glances over to August, lets it out quietly. "The downside to attempting to acquire friends is that it hurts when they hurt. And right now I have three in the hospital and a couple more who had doppleworms try to eat them. You shouldn't mind me. I'm just a little unstable. I should go."

Not the help Itzhak was hoping for, exactly, but he'll take it. Ignacio had a knack of being effective in unexpected ways like that. He's still got to tell him, "Don't fuckin' talk like that, de Santos, you think you got nothin' in the chamber? Are you joking me? Feh, both a youse." He looks between them, not actually angry, for once other people are being angry for him. "...C'mon, lemme take you home, Alexander, yeah?"

August stirs on the divan. Voice low, he says, "If you think we'll survive this any better by not using what we have and not going over there, I can tell you from personal experience in this world, that that doesn't work." He doesn't open his eyes. "Not saying we should be reckless, or careless. But we learn nothing by tiptoeing around. And they're not tiptoeing. So. I don't see as we have a choice." He yawns. They all need sleep, it's true.

Ignacio takes a long moment to just rally himself but the fatigue's o him. He responds quietly, "If you're unstable you should stay. It's what friends do. They give you a place to kinda not be perfect." Looking up, calmer he offers, "We're in the same boat. I'm against going there. I'm against trying. I'm against it fucking existing... but the fact is it does and it doesn't care about what we fucking want." Resigned he shrugs, "But it's ours to deal with. And... Maritza's dead and Rico's lost. Prolly dead and... " Looking back to Alexander he offers for a limited time, the distilled truth bullshit free. "We go the same mission man: figure out what the rules of right now are, figure out what we have on hand, try to be as resourceful as we have to to stop losin anyone else."

The futility has truth to it though and his cavalier demeanor, for the time, fractured. It takes a shit ton to wear the guy down but it can be done. The olive branch extends, "No hard feelings and I am glad you're back. I'm more glad you see it for the volatile entity it is. Worst we can do is take it for granted. Really, consider tactical mockery. Might come in handy. Might not. Let's not rely on it too heavily. There I also agree with you."

His eyes drift up to Itzhak with the look that reads: I'm too tired to have sunshine blown up my ass. He's said it enough the glance is shorthand. "Get him home so he can rest. Roen'll came out...right the hell there apparently. I'll let Gran know." He thumbs over his shoulder. "I'm gonna go check o Finch. That really seemed to wipe her out and... yeah I don't trust things to not notice." NOW he might be developing a bix of a complex.

"I just want you to be careful. All of you," Alexander adds, with a look towards Ignacio that suggests that he hasn't decided where the New Yorker is in the careful continuum of interpersonal relationships. He rubs at his face - delicately over the nose, that is still swollen and marked with nail marks from the day's events. "Thank you, Itzhak. A ride would be appreciated. I'm sorry," a look towards Ignacio, "I'm not very good at jokes. Or people. Don't listen to me too much." Then he turns and walks out, without so much as a parting 'goodbye'. Of course, since he just said he was riding with Itzhak, he'll just be standing outside the front door, quietly fretting to himself.

That look Ignacio gives him is what pisses Itzhak off. He snaps, "When I ever fuckin' lie to you about what I think you can do, then you can gimme that look." He stalks out after Alexander.