2019-08-29 - Chill Out

Itzhak pulls up in front of Eleanor's beautiful little Craftsman and lays on the goddamn horn. WHOOOOOOOOOONK It's a herald of his mood to come, not that August didn't already get a taste through the kythe. "C'MON ALREADY ROEN!" This is going to be a great drive.

August is opening the door even as Itzhak honks. He winces, shuts and locks it, gets in. He looks tired--more so than even in the last few days, and the fuzzy, distracted static of him in the mental link was impossible to miss--but also freshly showered, and he's dressed in a typical black Henley t-shirt, jeans, and boots. "I told him telling you to chill was completely pointless," he says as he settles in the car. He wasn't anticipating that valium he just took to be necessary already, wills it to kick in faster, please.

Itzhak throws Heartbreaker into gear. The road to the hospital isn't far, which is good, because he doesn't know how long he can make himself trundle through suburbia. The Vette wants to run and he wants to let her. He glances over at August, scowling, and well aware he's being a problem. In a way he wants to do that too. Kick over tables, punch somebody, show the world just how much of a problem he can be. "Usually it's pretty fuckin' pointless."

He steps on it once they creep onto the open road. VROOM! And then all too soon he's got to go back to creeping through the hospital zone.

August gives Itzhak a look as dry as a Death Valley summer. "You don't say." In truth, the roar of the car's engine is almost soothing. It drowns other things out. But then they're on approach.

It's just a building. It's just a building. This is the litany August tells himself once Itzhak turns the corner to Addington Memorial; before that, he's at It's going to be fine. Just fine. Everything is fine. He repeats his request for the valium to start working now, reminds himself not to reach out even the barest amount. Just don't. Emotional and spiritual noise-cancelling metaphorical headphones firmly in place. It's just a building. An building full of people, many of whom might be--

No, it's just a building.

He can feel the tension in his neck and shoulders already. Come on, valium, find those GABA receptors. Get to work.

Itzhak cuts the engine, staring blankly at some point between wheel and windshield. Then he says, not looking over, "Hey. Ain't nothing falling on you while I'm here." And he gets out. When they go in and make their way to Alexander's floor and room, nurses keep asking Itzhak if he brought his violin this time.

August watches Itzhak get out, looks up at the looming structure. (It's not really looming except in his mind, of course. They all do that, like in a movie.) "That's not what I'm really worried about," he says under his breath, eyes on row after row of windows. Hundreds of people, in who knows what kind of condition. Then he gets out too.

They walk along the halls, and August doesn't at any point turn around and look for the closest exit. Maybe he's got this. (Maybe the valium is finally working.) He wonders if he looks like he's nervous, or ten seconds from bolting. He suspects this is what bee keepers feel like inside their suits. All those bees, swarming just outside that outfit. They can't get to you, but you know they're out there, looking for any opportunity despite the necessity of your presence. It's just how things are.

The nurses asking about the violin is a nice distraction from thinking about bees. He looks askance at Itzhak. "Why didn't you bring it?"

Alexander's made it out of recovery, and been moved to his regular room. Which also means he's not alone - there's another bed and patient on the other side of the room, although the curtains between the two of them are closed. One can peek over there and see a guy who must have been in a car wreck or something, because he's got two fresh casts. He's also sleeping the sleep of the heavily medicated. Alexander is up, at the moment, although he's been up and down all day. There are signs that someone was here with him in the chair near the bed, but Isabella is currently out. Alexander is tap tap tapping at his phone, and looks...okay? He's hooked to an IV that's giving him back all the blood he lost and he's in one of those gowns that makes everyone look like a helpless invalid. Oh, and one side of his face and neck is heavily bandaged. But it seems to be the only wound he has.

Itzhak gives August another one of those blank, scowling looks. If you didn't know better, you might be afraid of him. "Didn't think of it. I dunno." He knocks on the doorframe to Alexander's room and looks in. "Hey. You're up." Funny, he looks right past the bandages and casts. "Mind if we come in?"

"You were worried." August's tone indicates he knows precisely how that sort of panic feels. "It's fine. He'll be here a while, I bet. Plenty of chances to play for him."

And oh yes, it sure looks that way. The valium must be working, because upon seeing Alexander (and the guy in the other part of the room) August's stomach doesn't register a series of complaints for immediate resolution. He reflects that it's a shame he can only use it in cases like this. He hovers next to Itzhak, waiting to see if Alexander wants company. (Probably vocal company.)

Alexander glances at the door at the familiar voices. There's a quick smile. It hurts, but that's okay. He beckons them inside. Company is apparently okay. He waves, 'hi'. Then, carefully, and with clear thought, he signs in ASL, "Good to see you both."

Itzhak's awful expression lightens, almost to neutral, when Alexander waves. And when he signs, Itzhak almost smiles. "Hi. Good to see you too." He thwaps August's shoulder light, a 'go ahead' gesture, and comes in and pulls up a chair like he lives here.

August manages a wry smile for Itzhak and Alexander both. "This isn't that big a step above 'not dead and not gonna die', just so you know," he says, and gets a chair as well. "It's good to see you too." Despite where you are, he doesn't say, yet it's plain on his face.

As he sits August looks askance at the man in the other half of the room, signs to Alexander, 'Did you want me to,' then taps at his own throat. His sign language is rough, though understandable. 'Not all. Take down the swelling.' He raises an eyebrow. Is this so Alexander will get out of the hospital faster? Definitely.

His attention drifts to the ceiling for a half-second, back to Alexander.

Alexander studies them both with quiet interest. His gaze isn't as sharp as it usually is; he's clearly on some of the Good Drugs, but he's doing his best. Chairs are not objected to. He smiles at August. Shakes his head. Slowly signs out, "Waffle woman is my doctor. Hailey. Curious about her. See what she does. If she does anything. Will get out of here soon, either way." His jaw sets; Alexander's no fan of hospitals either, and this one won't keep him for long. Not when it's just his THROAT. His throat's not his legs. He can move. Then, more signing, "Thank you for coming. Sorry to worry you both."

Itzhak frowns, not sure he's reading that sign right. "Waffle...woman?" He signs it back, forming W with his fingers, then drawing a crosshatch across his opposite palm. "Waffle woman? The fuck?" He looks at August like he can help decipher that. Then he's scowling again at Alexander. "This is really inconvenient, now all the nurses want me to play again and I forgot my violin. What're we gonna do with you, Sandushka."

He says the modified Yiddish diminutive, then winces. "Uh, right, no nicknames. Forget it."

August nods; he can't say he's disappointed Alexander's declining healing. He's really not sure how that would turn out, all in all. He confirms the sign to Itzhak. "A doctor, we met here at Waffle Shoppe," he says under his breath. "She's," he points at himself, lifts his eyebrows in a 'like me' indicator. "And if she knows her stuff then he should be in good hands." He keeps his wording as cryptic as possible, for the benefit of prying ears. Sits back in his chair, stretches his legs out.

He starts to say something, stops, huffs a soft laugh at the nickname and Itzhak's immediate retraction. "No nicknames?" he asks Alexander.

Alexander helpfully spells his name for Itzhak in ASL. His full name. Slowly. But he smiles a little as he does it. Then nods to August (ignore the wince at the abrupt head movement), a gesture to Itzhak like, 'yeah, that about sums it up'. At the last question August asks, he hesitates. His eyes narrow as he assesses whether what ASL he can glean from the ether is up for explaining that. Apparently not, because he just shakes his head and agrees, "No nicknames."

Then, to Itzhak, "I like your violin. Should get throat cut more often if you'll play." He's joking! It's a joke! See his smile!

Two smiles Itzhak sees on Alexander and only one of them he likes. He grunts at August, eyeing him for signs that he needs to leave. "Listen, this is goin' pretty far to get my violin playing," he says to Alexander. He looks aside, mouth twisting. And signs: 'Helped if I was there,' and makes a questioning face. Would it have helped, is what he's asking, because it doesn't seem like it.

The valium is a big, wooly buffer between August and his usual reaction at seeing someone wince like Alexander just did, hearing him talk around his butchered through. It's a buffer, but he still knows the impact is there. He licks his lips, meets Itzhak's eyes for a moment, makes a dismissive gesture. Still okay. (It's just a building.)

He can't help himself; he signs, 'Would have helped if I was. Or Finch.' Does he look irritated? Maybe a little, but it's mitigated. It's the irritation of someone who knows being irritated at people with cut throats when they're in the hospital doesn't help. It doesn't turn back time and put him there, doesn't convince Alexander to never not ask for their help again.

...he's still irritated, though.

Alexander sighs. He looks at both of them. "No," he signs back, firmly. "I touched his mind. He didn't like it. You couldn't have stopped either of those things." A pause. "Not without a..." his knowledge is inadequate for 'concussion' in sign language, so he signs, "head-sleep," instead, and gives them both hopeful looks. C'mon. Are you picking up what I'm putting down??

Itzhak isn't, and looks at August for help. He taps his temple. "Knocking him out would stop it? That what he's saying?" Knocking someone out, he's good at that!

August sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. "He means knocking him out. You know--so he doesn't do something stupid." Such as what he did. Or maybe Alexander doesn't mean himself, but August is sure going to take it that way, since that would be on the list of solutions. Probably even in the top ten.

Eyes narrowed, he signs, 'Might have been able to stop him. Protect you. Reduce what he did. Heal what he did.' He raises his eyebrows, continues, 'Have you seen all of what someone like me can do?' forming each word with care. He points at Alexander's neck for emphasis. 'Not the strongest thing. Only the easiest.'

Wait. No. This is likely to go places Alexander doesn't want it to go. Places that involve his friends giving him concussions. Okay, mostly places where Itzhak gives him concussions for his own good. Eyes widen and he flails a hand to get attention. Hasty, sloppy signs, "Please don't hit me on the head just because I do stupid things. My head isn't strong enough. Brain will break. Need that."

He sort of shrinks into the bed at narrowed eyes from August, of all people. August is the nice, calm one! He grimaces, rubs gingerly at the unbandaged side of his face, scratching at the stubble there. Only once he's thought about it does he sign, carefully, "Yes. Have seen. Have felt." He blows out a long breath, shakes himself out of whatever grim memory provoked the curt response. He offers them both a crooked smile, signs again, "I get injured a lot. Fair number of scars. This is another one. Will be. You can't blame yourself for it. Or lots of guilt. Did what I felt I needed to do. Better me than Isabella," his hands carefully signing through her name, "or you."

Itzhak stands up so fast he knocks his chair over. His temper flares like a match scraped along the sandpaper. "Don't you fuckin' give me that," he snarls, under his breath, righting the chair with a bang.

A nurse looks in, alarmed. "Everything okay?"

Itzhak stalks past her out the door, growling, "Need a fuckin' smoke."

August halts mid-sign at the sound of the chair going over and the nurse coming in. He says to her, "It's fine, just knocked a chair over on accident," somehow keeping his voice calm and low. He says a silent prayer of thanks to the gods of valium, watches Itzhak go with a tired, sad expression, which he proceeds to turn on Alexander. What he signs next isn't sensitive, so he doesn't wait for the nurse to leave before he starts.

'Please don't avoid asking us to help because something might happen. Already have, still are. And we're still here.' He runs a hand over his face. 'Not going to survive these things without one another. Not protecting us when you do that.' He hesitates. Well, maybe this is an okay time for honesty. 'Just yourself. It's selfish.'

Alexander raises his hand when the nurse looks in - we're all good. He gets a suspicious sniff in return, but August's calmness soothes her concerns, and she's soon gone. Alexander watches Izthak go with a frown. A frown that only deepens when August talks. He watches the signs. He scowls at the signs. He signs back, "Not what happened. Not my invite list. Not - trying to shut you out. Just," he pauses to sort of flail his free hand about before returning to signs, "can't be protected from everything. Can walk down the street and my parents turn into shark people." And that's probably not something anyone expected to read as signs. "Worms. Can't predict what's going to go bad. Can't always call for help. If you're going to blame yourselves, you're going to be," he thinks hard about the sign for this one, "miserable. And I'm going to be miserable." A sharp gesture towards August. It's not the SIGN for understand, but it clearly means that.

Itzhak comes back way too fast for him to have actually gone out for a smoke break. Like maybe he just loitered gloweringly in the hallway instead. Like maybe he couldn't stand not knowing what they were talking about. He leans against the doorjamb, arms folded, and in fact he looks miserable. But he doesn't say anything.

August gives Alexander a bland look. The sort of look you get when you're being told things you've heard before. He weathers all of this with calm indifference until the shark people. That makes him blink and squint, reviewing the signs to make sure he didn't imagine them. He grunts about the worms. 'Can't predict what's going to go bad.' He repeats that sign, motion for motion. Then, 'Didn't know it was this dangerous?' His expression makes it an honest question, not rhetorical or an attempt to prod. 'That I understand. But don't try 'better me than you'.' He jerks a thumb at Itzhak, as if to indicate, especially not around this guy.

"Knew it would be dangerous," Alexander signs, after a long moment. He studies Itzhak when he returns. "I knew that." A long pause, then he sort of flops back into his pillow and lets out a pained groan as it pulls a sensitive bit in his neck. "Not used to it," he signs, at last. "No one has ever cared before." A pause. "Not true. Parents care. But think I'm crazy, hurting myself. Try not to think or ask about it much, anymore." He cracks his knuckles as they stiffen from the unfamiliar motions. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to hurt either of you or make you sad."

Itzhak comes over, stiff with anger and trying not to be a complete asshole. "Yeah, well," he says to Alexander, quiet, voice simmering. "I care." He could see that, but not August's signing. To Alexander he holds out a hand, big even for how tall he is, tattooed, decorated with mechanic's scars. "Life is easier when you don't care. So like a yutz, I do."

August relents when Alexander admits that. He smiles, rueful but with some good humor. 'Been getting cared about all my life. Parents, sisters, nieces. Therapists.' That sign's hard for him to do, an old one he has to dredge up from decades past. 'Don't know how not to. Happy to teach you how to deal with it.' His smile gets triumphant, but only for a moment.

'Sorry that they don't understand. Mine neither.' He'd gotten lucky there; rather than make it hard on him, they'd just assumed it was all part of the constellation of all things August which were weird and unexplainable. So they had a strange son with an overactive imagination. At least he wasn't doing drugs or in a gang.

He tips his head at Itzhak in agreement. 'Caring is hard. Hard to accept. Also the best way to survive.'

Alexander studies the hand Itzhak puts out. He reaches out his own, the one that isn't tethered by the IV, and takes it. A bit awkwardly, and it's clear it takes an effort, but not necessarily a reluctant one. He squeezes. Of course, because one hand is tethered and the other hand is holding Itzhak's, his communication to them both is sort of limited to a sheepish, pained sort of shrug.

Itzhak presses Alexander's hand between his rough palms. His expression is mostly scowly, some indecipherable emotion lurking beneath. Then he lets him go. "You still owe me dinner. I take these things very seriously, Clayton."

August snaps his fingers, points at Itzhak. 'Cook for him, once he's out of,' he waves a hand, indicating the nightmare death trap building. 'Isolde.' He spells the name carefully. 'Bring them to the shop.' Meaning a picnic in the open area, before the weather turns. It's a good month or so still from that, but as a native to the PNW he's always wary of the rain and when it will come.

Alexander wriggles his fingers inbetween Itzhak's two. Sort of like trying to shake his hand, but he can't because hand sandwich. He smiles when it's let go, and signs, "Understood." He doesn't try to sign Itzhak's name - honestly, he has no idea how it's spelled. Shhh. His eyes twitch to August. Another smile. "Supposed to picnic. Sometime. Picnic is a good idea."

He looks down at his lap, briefly, then signs to them both. "Thank you. For coming. For being angry. For wanting to help."

Finally, Itzhak smiles. Not much. Just a wry tug at the corners of that loud mouth of his. "That's my secret, Cap. I'm always angry." He dithers a moment more so close to Alexander; he wants to stroke his hair back or kiss his forehead or do something alarmingly mushy, but...no. Not his place. So he looks at August instead, eyebrows going up. "How you doin', pal."

Coughing a laugh, August signs, 'Haven't seen me angry.' He's almost ashamed to admit that. This should be angry, but it's not. The valium says no getting angry right now, just 'mildly irked' and 'frustrated'.

"I'm okay," he murmurs, because he is, at least for the moment. As long as he doesn't reach out, and can think of this as a building with just these two injured people and himself and Itzhak. A pleasant fiction to keep him going. On the other sides of these walls, this floor, that ceiling--

No.

"Well, picnic aside. You, Isolde, this guy," he nods at Alexander, "maybe some other people, my patio. At the shop. I set it up and we eat out there, sometimes. We'll find a good day before the rain." He surveys Alexander. "What now? I mean, with the responsible party."

Alexander looks blank at first, at the reference. Then blinks a couple of times, and coughs out a horrible sounding laugh. It's brief and pained. His eyes tip back over to August at the concerned question, and he studies the other man, thoughtfully. The bit about the anger gets an uplift of brows. Curiosity, rather than caution. "Okay," he signs. It's an easy sign. "Was supposed to go with him," point to Itzhak, "Isolde, and Isabella." Even odds whether Isolde ever told Itzhak about that, of course. He adds, "Your shop is beautiful. Nice place. Good company."

Mention of Gohl makes him grimace. The signs come more slowly. "Did get some useful information. Build a new box. But we three weren't the right people. Need to find the right people."

"Izzy told me," Itzhak says, smiling the tiniest bit more. "Bring ya girl. We need to introduce her and Izeleh to the whole dysfunctional-ass crew. Rest up, yeah?"

"Yeah, it can be a thing." August's attention shifts to the far wall, and for a long second he just stares. He blinks, almost starts in his chair, gets up abruptly. "I need to not be in here." He sets his teeth, manages to say to Alexander, "Let us know if you need help finding them. The three people." It's almost a struggle for him to form those two sentences.

And then he's out the door without waiting to see if Itzhak is following him.