2019-10-21 - Pyromania

Itzhak is beginning to see what everybody's told him about 'wait until the rains come'. The rains are here. The rains are cold. The rains are friggin' constant. He's glad he put Heartbreaker in bay three, safe from all this weathering. Anyway, Itzhak is busy cleaning up from some actual work. He's wiping a socket wrench free of grease, while rain patters and blats against the bay windows.

A new, cherry-red violin case rests on the coffee table, closed. Itzhak's music stand is there too. He's not playing. The rental violin isn't even out of the case.

Squish. Squelch. Splash. Alexander, get a goddamned umbrella. But he does not have an umbrella, apparently, so he squelches his way towards the service center, his overlarge cable knit sweater in a rather hideous combination of purple and peach hanging down around his knees and sodden down to the skin. He's slicked back his hair so that it stays out of his eyes as the rain pushes it downward, but otherwise seems immune to the chill of the water running down his skin. He makes his way towards the bay, and knocks on the bay window pausing long enough for Itzhak to see him if he looks, before going to find the way inside.

August drives up, like a sane person. "Christ Alexander," he mutters when he sees him, makes a mental note to suggest they find him some kind of serviceable beater to use. (Not an umbrella--no, a beater car. August can relate to waking around sans umbrella, if not very far. But why not just get a car?)

Climbing out of the Outback, August says, "You know, if you needed a ride, you could've just texted me." Itzhak must be rubbing off on him with that sort of greeting. He's in a black leather jacket, light denim jeans, work boots, gray knit cap, and red, knit scarf.

Itzhak glances up, narrow and sharp and suspicious. His expression softens when he realizes it's Alexander, but...not by that much. Not the usual bloom of warmth and interest that happens when he sees him. No, he looks tired and aggravated and unhappy. Still, he waves him in, pointing at the human-sized side door. When he gets a look at Alexander, he makes a big scowly face at him. "Jesus, you look like a drowned rat. Does nobody in this state own an umbrella?"

Alexander kind of hunches down when Itzhak gives that tired and aggravated sort of expression, but he's still coming inside. Although he pauses when August drives up, and offers the older man a warm, if brief, grin. "But I didn't need a ride. I have legs. They work. Last I checked. Hi. It's nice to see you." Because someone has to have some manners around here. Then he slips inside, and walks right into Itzhak's scowly face. He freezes, looks down at where he's dripping on the bay floor. "Sorry. I should have called. Am I interrupting? Did you and August have something planned? I can leave."

"Good to see you too, if not soaking wet." August starts starting at Alexander, concentrating. He sets his teeth, but after a few seconds, only a little extra water slides off Alexander's clothes. August sighs explosively, makes an aggravated gesture. There's an odd flicker of light when he does so, like static.

"No plans, I was coming by to harass him about," some of his annoyance morphs into good humor, "wood." He raises his eyebrows. "If you have a few seconds."

Itzhak looks at August with that expression of peak cranky too. "Don't ya start. Yeah, you can see how busy I am." He gets up, snatches a handful of thick, tough paper towels from the box of them mounted on the wall, and advances on Alexander with a mission. "Hold still." He whistles, at him, like he's calling a dog, and that could be really insulting except then all the water drops out of Alexander's clothes and lands on the floor. SPLAT. He finished what August started. Itzhak tosses the paper towels down to soak up the puddle. "There, better? You want some coffee?"

Alexander notices August's stare and then aggravation, but seems to miss the flicker of light and that the patter of water dripping off his increases for a moment. His brow furrows. "August, are you--" and then Itzhak is ordering him to hold still, and he just goes completely still, aside from a flinch at the whistle. The water falls off of him, making an impressively large puddle. That sweater holds quite a bit of the stuff. He blinks down at the tiny lake around him. "That's useful. Thank you." He steps over the puddle once the towels are down. "Coffee would be nice." A curious cock of his head. "What's this about wood? Itzhak, do you work with wood? I didn't realize."

August watches Itzhak tame the water with a wistful look. 'Maybe some day,' that expression says. 'But not today.'

He's on the verge of expounding on Itzhak's skill with 'wood', all for Alexander's benefit, when Itzhak scolds him. August sighs, pulls off his knit cap and scarf, heads for one of the chairs. "No, but we know someone who does. Hyacinth Addington." He looks to Itzhak now. "I wanted to ask you about the kinds of wood you need for a violin. Especially if it was inlaid or made of lots of individual pieces." That flicker comes again when he tosses down his hat and scarf; a little flare of light that he doesn't seem to notice.

"Only a little. Not enough for somethin' like full-on lutherie. Sometimes I pick up an old beat-up instrument and fix it up, but making one from scratch, nah." Itzhak looks at Alexander, really looks at him, and his face finally relaxes more. Seems like an effort. But he's trying. He clomps over to the coffee pot to pour two paper cups and refill his mug (it has a violin on it and reads 'I play violin so I don't CHOKE anyone!').

He glances over his shoulder at August, while he's doing that, and almost smiles, an expression that doesn't quite surface, like a fish swimming just under the water. "You're serious about that, huh? Sure." Then his expression goes a little funny, looking at August. Something is weird? But what?

"Oh, the new violin. I remember someone mentioning that at the bar," Alexander says, and there's a bright smile that lightens his features entirely. He sort of prowls around restlessly while Itzhak pours coffee, sticking his nose into things and seeing what's changed. Lemondrop gets a warm smile and a little finger wave. "I think that's good. It's not a replacement. But it could be a new thing, that means different but equally good things. Maybe." A sidelong look towards Itzhak, and a bit of relaxation.

August gives Itzhak a Look. "Of course I'm serious about it. You and Julia helped me with the tree. You and," a nod to Alexander, "him and Ruiz helped me with it too. Least I can do is see about your next violin being...something specific." Not better, not more, not a replacement. Just...'next'.

He tilts his head at Itzhak, folds his arms. "What?"

Things have not changed much. Itzhak was working on a car and pulled out his tools and now is in the process of cleaning them and putting them back. Lemondrop is coiled into a big pile at the bottom of her enclosure, and tongueflickies as Alexander goes by. Some of the shabbier bits of the garage structure have been repaired, holes in the walls patched, that kind of thing. The biggest change is that Itzhak wasn't sawing on his fiddle and playing it hot. His new violin case is closed. Mute.

He hands over August's cup, and the eyebrows go tilted. "Inlay. There's a thought." August has dangled the correct bait there. Alexander gets his cup next. "I'm not gonna say no to a custom violin. Just. You never forget your first love, yannow?"

He can't work out what's different, so he shrugs at August. "Dunno. Probably nothin'."

Alexander takes the offered cup in both hands with a murmur of thanks. He immediately starts to try to suck the heat out of the liquid by sheer force of will. This doesn't work, but the way his hands warm up is nice. "Nor should you forget," he says, quietly. "Mourning is okay. It's good. A way to say goodbye." A flick of his eyes towards August at the nod, and he shuffles his feet, briefly uncomfortable. He doesn't seem to notice anything wrong, although his gaze jumps back and forth between the two.

August nods at Alexander. "Exactly. We wouldn't expect you to. But something worthy should come next, you know?" He reaches to take the coffee from Itzhak with a murmur of thanks, continues, "So maybe Hyacinth and I--"

Just as August's hand is closing on the coffee cup, a ripple of fire jumps from his fingertips to the paper, promptly setting it on fire. He curses and jerks his hand back, letting the cup fall between himself and Itzhak.

"It's stupid that I'm mourning a thing." Itzhak, honest as always. He's passing the paper cup to August and holding his own mug in his other hand when--FIRE. Itzhak also curses. "Gevalt!" He jerks backwards, shaking his hand in alarm and pain. "What the CHRIST! Roen?!"

"It's not stupid," Alexander says, sounding exasperated. "We always mourn things. Because things acquire meaning. Even a body is just a--holy shit!" That flare of fire surprises the investigator, and he stares at August with wide eyes. But it doesn't make him freeze. Instead, he sets his own - not flaming - cup on a flat surface, and jumps over to grab a couple of the cold, wet towels from the floor. One is tossed heavily over the coffee cup, while he thrusts the other at Itzhak for his hand.

"Shit, are you okay?" It's like an iron punch in the gut; Itzhak's pain, the sound of his voice, the knowledge that August himself had caused all of it. It pushes him right back to healing on reflex, which isn't the best idea because burns are horrible injuries to heal, and this is Itzhak, and--

It heals...some, but not entirely. All of this is a bit too much. August blanches, promptly staggers out the bay door to dry heave.

The skin had peeled back from a patch of Itzhak's hand like an overcooked hot dog. He dropped his mug--smash!--to grab it, and then grab the towels Alexander shoves at him to cover up that awful pink wetness. He's gone pale and his eyes are wide in real fear, his stance instinctively staggered to keep his feet. The weird thing is it doesn't even hurt that much...until August's power regrows the first few layers of tissue. THEN that shit hurts, sudden and roaring and overwhelming. Itzhak whimpers a strangled little sound and curls over his injured hand, clutching at it desperately in the hindbrain reflex that somehow that will help.

Now Alexander freezes. He can't go to both of them at once, and they're both clearly in distress or pain. He looks from Itzhak, to August, to Itzhak - and then moves towards August. Because he knows what's wrong with Itzhak - burns suck. But the other man's distress is less well known. "August? Are you -- is there something you need?" He creeps up behind August, and reaches out to hover a hand over the man's shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just--the burn, and it's hurting him, and..." And August is listening to both without meaning to. Again. He needs to stop doing that, but he can't right now. (Can't...won't.)

He straightens, wipes at his mouth. "I'll be okay. Thanks though." Well, it's a good thing he hasn't had lunch. Itzhak's pain is hammering at him, and the sound he makes causes it to redouble. 'Fix this now!' plays on repeat, the amplifier cranked to 11 and the dial yanked off.

He turns to Itzhak. "Sorry, I don't know what that--okay. Okay lemme try to--" He almost moves towards Itzhak, ready to reach for him, pulls up short and holds up his hand, stares at it. An array of gleaming sparks dances along his fingertips, whirling together as he moves his hand. "I don't know what's happening," he says, watching them with unease. They cast a faint, yellow-orange light between him and Alexander.

Itzhak's nerves are lit up with the endless siren wail of WE'RE HURT WE'RE HURT WE'RE HURT, screaming for something to be done. He grips the hell out of his wrist as if to pinch the signals off, his teeth bared in a pain-reflex grimace. "Fffffucking..." He turns his eyes up to August (he's still curled over his hand), to the dancing sparks.

When August straightens, Alexander makes a hasty retreat back a few paces. He stares at the gleaming sparks. "...that would be pyrokinesis. You make fire. Try to make less of it? Deep, calm breaths, aim away from flammable things. Like us." And then he's scurrying back towards Itzhak. "Do you have a first aid kit in the shop?" His tone suggests that of COURSE Itzhak does.

August gives Alexander a truly worried look. "I mean I've--I can make things burn." He swallows, casts a pained look at Itzhak, "people or animals. Plants, stuff--not synthetic, though. But not..." He looks at his hand again, "Not usually like this. This is different." Another swallow. "I don't know how I'm doing it."

He takes a shaking breath in, out. "Come on," he murmurs, staring at his own hand. "Knock it off." The sparks ripple, dance, swirl. They don't fade.

"Goddamnit." Well, maybe he can try healing Itzhak again. That will take care of one of the things making him crazy. Do he does, breathing slow and careful and focusing on that instead.

"Wall. Next to. The john." Itzhak jerks his head in that direction. His eyes are streaming. "Oh fuck. This ain't. The kind of pain. I like." He laughs the last word on a hoarse rasp. Then his skin blooms back into being, first forming little islands among the wet, then those islands spread to join with each other, then the skin firms up. The nerves regrow and quiet. Itzhak whimpers again, this time in relief, and sags to his knees on the cold concrete floor. That patch on his hand is new and pale and soft, but it's skin again.

Alexander heads for the kit - although he pauses to give August an exasperated look when Itzhak's noises change tone. But he gets the first aid kit anyway, because dude's hands are on fire, and he doesn't seem to know how to shut them off. So all of this might still come in useful. When he returns, he finds a place where he can open it up and see if he can judge the mechanic for being ill prepared for medical emergencies. "You might need to...burn it out? Um. Like on a target?"

August sags, Itzhak's relief granting him some of his own. He gives Alexander a look that telegraphs Don't when it comes to the healing. "A target?" He gives his hand another puzzled look, blinks as he had an idea. He sticks it out in the rain.

The results are mixed. Where the rain hits the fire it dies, but the air reignites almost an instant later. This gives the sparks the look of a guttering candle.

He sighs, decides to try Alexander's suggestion by clicking his fingers. A proper tongue of fire leaps out, which has August jerking his hand back in surprise. It lands on the grass with glazing splash, goes dark from the rain and wet ground. August stares.

The first aid kid is pretty standard, the kind of thing you buy as a kit and then don't think about again, with a bunch of gauze packs and paper slips of pills and band aids and blunt-tipped angled scissors and cool shit like that. Itzhak is breathing fast and shallow, looking pale, sweat on his face. He looks at his hand, rubs a calloused thumb across the healed patch, discovers that was a mistake as he flinches. He clambers slowly to his feet, just long enough to collapse into one of the thrifted armchairs. "Christ. What a rush." Gradually able to recognize the world around him, he squints at Alexander. "What...just happened?"

Alexander looks at Itzhak's first aid kit and makes a noise. It's not an approving noise. "This is not Gray Harbor compliant," he claims, not quite under his breath. Then reaches for a little paper packet of aspirin, and brings his own cup of coffee and the pills to Itzhak. They're thrust in his direction. "Take these." A look back to August. "Concrete. Or metal. Something very hard to burn. Saw someone with your abilities melt a guy's head in minutes, once." It's said quite mildly, and he turns to look back at Itzhak. "I think August had a breakthrough. Maybe he drank rotgut?" A teasing look back towards August.

August's eyes widen when Alexander talks about heads melting. He swallows. Did he just wondering how close they came to that happening to Itzhak? Probably.
He makes a face. "I wish, then I'd at least have a damned hangover to blame." The suggestion that he find truly non-flammable targets is a good one, though. "Right. Something that won't burn." First though, he turns to Itzhak and says, "I'm sorry. If I'd had any idea that was going to happen, I wouldn't..." He shuts his eyes. "I'm sorry," he repeats. He doesn't wait for Itzhak to say anything, though, just turns and walks out into the rain towards the concrete barricades that serve as 'parking spot' markers. Good enough. Is he letting himself get soaking wet as punishment? Yes. Yes, he is.

Maybe...

He's never tried to interrupt his own fire. Can he? Time to find out.

Itzhak's eyes also widen in a comically exact reflection of August's. Head melting bad! As August walks out without waiting for him to say anything, he glances at Alexander. He's pale and sweaty and limp from first an explosion of pain, then an equally big explosion of endorphins. "He's been getting stronger. I felt it. Tell him it's okay, would you? Please?" Because it seems he's not getting up.

"Yeah. I will," Alexander tells Itzhak, his brow furrowing with worry for the mechanic and the botanist both. "Just...take a rest. For a moment." Then he heads out into the rain after August, not minding the cold sluice of it down his neck and spine, or the way his hair flattens almost instantly to his skull. "Hey," he says, giving August plenty of warning that he's coming. "August...you didn't mean to hurt Itzhak. And he knows that. And you know that. And he's fine. He says you've been getting stronger." He drifts closer. A pause. "When my electrokinesis went ranged, I burnt tracks all up the walls of my bathroom."

August tries to stop his own pyrokinesis. ...which complately fails to work, and small wonder. He makes a frustrated sound, tries tossing the fire off his hand, which sends an uncertain, ragged flare at the ground. It sizzles and dies almost instantly.

He looks down at the ground at Alexander approaches. "I didn't mean to. Yeah. And I still did." He closes his eyes, sways in place. "I don't want to be stronger, Alexander. I was barely getting a handle on this as it is. Now there's--more." He sets his teeth. "What if I..." What if I hurt Eleanor, or Ignacio, he's thinking but not saying. Finch seems less likely. Their Gifts protect against themselves, and Finch is strong. But Ellie...

He snorts about Alexander's bathroom. "I'd feel better if all I'd done was set my damned cabin on fire." He stands there in the rain, getting soaked. If he gets pneumonia a week before the Masq Eleanor is going to be beside herself.

The sparks on his flicker out. He raises it up, sighs. "What's after this. Do I breathe fire?"

"There's more," Alexander agrees. "But you'll get a handle on it, too. But you can't be afraid of it," he adds, quietly. "If you're afraid of it, you can't control it. Not when you really need to." He gives the man's hands a significant look. When August sways in place, Alexander's expression tightens with sympathy. He reaches out a hand, but it falters in mid-air. Trembles there for a moment, before he pulls it back, clears his throat, and shoves the traitorous thing into his jeans pocket. "You probably won't breathe fire. Although I guess you could. Nothing says it has to come out of your hands." Very reassuring, Alexander.

He nods at the concrete barriers. "Burn one. On purpose. You need to feel it working to be able to stop it working."

"There's more." August sighs, defeated. He nods in agreement, about getting a handle on it, and about not being afraid. "I'm just not...I've never been able to hurt someone with the fire. Not directly. And hurting them physically..." His voice fades. It's like biting off his own finger; he can't do it. He's wired not to. Or maybe it's possible, under the most extreme duress, but certainly he can't see himself just doing it. Not like he did to Itzhak just now.

Nausea threatens as he remembers what it looked like, felt like, smelled like. He coughs, shakes his head. "Right. If I can control it, then I'm not going to hurt people with it." Probably not 100% true, not yet, but if he had to will it into being then he damned well would.

He looks out at the concrete. The rain's faded back to a determined drizzle. He tries walking it backwards from what he knows how to do: setting normal things on fire. The possibility is there, he just moves it from 'could burn' to 'burn'. This is different, though. This is air. He's burning the air itself--the gases. Which is all fire is, anyways...

He raises his hand, holds it out. The sparks form at his fingertips once again, spin together to form a tear-drop shaped, spinning flame, tinged faintly pink-purple. He licks his lips, takes a half-step back, and lobs like he might a softball. Or a molotov cocktail.

It lands, not very neatly, splashing fire all over the barrier, scorching the concrete here and there.

"It hurts. To cause harm to others deliberately. Especially like this." Alexander's voice is quiet. He's watching August, eyes as wide as they can get considering the steady stream of rain dripping into them. "But it's just like a gun, really. One you can't put down. If you know what you're doing, you have the option to hurt someone. If you're toting it around without a clue, you're definitely gonna hurt somebody, you just don't know who or when."

He falls silent when August turns his attention to the concrete, and he edges a little distance away. Just in case things get really wild - he's already been set on fire once this week. His quota is full. There's a sharp inhale when those sparks turn to flame. It reflects in his dark gaze, and he smiles, just a little. He murmurs, "From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire." And then its thrown, and he follows its path. "Nicely done. How are you feeling, August? Physically, I mean." Emotionally is obviously complex right now.

The analogy to a gun is soothing to August, gives him a context with which he's readily familiar. "Right. Learn how to be safe and in control of it, know everything it can do, don't ever bring it to bear unless you intend to use it." He raises his hands, looks at them. There's a faint shimmer, and the air above them ripples--stops. No sparks, no heat. Okay. So...maybe he can do this. Maybe.

He rubs at his eyes. "Okay. Mostly." It's a lie; he's soaked through, freezing, probably needs Itzhak to wring him dry so he doesn't get a cold or worse. And he's tired. The fire was getting its igniting spark from him, after all. There's a reason he never uses it much.

"I guess I'll have to practice with it a bit." He makes a face, looks up overhead, finally at Alexander. "Perfect time of year for it."

Alexander breathes out a relieved sigh as the shimmer goes away. He considers August for a long moment. "Feel like you can go back inside and get dry, or do you need another blast?" Just in case. He nods solemnly at the last, though, and smiles, briefly. "Small blessings. But yes. Practice. I'm only just getting the hang of using the lightning in combat, and I've had it for a few months now. If you don't intend to use that," he gestures towards the scorch marks, "then practice as much as it's safe. A part of you will probably want to reach for it when you're scared or threatened." A pause. "Or maybe that's just me. You don't hurt people as much." It's just an observation, flat. He glances towards the service center, and frowns.

"It's just too hard for me to do," August admits. He ducks his head. "I can feel it happening, when I'm doing it. If they're not...people, I can do it. But a person," he shakes his head, grimaces. A laugh, wry and bitter. "Except throwing a punch. That I can do. I guess I might be able to shoot someone if I really had to. Not with the Gift, though." He follows Alexander's glance at the service center. "Not on purpose," he adds, voice low.

He shudders. "Yeah. Yeah, let's...get back inside." An excuse to check on Itzhak, beg his forgiveness a few more times, get a nice, solid head start on beating himself up over it for the next decade or so.

"Can't believe I have to practice throwing fireballs," he mutters.

"That's...good. That it's too hard for you. It says good things about you, August. Not all healers feel that way." His voice remains utterly without emotional resonance, but Alexander offers August a smile. "As long as you feel like that, you shouldn't be too hard on yourself." Seeing that shudder and hearing those words, he adds, "If you were clearing a tree with your coworkers, and you slipped, and a too heavy branch fell on them, or someone got cut or something, you wouldn't think that was something wrong inside of you, would you? It was an accident. It sucks. But it doesn't say anything about you. Except that you've gotten stronger, and need practice." He starts to slouch back towards the bay, pausing to hold the door open for August.

"Maybe Itzhak will have some more towels," he mutters. "And you can dry off."

Another bitter laugh. "I appreciate that you think that, Alexander, but the reason's a little more complicated than that." August coughs, runs a hand over his head to encourage the water out of his hair. "It'd be nice if it was just me being a decent person. But maybe I wouldn't know it even if that was why."

But now there's another analogy that gets August to think more clearly, and that bitterness starts to ease. "Yeah...I guess." He thinks of Jen's fall during that horrible string of bad luck they were all having. No one's fault, not really. Certainly he'd have never blamed any of them, or Jen herself.

He frowns at Alexander as they go back into the service center. Itzhak is passed out cold. August smiles faintly at the sight of him sleeping. It says 'relaxed' to him, and 'okay'.

He concentrates, his eyes sliding shut. Lift the matter Gift up--well, okay, that was more than he'd anticipated, still--

He succedes in drying his jacket. The water collapses off it onto the floor. A not insubstatial amount, and yet, every other bit of him is still wet. He tips his head back and sighs.

"Want to talk about it?" Alexander asks, staring at August for a moment. With concern, certainly, and worry. But also with that hungry curiosity that never quite leaves him.

But when August is at least willing to admit the possibility, that stare eases into a smile. "Just think of it as someone sticking a new tool in your hands and telling you to go forth. It's awkward and a dangerous, but it can be mastered." He stoops down to pick up the wet towels, and starts wringing one of them out. There's an exasperated huff when the water falls to the floor from the jacket. "August. Not every nail needs that particular hammer. I'm sure there's a bathroom in here. Go take off your damned clothes and I'll hand you some dry towels." He gives Itzhak a careful once over, but doesn't seem to see anything that concerns him.

August starts to say something, stops. "Maybe...some time. I can show you. It'll make more sense then. Talking about it, it's not...it's hard to describe what it is." He looks at Itzhak sleeping in his chair, murmurs, "But not right now." For one thing, he might want (...need) to get really drunk first.

He rolls his eyes at Alexander. "I should practice all of it, right? This much water," he gestures at Alexander, then himself, "doesn't weigh a damned thing, I should be able to move it. Just, it's slippery. Hard to shift all of it at once." He sounds frustrated about that. Getting people's cells to repair damage? Informing plants of how they're going to grow? No problem. Moving some water? Beyond the pale.

He tells himself he's not annoyed about it, heads for the bathroom to take off his clothes and wring them out.

He also makes plans to buy Itzhak a woodstove for the garage.