2019-09-02 - Measuring Up

Rebecca has been working from home. She's let her boss know the situation and, as he is also a target of the serial murderer known as Billy the Ghoul, he was understanding about it. The sleek blonde is sitting at her desk in the large open space of her apartment, working on a laptop. Her desktop is reserved for her other passion, gaming.

She's dressed in a houndstooth black and white checked skirt with leather panels, black tights, calf high boots, and a red turtleneck. She does keep the AC a bit on the chilly side. Her hair is perfectly styled, her makeup just right, her accessories simple but complementary. Even at home, she's put together. She is waiting for company, two people to be exact. One would be Itzhak Rosencrantz, friend, sometimes something more, and currently her unofficial bodyguard. The other is Mister Luca, the tailor she has on call for when her boss needs sudden changes.

Itzhak's on his way up the elevator, grocery bags tucked into the crook of his arm, his fiddle slung over his back.

The door locks are undone via her phone when he registers on the security camera on her door.

"Fuckin' nice," Itzhak mutters, kind of impressed with all this slick technology. He maneuvers the door open and levers it open with his shoulder. So much stuff comes in with him. He's a stuff kinda guy. Groceries and fiddle and duffel bag. He drops the duffel bag by the couch, where it may or may not contribute to the artful look of the place, unslings his fiddle on the coffee table, goes to deliver the groceries unto the kitchen. He sneaks a look at Bex while he does. "You dress up even to work from home, huh?"

"I don't consider this dressing up, honestly. I run a fashion blog on the side. I like nice clothes, what can I say?" Rebecca gives him a faint smile as she logs out of the laptop and comes into the kitchen area to see what he brought food-wise. "You didn't have to get groceries. We could have ordered delivery you know." Well she could. She's the one with money.

"Mister Luca will be here in a half hour or so, to fit the suit for you," she informs him airily, watching him unpack with a contemplative expression. "Isabella Reede has been texting me about engaging in a plan to stop William Gohl. I have asked to bring you with me. I don't know any of these other people very well, and I would feel safer if you were there. But it may be very dangerous, so coming is up to you."

"You got so much fancy salt and everything, it's a shame not to use it. Nothing complicated here anyway, just steaks. Bake a couple potatoes. Bag salad, because I'm lazy." Itzhak unloads groceries, shoving them into the fridge or leaving them on the pristine counter as seems appropriate to him. "Got some fruit too, raspberries, strawberries. The amount of fresh fruit on this coast, man, it blows my mind, it's so cheap." He shuts the fridge. "Isabella Reede, she's Alexander's girl. You know her any?"

He seems to not immediately answer questions like 'it's dangerous, do you want to come along'. Needs a minute to process.

Rebecca shakes her head at the question, moving to help put things away. "Not very well. Apparently, she and I and Alexander Clayton are all descendants of the Baxter family line, the line that gave birth to William Gohl. We're distant cousins, all of us, in some manner. I believe I am also related to a woman named Andrea Johnson in town, whose family used to run a funeral home here. Byron Thorne and Miss Reede have been keeping me informed about the situation with the murders, and have asked for my help in showing them exactly what I experienced when we found his bones on the Other Side."

She looks at him with a brow arching upwards. "What do you know about them? Anything I should be aware of, Itzhak?"

"Nah, never met Isabella, even though Alexander and I hang out all the time." Itzhak conveniently assigns the label 'hanging out' to events such as 'hospital visits' and 'unrequited crushes'. "Alexander, well, he's great. Really great. Good guy, good friend. People call him crazy, you know? I hate that. One of these days someone's gonna say that in front of me and I'm just gonna pop 'em. They call Izeleh crazy too. Those two are the least crazy people I know. Ran into Thorne one time at the gym, no idea what's up with that guy."

He puts a big flat of raspberries in the fridge, then steps aside to let Rebecca help. It's her house after all. "So you're all kinda related? Baxter, isn't that one of the founding families around here?"

"Izeleh?" Rebecca asks with another brow arch. "Is that your sweet girl? You didn't tell me her name." She helps put things into various cupboards which seem to be organized like someone with OCD tackled them. Because they did. "Something like that. I'm still a little fuzzy on the specifics of the family tree, but my great-grandfather, Kenneth, was apparently a Baxter, but moved away from Gray Harbor and changed the family last name to Carr before his son, my grandad, was born.

Itzhak hesitates, hands going still, then smiles a little, shy, not looking at Rebecca. "I call her that. Isolde, that's her name. She lives with Alexander. They actually both live in a house, believe it or not." He leans against the island to watch her put things away, genuinely interested in her process. It's like the way he is with his tools. "I told her who you are," he adds, trying for offhand, but not achieving. "That's all she wanted to know."

The weird story of how the Baxter became a Carr makes him grunt in acknowledgement. "Okay, so, is that..."

Is that why Gohl killed Kelly? Is that why he's now possibly after Rebecca? Itzhak almost says it, shuts off his mouth before he does.

"As for why my sister was a victim, or why I'm on his list, I believe it's because the Carr family asked to have his body disinterred. I think, maybe, someone in my family took his bones to the Other Side and left them there, to keep him from haunting this side. Just a guess on my part. Otherwise why would be be trying to kill family? It could be, maybe he knows someone of his own blood can stop him."

She smiles a little when he talks about Isolde. "That seems wise, so she can avoid me if she needs to, but still doesn't have to hear about what we do. I really mean it Itzhak. I do NOT want to ruin that for you. She sounds special and I'm..." not? Damaged goods? A broken doll?

"She wants to meet you sometime. So she can classify you as 'a good thing'." Itzhak's smile deepens a touch. He's bashful talking about Isolde. "She is special. Look, she's got problems, too. You'll see, when you meet her. It don't matter to me. I mean, it matters, but--you know what I mean, right? She's hurt but it don't make her less of a person, less of an adult. Figure I'm like that too. So are you. So's almost everybody I know in this Godforsaken town. We're all fucked up in our own unique and individual ways." Irony on that last sentence, but not sarcasm.

He looks at her for a moment, quiet. "So that's why I gotta sleep on the couch, okay?"

That makes Rebecca pause a moment, a hand on a cabinet door. It's just a moment, that seems to ripple through her, and is quickly locked away. "Of course. I completely understand. I have extra pillows and sheets and a blanket." She gives him a smile, that professional one she wears all too often, as she closes the cabinet and moves to put the bags into a recycling bin.

Itzhak picks up on the ripple, but he doesn't know what it means. Or the sudden professional smile she flashes him. He shifts his weight uncomfortably. Bex told him in no uncertain terms that this is friends-with-extremely-rough-benefits. They're not dating, they're not involved, all that is happening is they're friends and right now she needs him around.

And you believed her, he can almost hear August say with an amused sigh.

Well yeah, he tells August back, in his mind, of course I did! I still do. She knows what she wants. She knows EXACTLY what she wants.

We're all on the same page, no ifs ands or buts. Yet somehow he almost thinks maybe he broke her heart a little bit just now. Nah. Not over him. Not her. She can have whatever man she wants, she's not gonna get all verklempt over some ex-con mechanic. She just was being practical. She said she didn't want to risk ruining anything between him and Izzy.

Therefore, everything is fine.

"Are you gonna hate it if I practice? I left my music stand in the car." His eyes follow her around.

"Not at all, practice away. I think the apartment is sound proof enough you won't disturb my neighbors. The high price of our rent should guarantee that," Rebecca replies, all smooth and flawless and perfect once more. There is a knock at the door and she checks her phone. It brings up the camera feed. "Mister Luca is here. Can you go get the suit and shirt from the closet door? I'll let him in." She moves to the door and presses a keypad to unlock it.

Swinging it open there is a very ancient, very italian, old man carrying a sewing case in leather, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit. "Carina!" he declares. "Miss Carr you look lovely as always!"

"Mister Luca! A pleasure as always to see you. Please do come in."

Okay maybe everything is not fine. Bex has never given him that professional perfection. Itzhak rubs his fingers through his forelock, represses a sigh.

Mister Luca shows up, and Itzhak eyes him, but immediately likes him despite himself. Guy vibes Old New York all over, could have stepped out of the 1950s shmatta trade. "Yeah, be right back." He pushes off from the counter and goes to fetch the suit. Which he's a little scared to touch, worried somehow he'll have failed to scrub off all the grease and leave a stain on it. He checks over his hands several times, convincing himself that they're clean, before he gets the hangers and comes back.

Rebecca has set a small ottoman in the middle of the dining area, and Mister Luca has set up his things beside it. While she busies herself back at her laptop, he beckons the lanky Jewish man over. "Come, come. You are Mister Rosencrantz then? Please put on the trousers, and we will begin there." He has a magnetic pin cushion loaded with pins tipped in bright yellow, so they are easy to see against most fabrics, and it is on an elastic band around his left hand. In the right, he wields chalk and a soft fabric measuring tape that may be as old as he is from the looks of it.

"Do me a favor, don't call me that," Itzhak says, flickering a grin at Luca again despite himself. "Call me Itzhak, huh?" He shucks boots, unbuttons his jeans, unzips. "I got relatives who're tailors in New York. Not so much call for it anymore, they say. Dying art."

His usual underwear, snug black boxer briefs, he doesn't care people seeing him in at all. That's more or less dressed, as far as he's concerned. He pulls on the trousers. They're cool and slick.

"Itzhak then," the tailor agrees. Luka beckons Itzhak up onto the ottoman and begins his measurements. He turns up the pants hem and marks where he'll need to let it out a solid inch for his height to get a proper 1/4" break, then measures the waist for taking in, the seat for taking in, and then the inseam. There is a quietly murmured 'oh my' at that last measurement, as he adjust for letting some of that out for the man's comfort. Pins go in along seams and waistband to mark where he needs to adjust.

"My brothers also tailor in Manhattan. The air though, it was bad for me. So I moved to the west coast. Seattle is not the City. But Miss Carr here has been kind enough to make sure I have plenty of work for Chef Vydal." He gestures. "Keep those on and add the jacket and shirt."

Itzhak stands still for the measuring and pinning, even though he winces at the touch of the tape on his inner thigh. He's taller than the last man who wore these pants, and thinner. ...Then he turns brick red, so fast it's dizzying. 'Oh my'? Seriously? He can't help that ... that's... like that!

He tries so, so hard not to glance over at Bex, but it happens anyway.

"Yeah, uh, the air's better than it used to be. Still not what you'd call 'good'." Itzhak obediently pulls on the shirt, button button button button ugh so many buttons. Jacket over that. The pants aren't that big a deal, at least to him, but the shirt and jacket are where his weird proportions make them feel like they hang funny.

Rebecca is focused on her laptop, tapping away at it as she schedules meetings, inspections, viewings, tastings, all for the Patisserie and its owner. She doesn't watch the tailoring. She's being very careful to wear her mask. Does she think the little Italian tailor might think they're together? Or is she just trying to contain whatever hurt their earlier conversation created in her. Who knows?

Luca works quickly and easily with the shirt, collar needs adjustment, as do the cuffs, and when they are pinned, Itzhak can feel the difference in how the material falls on him immediately. It's like magic of some sewing sort. The jacket gets a lot of chalk marks for shoulders, arms, waist. Clearly the fit will be greatly adjusted for the man. "Miss Carr, I think once this is tailored, it may need to remain with the gentleman. He has unique proportions."

Rebecca waves off her acceptance of that from afar. "Very well." She rises and moves to inspect the pinned garments and the marks of the chalk indicating what the jacket will look like after. "That is excellent work as always, Mister Luca. Can we get it back in 48 hours?"

"Of course, Miss Carr. Itzhak, go and change again and bring me the clothes back on the hangar, if you would be so kind," the tailor requests. Then he moves to huddle with Rebecca and work out payment for his services.

Who knows? Not this Yid. Maybe he'll ask Roen later. Then again, maybe not. Roen probably doesn't need to hand-hold his dysfunctional ass any further. ...Not that his ass has hands. Weird metaphor.

He's still red, pretending he's not. Ahem.

Then he blinks when Rebecca gives him the suit. Is that what just happened? He thinks that's what just happened. She said the suit can stay with him. How much did this damn thing cost?

"A'ight." Itzhak hops off the stool, sweeps up his jeans, and goes to change. Even though he just changed in front of the guy already. There's rules here he doesn't understand and he feels like he's fucked up enough for one day.

Once in the master bedroom, though, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and freezes in place, eyes widening.

Is that him? This tall, elegant stranger? The suit's pinned to within an inch of its poor life, but it's easy to imagine it when it won't be. The man in the mirror, this guy with fierce eyes and tattooed hands, wearing a gorgeous and very expensive suit is ...is... him?

It shakes him more than he would have thought. He wouldn't have thought he'd be shaken at all.

He slithers out of the suit and shirt with care, hangs it up. Gets his jeans on, and brings the whole shebang back out.

The suit is worth about four grand. But it's served its purpose. He is not the first person to wear it, and it has been cut down time and again to fit the men who escorted her to functions. Now it's at the end of its lifespan for being perfectly tailored, and so it goes to the last man it was tailored for, Itzhak.

When he brings back the suit, Luca already has a garment bag out and ready for it. He is busy air-kissing Rebecca on both cheeks and murmuring to her quietly. She gives him a small smile, a bit warmer than her typical professional one. The man is too charming and grandfatherly not to.

"Ah Itzhak, thank you. Just put it in the garment bag there, hanger top through that hole, and zip it up. I will have it ready for you in two days!" the tailor promises. "Carina, you will tell the Chef hello for me? And you take care of yourself." He prepares to depart.

Itzhak hangs up the suit, hoping he does it right. He thinks so. Not too complicated, right? As long as there's not some specific thing you need to do with a four-grand suit. It's not a car. There shouldn't be.

He hopes.

"Great to meet ya, Luca," he says, with an honest smile, and offers a handshake. "Real pleasure to watch ya work, you're a master of your craft."

Highest of praise.

"Of course, Mister Luca. I'll see if I can get chef to send you some of those petite fours you like as well," Rebecca promises.

The little tailor shakes Itzhak's hand with his gnarled one. "Good man. Both of you, have a lovely day." And then he departs, leaving the strange pair alone again.

Rebecca moves to watch out a window and make sure he gets to his car all right, his driving waiting for him out front.

Itzhak folds his arms, studying Rebecca standing at the window. She and Isolde have this much in common: they're mysteries that he itches to unravel. (Alexander has this in common with them too.) Isolde's a junkyard. Rebecca is a door that says 'Staff Only.' Treasure lies within both, if only he can figure out how.

At the moment, the guardian of the door has slapped his wrist. Time to regroup.

"I'll get dinner started." He goes to scrub potatoes.

Rebecca glances back over her shoulder. "Thank you," she says, but it's that professional tone of hers. The couch comment earlier, that was when the switch flipped. She viewed it as a line in the sand saying she wasn't Isolde and so he wasn't going back to bed with her. But she's ok with it. She is just processing and figuring out how to act towards him.

She moves back to her desk, because it's safe for her to be working. She can't stumble across lines from there. "I can let you play Overwatch on my rig later if you'd like to try it out. It's top of the line." It's an apology offer for...what exactly?

"I'd love to," Itzhak says, lighting up. "She must run smooth as peanut butter when you just opened the jar." He can tell this is a peace offering of some sort, and he's also dying to get his hands on that rig.

Also on Rebecca. He's pretty sure he knows how he could improve her mood.

First dinner. He's gonna need his strength.

Scrub potatoes clean, slash 'em, give 'em a little sheen of olive oil, stick some of this flaked sea salt on. So easy even a moron like him can do it. He turns the oven on and gets to it.

Rebecca continues working at her laptop. She puts in an order for a box of petit fours from the Patisserie to be sent to Mister Luca and that little bit of kindness for the old man makes her smile faintly. "It is. And the high-speed internet here in this complex is quite good as well. Lag is nonexistent for me," she calls back, her eyes still on her laptop screen as she takes care of a few more tasks. Each time one is finished, it gets marked off on a notepad with a pen nearby. Her efficiency is rather epic. Even if there was a power outage, she'd have her manual list.

Inevitably, as Itzhak bangs around the kitchen, he starts singing. No music plays so he's got to provide his own. Under his breath at first, singing quiet to himself.

"//She took his hand and she led him along that golden beach
They watched the waves tumble over the sand
They drove for miles and miles up those twisting turning roads
Higher and higher and higher they climbed...//

He fades into mumbling as he opens more drawers and cabinets, familiarizing himself with where Bex keeps stuff. It's all amazingly organized. She really is epically efficient. Bumping a drawer closed, he gets caught up in the chorus ringing in his head and raises his voice.

"//Oh those big city nights
In those hiiiiigh rolling hills
Above all the lights
She had all of her skills!//

"Bob Seger?" Rebecca queries. She finishes whatever she was working on and gets up to move to the kitchen area and slide up onto a counter stool. She had no idea it was Bob Seger, but her phone and Shazam app took care of that for her. Sneaky. "You don't look THAT old, Itzhak," she points out.

"Ehh my pop loved all that classic rock stuff." Itzhak finds a cast-iron pan and begins heating it up. "I ain't that young either. How old are you, anyway? I have no idea." He checks his phone for what to do next. He's no chef, but he's good at following directions. When he wants to.

Rebecca arches a brow, as if she means to chide him for asking a lady's age, but then her shoulders shrug and she admits, "26. But it's less the years, more the mileage." He knows so very little about this woman. How does one get so composed at that youthful age? Was she always that way? What happened to make her such a control freak?

He's glad he wasn't looking right at her when she said that.

Twenty six??? She's ten years younger than he is. August's disapproving look materializes in the back of Itzhak's mind. Shut up, old man, who asked you, Eleanor's younger than you by a dog's age. Probably.

"Hear ya. Got a lot of mileage myself. How you like your steak?" Itzhak, scrolling through the recipe he's found, reads that it calls for the steak coated in high-smoke-point oil before searing. Sounds fair, but what kind of oil is that?

"Medium rare. Cooked any more than that is a crime against steak," Rebecca points out. She fiddles with the fresh herbs planted in the unique planter running down the center of the kitchen island. "Were you ever married?" she asks.

"Married? Christ, I barely had any relationships." Itzhak flicks a glance over, expression wry. "You?" He's expecting to find canola oil, the standard stuff, but it's grapeseed oil instead. Whatever. He oils up the steaks, big bone-in things. Salt, pepper, into the pan. FSSSSHT! They make a satisfying sizzle.

Rebecca nods slowly. "I was, for two years. College sweetheart, or so I thought." She grimaces. "Got married my junior year of undergrad. It wasn't good. And it ended very badly." She plucks off some parsley and passes it over to him to add it to some butter.

Itzhak's eyebrows go up as he accepts the parsley. "No kidding." His calloused fingertip brushes her perfectly manicured fingers; his heart jumps and startles him. Whoa. He sucks in a breath, then turns to get to dicing the herbs. He's not skilled at it; also whatever. "That's rough."

"You have no idea. I thought it was great. Perfect. He was a Computer Science major, which is how I got into computers and gaming. And everything seemed like it was a fairytale. Until two years in, when I was in a car accident. One of," one of? "his various girlfriends got jealous enough to try and kill me. She didn't. She did kill the 4 week old fetus I didn't know I was carrying."

She looks at her hands blankly, as they move across the various herb plants. "Someone in the hospital, they were like us. They healed me. And woke up my, whatever these powers are. And I went home, and everything I touched, I could read the emotions off of. Every gift he had given me, every inch of our home, was all loathing me, thinking I wasn't remotely what he wanted, but he needed my family's money and name to get a foot in the door at the banks for loans, to start his own programming company. He had three other steady women he spent those alleged late work nights with, and I don't even know how many one night stands."

She looks up at him. "It was a nightmare. Everything I touched was full of my worthlessness and how I was like an anchor around his neck. I filed for divorce within a week and moved back in with my parents. They didn't understand. I had no proof. They thought I was going crazy. My mother is a shrink."

Itzhak slows down, knife pausing mid-clumsy-dicing. Rebecca can taste it off him: fury. Anger leaps in his breast like a boiling geyser.

What? That son of a schmuck did WHAT TO HER?

He has to set the knife down for a minute. Then he rinses off his hands, shoves the pan with the steaks off the burner, and comes around the island. Itzhak touches Bex's chin lightly, looks into her eyes. It's difficult for him, but he does it, his hazel eyes complex with layers of color, gone hard. "Fuck. That. Guy."

Her eyes flit away from meeting his. There is so much pain writ in those pale eyes of hers, in even speaking about her past. Rebecca swallows. "I just wanted you to know why I don't date. Or have real relationships. Don't think that I don't care, or don't want to sometimes. I just...can't."

Kissing her on the forehead is what he really wants to do, and Itzhak isn't sure now if it'd be welcome. She was okay with it when she was in the hospital, before any of--any of this. Would it be weird now? It might be weird. And oy gevalt, the guy who wrecked her heart doesn't seem all that different from him. Not that he'd ever do any of that other stuff, but having more than one woman (or man) at a time? Yyyyyeah suddenly he's cringing inside. Okay HE tries to be honest about it, but oh Christ.

"S'okay." Itzhak does it anyway, presses his smooth-shaven lips to Rebecca's forehead. "You got your reasons. No need to justify 'em to the likes of me."

Rebecca closes her eyes at the kiss to her forehead. "I just thought you should know. Maybe I shouldn't have said it. I didn't want to make it weird for you," she confesses. "I just didn't want you to think I didn't want any strings because I didn't care. You've been honest with me and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate that."

"Everybody tells me I'm an honest guy," Itzhak says with a tiny crooked twitch of the mouth. "Especially when I'm yellin' and throwing things." He hugs her, breathes in the scent of her hair, eyes closing. "You can tell me anything you want. Okay? Promise." Lets her go so he can finish cooking. "Lemme feed you. I like doing that."

Rebecca lets out a breath slowly. "You're the only person I've told since it happened. It's the real reason my brother does in-depth background checks on anyone I date. I think if he wasn't a cop, he'd have killed him for what he did." She props her chin in her hand and watches him cook. Anything to take her mind off bad memories.

The steaks only need a few minutes per side, so soon they're resting and Itzhak's messing with the bag salad (gorgonzola and candied walnuts). "I know you hate that he does that, but I kinda can't blame him." He's still processing all she told him. She was pregnant. God.

He gets everything on plates, not pretty or nice at all, but hearty at least. Steaks and baked potatoes with the skins crisp and salty, and the salad. "Eat. I'm required by Jewish law to tell you that you're too skinny."

"It did have one positive outcome. I decided that I was putting myself first going forward. Not being or doing what was expected of me. Not letting someone else control my life. I was wide-eyed and so naive. Now I'm not. I see things as they really are, and I make choices for myself."

She gets up and moves to get them plates and utensils, and a bottle of wine from the rack, a nice Merlot. She hands the latter to him to open as she sets things on the dining table rather than the kitchen counter this time.

"Think that's a good call." Itzhak has not opened a lot of bottles in his life, but he gets this one open without screwing it up too bad. He even manages to get some of it into glasses, and brings them over to the table. Then goes back for the bottle, should have thought of that, but he thought of it now, it still counts. "Especially a girl like you, yannow?"

"A girl like me? What sort of girl am I like?" Rebecca asks curiously, arching a brow. She fills her own glass, a bit more than she usually would, because bringing up her ex makes her want to drink. She settles in a chair across from him and looks at the food. "This looks and smells delicious. Thank you."

"You know. A beautiful girl. Got money, educated, real damn good at what she does. You don't need a man screwing all that up. Men are scumbags anyway. Present company included." Itzhak observes the filling of the wineglass, doesn't remark. He does quirk a little smile and raise his own glass. "L'chaim."

"I don't think you're a scumbag, Itzhak," Rebecca says quietly. She lifts her glass in return. "Cheers." She takes a deep sip, before she sets into her steak and baked potato. She makes happy sounds of appreciation. "This is really good. Steak is cooked just right."

Itzhak just hitches his eyebrows in response to that. Well... is the meaning there, comes across nice and clear. But he keeps his yap shut and eats. "It's no wonder you're such a good Ana, yannow? You're so goddamn focused and fast."

"Ana? Who is Ana?" Rebecca asks, confused at the reference. She continues to eat, quite enjoying a fine meal cooked for her in her own home.

"Ya main, Ana?" Itzhak says, eyebrows really going up. "With the sleep darts? My pocket healer?" He gestures with the fork in a silent 'you know!'

Rebecca blinks at him, then laughs and blushes. "My brain just went to, is someone's personal assistant named Ana? Do I need to meet her and learn her ways?" She drops her forehead to her hand as she chuckles. "When I get focused on a work day, I guess I really get focused."

"Man, focused is right. I thought I had problems with hyperfocusing." Itzhak shakes his head in mock despair. "Eh, I'll just hafta help you relax." Innocent eating of steak continues.

"Do you get like that when you play violin?" Rebecca asks curiously, peering at him over the lip of her wine glass. "I think musicians have to have a lot of focus. Especially if they can sing and play. I can't imagine doing that myself."

"I sing some while playing, but it's not the best for singing. Gotta have your neck funny and all." Itzhak demonstrates, tipping his chin towards his left shoulder. "Eh, well, the secret is," he smiles at her, "I'm kinda always playing violin in my head. Always music going on up there." He taps his forehead.

That seems to pique her interest and Rebecca leans into the conversation curiously. "I run through task lists. Constantly. My brain is like having 30 browser tabs open in chrome. All the time. And looking at them all."

Itzhak nods, leaning forward a little himself, his expression going open and interested. "Yeah, exactly, right? All at the same time, got music in one ear and engines in the other, each one got a thousand parts to it, each part got a thousand parts. I'm bad at explaining how it is. My brain's so damn busy all the time."

"Same!" Rebecca comments, looking like they just unlocked some sort of grand mystery. "Maybe that's part of being, whatever this stuff is we can do. The mind things and the other little bits. I'm still figuring it all out," she says.

"Maybe? I been like this all my life. Autistic, comorbid ADHD." Itzhak rattles off that diagnosis carelessly. "But maybe it's because of the song? I mean, who knows? God, I'd love to have more information about this shit." He's going a little blank, he's thinking so ferociously. "Alexander acts autistic but he says the tests never turned it up in him. Izzy's pretty similar. Me, Christ," he waves and rolls his eyes. Him? Too much going on to even try.

"OCD here. With the related insomnia and anxiety. I don't think I was on the spectrum, or if I was my mother made sure neither I nor anyone else knew it." Rebecca ponders that. Her mother did treat her children like psych experiments most of the time. "I wonder if it's related. "You know there are studies which indicate autism might be part of human evolution? Our next stage?"

Itzhak's gone entirely still, eyes open but unseeing, brain whirring almost audibly. Then he comes out of it, blinking. "Yeah, I've heard that. Dunno how much I believe it. I like the idea better that I'm just one of a variation on a theme. Like humanity's always needed people like me, the people who fall in love with the weird shit and figure it out. Lots of people aren't good at it, but I am."

"I spent most of my life trying to be normal. Let me tell you, there is nothing normal when you mother is a shrink. I think my brother became a cop just to get down to something blue collar." Rebecca chuckles and sips her wine. "At least I know I'm not alone in the whole rapid fire brain thing."

"Not alone. Not alone in what makes it shut up for a while, either." Itzhak doesn't mean it suggestively, but, it just happens suggestively! He goes a little red. "I mean, you know what I mean. I'm fuckin' terrible at being normal, so you notice I don't try."

This isn't true. He does try. He just doesn't remember all the time that's he's trying anymore. Trying is so much a part of him now.

That gets a bit of the old glint back in Rebecca's eye. "Now Itzhak. That will end up with you NOT on the couch you realize," she points out, draining her wine glass.

A miscommunication has occured, Itzhak realizes. His eyebrows go up, and sloooowly he begins to smile. "I only meant sleeping on the couch, Bex."