2019-08-22 - Poking The Mechanic

Steelhead Service Center has been here in town forever, and it shows. Run-down, in desperate need of new paint, dirt parking lot, every crevice dark with age--it looks almost comically direlect. Its logo, a PNW-style leaping salmon with a raven in its belly, is battered by the years, only decipherable after some time of studying.

The lights are on, though, and somebody's home. Itzhak has the bay doors rolled up in the heat. There's a car in one of the two bays, and he even got to fix it, but now it's done and the owner didn't anticipate needing to come back so soon. So there it sits. Meanwhile in bay one, Itzhak's playing his fiddle, scowling at a music stand, while a metronome goes tick-tick-tick-tick to a rapid beat. Lively bluegrass music fills the garage, easily audible outside. Amazing how loud that fiddle of his can get.

Built into one corner is a huge terrarium, full of branches and silk plants, and an enormous snake. The snake is bright white and brilliant yellow. Currently it's coiled up in a pile at the bottom of the terrarrium, not moving.

It's not that Alexander means to sneak up to the service center. Mostly, it's just that he doesn't have a car, so there's no tell-tale rumble of engine, and he's not the sort to call out carelessly before he knows what the situation is. So he pads near silent up to the station - a common landmark, but never a place that he'd paid too much attention to before now - and towards the open bay doors. A cardboard tray is in his hands, and it has two cups of chilled coffee from the closest Starbucks. The sound of the music is a thing he follows, a faint smile on his lean, intense features, and when he reaches the doors, he leans against the frame rather than come inside and risk disturbing the man playing. Instead, he listens. And he watches - that reptilian sort of gaze taking in the interior of the shop, resting on the terrarium, then settling on Itzhak and his scowling and playing. He doesn't say anything, just waiting to be seen and acknowledged.

He's wearing his usual summer gear - t-shirt, jeans, work boots, all worn to the point of starting to come apart, but at least clean.

Itzhak hits a difficult run, messes it up, swears at himself in Yiddish. He lets the bow and fiddle sag, sighing--sees Alexander out of the corner of his eye and whips towards him, lip curling before he realizes who it is. Then, "Shit! Ya scared me," he complains, holding up one hand (the bow hand, complete with bow) in a gesture of apology. "Uh, hi." Now he finds a wry, quirking half-smile for Alexander, as he sets the bow on the stand and silences the metronome. "Hi, you're about the last person I expected here."

Alexander's eyebrows go up at Itzhak's momentary expression before it clears. "Hi," he says after a moment. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I just didn't want to interrupt - I like listening to you play." He pushes himself up off the doorframe, and makes his way into the bay. "And I know I don't have a car, and you're working, but I was in the area, so I thought I'd come by. Say hello. Which I did. I can leave, if I'm interrupting." He approaches rather than retreats, though, and looks for a place to set the coffee. "Do you like iced coffee? I didn't ask. I should have."

"Yeah, well, you can see how busy I am," Itzhak mutters. He sets his fiddle in its case and scrubs his fingers vigorously through his black curls, getting a hold of himself. "...You brought me coffee?" He looks back at Alexander, his expression going all soft and open and a little dopey. "Jeez, thanks. Nonono, don't leave...I'm real happy to see you."

There's a little sitting area at the back of the garage, a rug used to delineate a kind of living-room setup. Thrifted but cozy armchairs and a low, battered coffee table. Car and Driver is the lone magazine on the table, like Itzhak grudgingly made some kind of concession to tradition.

"You don't actually look that busy," Alexander says. Then, "Oh. Sarcasm. Yes." A nod, like okay, now I get it, and then he's picking up one of the cups and offering it to the other man. "I brought you coffee. You're welcome." A thoughtful pause. "I suppose it does work better when you bring it do a place of business during working hours, and not to someone's house after dark. So noted." He takes the other cup for his own, and doesn't quite prowl around, or settle into a seat. Instead pivoting slowly in the sitting area, watching everything like it might suddenly do magic. Or try to kill him. "How are you doing, Itzhak?" he asks, when his roving gaze settles on the mechanic again.

Itzhak hoists the coffee in a toast to Alexander. "Sarcasm. That's how my people communicate." That's said with irony, but not actual sarcasm. He takes a swig of iced coffee and sighs like he's never tasted anything so good. "Oh man. That's perfect." He props an elbow on the back of one of the armchairs, but he doesn't sit, either. He's studying Alexander in that way of his that's a lot like Alexander's own. Not as flat, though. His hazel eyes are clearly animated with curiosity and, in this particular case, warmth. "Hey, you know what, you can bring me by anything at any time. Just shoot me a text first or I might not have pants on."

At the question he wobbles his hand back and forth, eyebrows ticking up. "Eeehhhhh. Reasonably terrible." He's got those dark circles around his eyes. Seems like the guy never acts tired, though, he's always humming with energy like a high tension wire. Angry overtired overcaffinated energy, but energy nonetheless. "How are you?"

"That seems like it would make communication somewhat difficult," Alexander muses, but although his expression remains open and sincere, there's a glint of humor in his dark eyes, like maybe he's teasing Itzhak juuuust a little. He takes a sip of his own coffee, and lights up a little when the gift is accepted. "People don't usually mean that," he points out, with more obvious amusement, now. "But I'll take it into consideration." His gaze drops, for a moment, at the pants remark, but flicks back up quickly.

"Reasonably terrible." It's repeated with curiosity. After a moment of study, Alexander adds, "Would you like to talk about it? You don't look like you've been sleeping." He moves closer, leaning forward a little to study the other man. "I have some new answers. And many new questions. People are exhausting. But other than that? Okay. The Captain showed me how to make eggplant lasagna with August's eggplants."

Itzhak tries. He really does. But the flush creeps up his cheekbones anyway, when Alexander teases him. The corners of his mouth tuck in, like he's hiding a smile. "Communication it might make difficult, but other things, a lot easier." He takes a drink, hoping the iced coffee will cool his face, but it doesn't. "I mean it, though. I ain't gonna say anything like that I don't mean, okay? Any time. For you."

Alexander moves a little closer to him, and he lets him, lets him come nearer, doesn't rear back or close off to him. Instead he watches him, studying him back, head dipped a little, almost smiling.

Then...his expression goes flat, at mention of Ruiz. Not exactly any given negative emotion there, but he's paving over his thoughts like smoothing concrete. He sniffs, runs his tongue along his teeth as if identifying an odd scent. "Yeah? Well. Good. August grows a ton of stuff, just wait until the zucchini starts coming in." He shrugs, one shouldered, and his face comes back to life. "People are exhausting. If only they made sense, like machines."

Alexander's social skills are...spotty at best, but he's not unobservant. And, at least for the moment, Itzhak has his full attention. The blush gets one of those quick, brief smiles, and what appears to be a genuinely curious question, "What other things does it make easier?" A pause as he thinks over his own question. "Self-protection?"

And then Itzhak's expression goes flat, and Alexander's follows suit. His gaze skips away, rewinding the conversation, identifying the place where things went unexpected, then returning to search his face again. "Hm." It's not really a word, just a thoughtful sound. But Alexander moves away rather than immediately questioning about it, starting to wander restlessly towards the terrarium. "Who is this beauty?" he asks, quietly. "I understand people, when they're doing wrong. There's only so many motives for murder, when you really boil them down. It's the other stuff that gets confusing. Machines are nice, though. Ordered. Reproducible."

Itzhak's eyes get bigger, anxious, while Alexander rewinds. He pulls an awful grimace when Alexander turns away, silently cursing himself. Great job, Rosencrantz. Fuckin' great. You almost had a real conversation with the guy, better ruin it, ya yutz.

He follows him to the terrarium. Okay, attempt two at acting like a real person. "This here's Lemondrop. She's my baby. Reticulated python. That's Python reticulatus, the easiest Latin name to remember ever. I kinda hate needing to keep her here, but there's just no room in Stephanie's place. Plus she's terrified of snakes. I had to really talk her down from refusing to let Iris in the house and Iris is as active as a frisky potato."

Lemondrop flickers her tongue as she picks up motion outside her terrarium. She shifts, lifting her broad head, tongue going flickaflickaflick. "That's my girl," Itzhak says to her fondly, "you got company, yer Highness. This is Alexander." No sarcasm there, he's genuinely introducing Alexander to his giant snake.

He glances back at him, eyebrows canted up. "You know something Steve Irwin said? The Crocodile Hunter guy? He said, crocodiles are easy. They just want to kill and eat you. People, they sometimes pretend to be your friend first."

"She's beautiful," Alexander says, with nothing but admiration in his voice. "And huge." There's a flicker of power from him as the snake flicks her tongue and Itzhak makes introductions. It's the barest, and most delicate touch from his mind to hers, reassurance and his own brand of introduction. He turns to grin at Itzhak. "She must be a pain in the ass to move around, especially in this tank. But she's gorgeous."

The quote? That gets a surprised look, then a soft laugh. Then something more complicated. "He wasn't wrong, I suppose. But I feel it's incomplete. Some people pretend. Some people are just so hungry that they can't help but take a bite even out of friends. Especially of friends, because friends tend to stay in reach. Animals are definitely simpler in that regard - they don't think as much about it all. Flee, fight, fuck, or play. If it's not one of those four - or sleeping - then they just don't worry about it."

Lemondrop turns her head towards Alexander, rising up on twelve or so inches of neck. She's easily as thick around as a firehose, nothing but muscle under supple skin and brilliant scales. Her reptile mind replies in its way, as soft as the scratch of her scales against the substrate. Funny, she seems familiar with such a mental touch--but not from Itzhak. Itzhak she perceives solely in the physical as a blood-warm mammal, provider of food and a being who has never hurt her, who she trusts never will hurt her. To her, that means love.

Itzhak flashes a subdued quirk of his mouth at Alexander when he laughs. "Yeah. Hungry. God knows I know what that's like."

And then, hah, he turns red again because Alexander said fuck. "Especially reptiles. They're smarter than people give 'em credit for, but they don't have mammalian parts of their brains. They don't feel things the same way, even if they do feel 'em."

Alexander's expression eases as she rises up and man and snake regard each other for a long moment. "You've got a lot of kindness in you, Ithzak. She trusts you." He then straightens from his thoughtful lean to turn his attention to the mechanic, eyebrows going up at seeing the blush return. "You also blush a lot," he adds, light and teasing. "It's unexpected." He takes another sip of his coffee.

"Animals have such interesting minds. You're right - it's not like humans, but it's clear there's...things there. I haven't touched many reptiles, if I'm honest. Birds, dogs, cats sometimes. Things you run into out and about on the streets. It's nice, though. Lemondrop's mind." He roves again, restless, towards the music stand. Like somehow Itzhak's shop is a museum and he's determined to take in every exhibit. He says, in halting and careful Yiddish, "What's your favorite music to play?"

For just a moment, Itzhak's entire attitude softens. Emotion blooms in him like ink in water. "She...does? You can hear that?" He crouches, all long arms and legs, to see Lemondrop on her own level. She flicks her tongue, tasting his scent. She knows he's safe, knows him like she knew the flavor of her mother as she curled in her egg, and so she doesn't bother further investigating him. Itzhak sets one calloused fingertip very lightly on the plexiglass. "You trust me, huh, sweetheart?"

Lemondrop just rears up to hook herself over a sturdy branch and begin pulling her body up, one rippling contraction at a time. Itzhak smiles at her, nothing hidden in that moment at all, and stands up. And actually laughs. "Yeah, the blushing, it's terrible ain't it?" He rubs selfconsciously at one unshaven cheek. "I get no end of shit about it. Only happens around people I like, so, everybody knows. Stupid capillaries narccing me out."

If Alexander thought that blush was entertaining, the next one is gonna knock his socks off--Itzhak hears Yiddish from him and turns red all the way down his neck. Even it spreads out to the tops of his shoulders, like somebody dunked him in raspberry jam.

"Uh," he says, one hand drifting to his chest, his expression going a little loopy. Then he clears his throat, and replies in clear Yiddish, enunciating. "Mountain music. Most people call it bluegrass." That last word is in English. "All the great folk music, honestly. Up and down the Eastern seaboard, the South, the West. I'm classically trained, I don't play classical so much." He pauses to see if Alexander's following.

"Terrible? No." Alexander tilts his head to one side, and smiles. "I don't find it terrible." He studies man and serpent. "And, yeah. I can feel that from her. She's marked you as someone who isn't ever going to hurt her." Then a soft snicker. "And, of course, you bring the food. That's always important. Sometimes I think Luigi only really cares about the fact that I'm the guy with the treats." He doesn't actually believe that; it's clear in his own fondness and pleasure.

There's a moment of stillness as Itzhak turns beet red, as if Alexander isn't sure if that's good or bad. As he continues, though, the investigator relaxes again. His eyes narrow slightly, concentrating on Itzhak's words. He doesn't seem to have trouble understanding the language, although he seems to repeat a couple of words to himself, silently, as if tasting the way they feel in his mouth. He continues to try and speak in Yiddish, but it's clear that speaking is more difficult than understanding, his expression going blank as he reaches for the words from...somewhere. Somewhere he barely understands. "Mountain music is nice - I haven't listened to a lot of folk music. Or classical. But any music played well is," a bit of a struggle here, "joyful? Pleasant. To listen to."

Itzhak's half-grinning in disbelief, turning his head a little to make sure he can hear Alexander as clearly as possible. "Maybe--" this is in English, "maybe if we," he waves his hands, rapid little flutters, caught between two languages and too much excitement. He actually falls into sign language a moment, hands moving for 'talk' and 'mind', his eyebrows up in eager query. Then, rediscovering vocal speech, "You wanna?"

"You speak ASL, as well?" Alexander blinks, then grunts. "And I understood that, too. You want to touch minds?" Just making it clear, because it's a different sensation, having the movement of hands turning to concepts in his mind. "I don't mind." Although, as always, he sounds both surprised and pleased that anyone would want to. He turns to face Itzhak, and there's just this sensation - the crackle of power and a line from his own mind, reaching out to bridge the gap between them, an offering rather than a demand.

Although if Itzhak accepts, his mental voice comes through clear and strong. <<It's odd. I hear the words when someone speaks, but it's like they're translated into concepts I understand. Translating the other way, from concept to language is more difficult. Easier with Spanish. I think because it's a Romance language, and I'm well-familiar with Latin and Greek. There's a lot of parallels there.>>

Itzhak grabs for the line, making the motion as if he's grasping at a rope at the same time. His mind wraps itself into Alexander's, not only wanting to, but wanting to. It throws him a little off balance and he slaps a hand down hastily on the nearby workbench to re-establish proprioception. The other hand hovers midair, fingers closed at a graceful angle as if he's holding his bow.

Contact made, he shivers in unconcealed pleasure and lets his eyes drift closed. <<Rusty at ASL anymore if I think about it.>> The kythe comes in, clean and sharp, with that echo of massive complicated machinery behind it. <<Learned it as a real little kid, because of the autism, still happens when my brain gets locked up. >> He has a deep well of language in there, Yiddish, English, some Spanish, the ASL, but there's the sense that sometimes he has to access it like a well, one bucket at a time. <<God, your mind is beautiful.>>

<<Careful.>> It's amused, warm, but also with a hint of concern as Izthak slaps his hand down. Alexander's mind is prepared for the contact, so it's a well-ordered place, keeping parts of him separate while still sharing emotion/thought/imagery. It's clear there are things behind what he's shone - anxiety and worry and even anger hang at the edges, coloring his starscape in flashes of multihued light, although none lingers long enough to give more than a hint at its origins. His eyes remain open. He studies Itzhak as the communication flows through them.

<<That's a great idea, though. Having other languages to fall back on when your brain doesn't let one work.>> Alexander is a man who values survival and adaptation, and that admiration pulses along the link. <<Your mind is, as well. Most minds are,>> he admits. <<I prefer the more complex, layered. Like yours. If I had to choose. But most people's minds are beautiful in different ways.>> There's that little bit of surprise, a hint of disbelief as he adds, <<You really enjoy this. Linking up.>>

Itzhak just basks in the starlight and the colors and the order, like a lizard under a heat lamp. Soaking it all up. Alexander's emotions, anger and worry and anxiety and all; there's the sense that he's admiring them as if they were auroras. <<ASL is easy when I can't think. Singing, too. Sometimes I can sing but can't talk.>> Violin music under the stars and rippling northern lights.

A real rush of embarrassment floods the kythe, as he admits, <<Yeah. I really do. It's scary and amazing and beautiful. You're beautiful.>> Oops, he hadn't quite meant to let that thought slip through; he shifts his weight. <<Sorry. Uh. Let me...>> He's not strong in this ability and he retreats a little to do something that feels like rummaging in the depths of his mind.

<<Interesting.>> The simple word/concept could be dismissive, even mocking, in words. But here, it's simply the truth; Alexander finds the concept rather fascinating, another segment added to whatever mental files he keeps on people, and the way they work. A hum of pleasure at the music that winds its way through the mind space.

There's a pull back from the embarrassment, a sense of apology and unhappiness for having caused it, then just...confusion, at the thought that slips through. After a long moment of trying to process it, Alexander says, quietly, <<Thank you, Itzhak. It's nice. To have someone like it.>> There's a sense of curiosity as Itzhak withdraws, and while he waits Alexander can't really resist studying the rest of the mind that he can touch, drinking in whatever Itzhak shares and studying the patterns of gears and music.

<<Hey, don't-->> Itzhak physically reaches for Alexander, mentally reaches at the same time, but manages to veer off from actually grabbing him. He wants him close in the kythe that badly. <<Shit. Sorry. I hated touching when I was a kid, too. Took prison to burn it out of me. Anyway...>>

So much is going on in his mind, but his intellect isn't organized like Alexander's. Elaborate thought constructs, fractal arms of inspiration or connection suddenly leaping up like rogue waves. A sense of depth like swimming over the sudden drop of the continental shelf.

Itzhak presents Alexander with a tap into his understanding of Yiddish, like a gift. Yiddish, it comes clear, is part of what formed this mind of his. It's a language where sentences are often constructed backwards, where sarcasm is an entire formal mode. Essentially it's a kind of creole, German and Hebrew, and the dissimilarities of the languages creates this bizarre eddy of a dialect. And Itzhak is so proud of it, too. This is the language of his family, of his people, of where he comes from in New York. This language is who he is.

Alexander manages not to flinch from either of the reachings, mental or physical - there's wariness, internal alarm systems stepping up just a notch. But apparently Itzhak has been placed on the list of people who Alexander doesn't view as high threat, so it's more a sense of awareness than fear. He does continue to hold himself at a distance, careful but not rejecting. <<Did you? A mirror to myself. I didn't mind touching so much as a kid. Had to learn that later.>> A flicker of memory too recently accessed to be entirely shut down, of hands on skin, the feel of blood, the shine of living muscle, before Alexander ruthlessly shoves it out of the publicly accessible areas.

He turns his attention towards the glorious and chaotic complexity of Ithzak's memory, focusing on what is offered. He accepts it, twines himself around the knowledge, examining it from different angles. <<Fascinating>> he says, at last. <<I had no idea. It's a beautiful language.>> Then, a hint of humor. <<Not sure about the sarcasm, though. That seems difficult.>>

Itzhak sucks in a hissing breath between his teeth, catching just the flicker of the flicker. Just enough to know that was bad. Real bad. He understands. He accepts that. Similar memories hang around his mind, after all.

A sense of gratitude pulses along the line. <<Don't often hear Yiddish is beautiful. But it is. People don't understand, they think we're all like Fiddler On The Roof or Jimmy Durante. We're not. We're NOT.>> Fierce, that sending. In Itzhak's mind a truly massive thought-object surfaces. This one is like a three-dimensional mosaic, painstakingly pieced together from thousands upon thousands of tiny parts, each lovely in itself and forming a lovelier whole. It's his sense of being Jewish. Too big to grapple with in these conditions--it sinks away again. Itzhak breathes in deep. <<Anyway. Yeah, the sarcasm,>> he laughs silently, <<if you're real literal-minded, like you and me, it takes a while. I still get hung up on idioms sometimes, even though Yiddish is about ninety percent idioms.>>

He's curious, and he expresses it with thought: he wants to know more about Alexander. It's not a probing, prying curiosity. Rather, it's an offer like an empty cup. If Alexander wants to pour anything in, he's welcome.

<<How odd. How could it not be beautiful? It's harsh on the ear, a bit, but some harsh things are beautiful.>> Alexander takes in the edifice Itzhak shows him; it would be inaccurate to say that he understands it. He's not a man who seems to have much connection to a greater past or cultural identity - there's a sense of his mind always identifying itself as a solitary figure, even when clinging desperately to someone or something. Alone even when trying to belong. But there's admiration for the sense of it. Recognition of the strength of it. Wistfulness, even, for what it represents. <<I'm glad you have a people.>>

The offer is met with thoughtful silence and hesitation. Then something unfolds. It's not a mosaic, it's not art in any regards. Instead, it's both more organized and more frenetic than that - a mental murderboard of linked associations, connections, hypotheses, conclusions. A sense of it as this huge, sprawling thing that's constantly being added to, then shrinking down to bits and pieces that are more manageable. Focusing on Luigi, mostly, as if he feels like that might be the strongest area of common ground to branch off from. <<I've had him for about a year and a half now. I got him from an asshole client. Used to belong to his ex - ex left, bird stayed. Didn't know how to take care of a bird, didn't care.>> Anger, remembered and revived. <<I took the bird instead of payment. Figured out what kind of cage he needed, how to feed him.>> A flash of laughter. <<I didn't know a damned thing about birds. Especially parrots. I learned.>> A flicker of fondness and sadness, a flash of an angry conure latched onto his finger. <<He didn't trust anyone at first. I could have just controlled him. But I figured he had a right to be angry. And if I didn't, I couldn't, make friends with him the regular way, then I probably shouldn't keep him. It took several months. But he was the first friend I'd had in...over a decade. Eventually.>>

A further, small fact. <<If I hadn't had Luigi, I probably wouldn't have spoken back to Miss Whitehouse. Or Thorne.>> Complicated emotions there, not all good. <<Or you, or Easton, or the Captain, or probably anyone. I guess Luigi reminded me that contact with people was a possibility.>>

Itzhak drinks in what Alexander has to tell him, doing that basking thing again. When the murderboard appears, he responds with honest delight. Look at that! Alexander is so smart and Itzhak enjoys that a whole lot. He's fully engaged in the story, and there's no sense from him that he doesn't believe Alexander about Luigi being his first real friend in so long. He knows exactly what that's like, even if his critter of choice has scales and not feathers.

<<You rescued him. That's what that's called. Rescuing. Aww, poor little guy.>> He's remembering Luigi eyeing him distrustfully and ringing his bell in anger that Itzhak was invading his home. Itzhak has no doubts that if he got pushy with Luigi, his finger would be punctured by that strong little beak too. Though he's not that concerned about it. He's been bitten by a wide variety of snakes. Still, <<Maybe eventually I can make friends with him. If you let me keep coming over and drinking your soda and moping on your couch.>>

Alexander shrugs - both physically and in his mental world, which is more of a strange change of the shape of things than either a word, or a color, or a feeling. <<He was a survivor. I like survivors.>> Then amusement. <<You probably can. He's taken to Isolde - it just took some time and patience. If you work with reptiles, then you probably have enough of the latter. And you're always welcome.>>

Although again, one of those flashes of bewilderment around the idea of having people in his home. Unease, not rejection, a fear of being judged, being mocked. Then, because SHARING IS UNCOMFORTABLE, there's one of those flashes of sharpness - curiosity honed to a point. <<Why are things moderately terrible?>>

Sometimes Alexanders lay ambushes.

<<If you like survivors, then you probably love me,>> Itzhak says, and it's only sarcastic insofar as he's covering up the hope that Alexander really does like him. Even though Alexander's literally told him, with words, that he does. Obviously, Itzhak doesn't think of himself as a well-liked guy.

Then...AMBUSH! And a whole clump of half-digested, awful emotions blorp to the surface before he can shove them away. A flash of the smell of hospitals, the sight of hanging IVs. A young woman, Itzhak's sister. A young girl, his niece. An older woman, his mother. And a desolate sense of distance--they're in Manhattan and he's trapped on the West Coast by--

NOPE. He shuts it down, breathing hard, eyes closed tight.

There's a moment where Alexander doesn't answer the sarcastic-not-sarcasm with words, but just with a quick wash of pure emotion: he does, indeed, like Itzhak. He's curious about him, he admires his music and his way with machines, and his quick kindnesses, and he's worried about the man's fascination with the Veil, and about causing him pain because he doesn't feel quite the same way that Itzhak does about him, but he wants rather desperately to be friends, and he hopes they can be.

Which doesn't stop him from pulling that nasty trick, or from taking in the information that is shared. There's regret, there, apology. And he ends the connection between their minds, his gaze dropping to his feet. "I'm sorry, Itzhak. I shouldn't have done that."

Itzhak's flushed and panting, furious, jaw clenched. He opens his eyes, hitting Alexander with a hell of a furrow-browed look, like maybe he'd like to punch him and then bend him over the workbench. "No," he says, voice rough. "No you shouldn't have. Much good may it do you." His voice rises. "I'm already your friend, you schmuck! Friends don't do that to each other!"

Alexander's hands come up at the look, not defensive but apologetic. The classic 'I'm unarmed and harmless' stance, even though Alexander is, if we're honest, never either of those things. A step back shoulders hunched, his expression twisted with regret. "They don't. You're right." A pause. "I'm sorry. If it'll make you feel better to punch me, you can." That seems to be a sincere offer.

For one split second Itzhak seems like he might take Alexander up on that offer. He's tensed, glaring, big hands clenched into fists. That was the mother of all sore spots Alexander poked with his too-sharp intellect.

He doesn't move. But the entire building shivers, just once. So quick that it almost seems like it didn't happen, except for the sway of the hanging shop lights and the heavy bag at the back of the garage. Lemondrop, nosing around in her terrarium, recoils.

Then Itzhak mutters, "Trust me, if I thought it'd help, I'd already be punching you," and turns away, a hand going over his eyes. His shoulders tremble, and so does his voice when he says, "There's a reason I ain't talking to anybody about that, okay?" His voice actually breaks. "Can you trust me that I got my reasons?"

Alexander freezes when the building shivers. Everything stops, even breathing for that brief second that sets the lights to shaking. He doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then he says, "Yeah. I can trust you on that." Another pause. "If there turns out to be anything I can do to help, though. Please let me know. You're a good guy, Itzhak."

Itzhak's desperately trying to hide that he's crying, not just his hand over his face now but his entire arm. "You can't," he mutters, voice thick. "I can't let you get mixed up in this. 'Cause if you do, then Izzy might, and if you two are in it, then what about Roen and de Santos and Finch, and if them then what about Irvriya and Bex and fuckin' everyone..." he swallows, then laughs bitterly and finally faces Alexander again, wiping water from his face. "Life is shit. That's just how it is."

The first time in a long time when Alexander has ever really wanted to give someone a hug, and he finds he just...can't. He tries to move towards the other man, but his feet are rooted to the floor, and he can't make himself complete the physical circuit; too much guilt, too much awareness of his own trespass on the man's boundaries, which not touching is supposed to stop, but didn't. Clearly didn't. And now his friend is crying. Alexander makes a frustrated, angry noise. "That's never right," he says, instead of something actually comforting. "That's never right. I'm a fucking adult. Isolde is a fucking adult - and one who can, in fact, ride a guy like a pony and make him squeal for mercy, which is a new thing I learned and which I probably should have thought about before, because she's a survivor as much as either of us are. You're not protecting us. Any of us. You're just taking away our ability to choose."

He makes a rough sound. "Which...is your right, Itzhak. I'm a nosy asshole, and a huge hypocrite in this particular situation." He stalks over towards the terrarium. "I don't know you very well. But I like what I see, rough bits and all. I'm not going to hassle you about it. Okay? No more hassle, no more sneaky tricks." A pause. "But I want you to tell me what's going on, what has you trapped in this hellhole of a town. When you feel like you can."

Itzhak sputters and starts laughing a little hysterically into the palm of his hand, beet red from all this anger and crying and then Alexander saying THAT. He leans against the workbench and half laughs and half cries until he's gasping for breath and sagging like an overtall sapling.

"Jesus effin' CHRIST," he wheezes, eventually. Digging a hanky out of his back pocket, he mops himself up some, still coughing out an occasional bark of laughter. "I know she's an adult. Believe me I am well aware. Maybe not that part about the pony, though. Yet." Catching his breath, he's grinning in a way he's helpless to stop. A whole lot of those emotions are backed up in his throat. "Okay. I..."

Glancing over, his eyebrows tip up in that yearning way. "I wanna protect you," he confesses, quieter. "I wanna stand between you and anything that wants to hurt you. Not just you, you. Izzy too. Everyone. But..." he shrugs, dropping his gaze. "Ya right. I can't. Not everybody. Not everything. So. Yeah. I'll tell you. But not right now."

"We might have gotten in a barfight," Alexander tells Itzhak, with a sidelong look and the tiniest sort of smile. "A small one." He clears his throat. "Anyway. Yeah, you're a protective sort of guy, and I get that." His turn to laugh - it's rusty and odd. "It's, uh, endearing. Not used to it, I guess." He turns around and spreads his hands, meeting Itzhak's eyes. "Not right now. When you want. And if there is a way I can make up being an asshole to you, I will. Just tell me."

"What?" Itzhak scowls. "You got in a bar fight without me?" He considers this breach of protocol. "Well. Now you owe me a bar fight." And he's dead serious about that. Sighing explosively, he rakes his fingers through his hair, making the curls floof up. "I...don't get called endearing a whole lot." He returns the tiniest smile with a tiny one of his own, just an upward curl to one corner of his mouth. "I'll tell ya. I dunno, people don't often offer to make stuff up to me, so...I'll have to think about it. But I'll tell ya. Sometime. You're terrible for my productivity, you know that?"

Alexander gives Itzhak a genuinely dubious look. "I'm not quite certain how beating drunk townies is fun, but if you like. All right. Just not at the Two If By Sea. I like Easton, and don't want to damage his bar. Or the Pourhouse, because they might actually call the cops next time. We can find a terrible place where someone will definitely throw the first punch." Because he has to plan the barfight. He chuckles. "Sorry. I don't mean to be. I'll go. But...it was nice. Talking to you. And you have my number. And know where I live. So." A shrug. "Come ruin my productivity sometime? And don't die." He smiles, then starts heading for the bay doors.

Itzhak makes a low wordless sound in his chest. "Yeah, don't tempt me. G'wan, get outta my garage, I got work to do." Not that he's going to get any done, after all that, but it's the thought that counts.