2019-11-12 - About a Bird

It's a blustery fall day, with big, heavy thunderheads driven by a hard ocean wind. Ideal for a thundersnow, but August expects they've got a few more weeks before any of that starts.

Too windy to be in a tree, and they're going to be closing soon, so he sent everyone else home early so he could work on the allotment gardens. Two in particular are ahead of the rest owing to someone's hard work; they're fully dug out, raised beds set, and in the process of having framing and trellises added. The rest have had the clay, gravel, and hard pack replaced with proper soil, but otherwise are a simple series of dark squares and rectangles, staggered along a rock and crushed shell path leading to the private greenhouse in back.

August is walking among the plots, making notes on his tablet. He's in his black, leather motorcycle jacket, a dark red, long sleeved Henley, denim jeans, and his workboots. He sends Ruiz a text indicating that when he arrives, he should come though the outdoor collection and out to the back.

At some point in the last few minutes, a vehicle pulled up into the shop's lot. With the clock ticking toward closing time, there's only one other customer still hanging about, and only on account of not being able to pick between a decorative gnome and decorative flamingo for her lawn. Decisions, decisions. The tallish, middle-aged man who comes prowling on through views both of her choices with mild amusement, then keeps on going. He's dressed somewhat similarly: black motorcycle jacket, dark jeans, charcoal grey tee shirt with some sort of faded pentagram on it. Hands jammed into the pockets of said jacket, he rolls on up to where August is taking notes, and skims his eyes over the raised bed of one of the trellised gardens.

"It's nice in here. Relaxing." He sniffs once, allergies perhaps. "This a bad time?"

Inside, Thoma eyes the five minute friend when he arrives, but then as he heads towards the back she realizes this is who August said would be showing up and to not shoo him off or lock the door pre-emptively. And so, she turns her attention back to the final, dithering customer, the soul of patience. (It's a facade, inside she's ranting to herself about how she hates that they carry those things and it was Ully and Ignacio's idea of a joke but they sold well so August kept ordering them and sometimes she wants to slip habanero sauce into their coffee when they aren't looking.)

August glances up when Ruiz draws closer, makes a few final notes and clicks the tablet screen off. "Thanks. That's why we're all the way out here." Because working in town proper is a hard pass for him. His attention flicks to the shop a moment, where Thoma is watching the customer with that practiced, laser precision, service person smile that suggests 'no hurry, take your time' yet which really means 'why are you doing this to me'. Out here, for the moment, then.

"Not a bad time at all. What can I do for you." Like Thoma, August has an expression of his own, but there's no duplicity here: he's curious. But he's also patient.

Ruiz probably has some idea of what's going through poor Thoma's mind as she patiently tends to the dithering customer. Irritation; it has its own shape and its own taste in his mind's eye; sharp and angular. Not that he spends long at all running his senses over the surface of her emotions. He's got other things on his mind today, and his focus is largely on August as he loiters nearby.

"I think you know very well why I'm here," he replies, low-voiced. "Miss Ce-" He hesitates. "Finch. She sought me out, turns out she's my kid." Not, claims she's my kid. He seems convinced of this fact, for one reason or another. "I, uh." He blows a breath out his nose, then goes silent again.

Thoma's surface level emotion is, indeed, irritation, held in check only by years and years of experience at this kind of work. (She's been working in some form of shop or another for a decade.) Finally, it's the gnome. Thoma's relief is palpable, so much so even August tosses her a sideways look, his mouth twitching in a suppressed smile.

While she finishes up in the shop, August lowers his table, holding it like he might a clipboard in front of himself. He studies Ruiz for several seconds, plainly deciding just how many of his cards are going on the table. "Yeah, I was there. When she found the picture." A flash of sympathy flits through his eyes. "I also heard your first chat didn't go real smooth."

The table is watched curiously for a moment, then his dark eyes flick up to August's face. He looks tired. More tired than usual; this hasn't been a good week. "You were there? Where?" He prowls in a bit closer, not confronting the taller man head-on, but rather obliquely. He paces around him, watches him from the side like the wolf he is in the kythe. His hackles aren't up. Yet. But he's wary. "We met for coffee this morning. It was.." What was it, Javier? "Fine."

August tilts his head at Ruiz's approach. Again his attention shifts to the store, where Thoma is just closing up. She waves, he waves back, and she heads out, locking the front door and flipping the WE'RE OPEN sign to CLOSED. Her little old Honda hatchback can be heard puttering away not a minute later.

He looks to Ruiz again, placid in the face of that prowling. This is a different sort of situation. Itzhak is one thing. Finch is another. "Turns out it was in their house the whole time. She just had to convince her mom and Great Aunt to help her find it." He sighs, rubs at his eyes. "Which was it's own thing, but, maybe that's not a surprise."

A nod about the coffee meetup. "Good. That's a step in the right direction." Or he assumes so, as Finch didn't ask him to go out with her and blow anything up again.

There's no real prickliness to the cop today. No real bite in his voice, or posturing going on. It may not be entirely clear what he wants from August, but a fight does not seem to be it. "So she's been looking for him." Her father. As if him were someone else, and not him. Or perhaps he only assumes she wishes it were someone else; he's about the least fit person to be her father that she could have hoped to find in this godforsaken town, after all.

"Maybe," he concedes. Then, "I hope so. I'm curious why she went looking. She's got her own life. She's got you. She doesn't need me." He watches the other man steadily.

August frowns, drums his fingers on his tablet. "She didn't tell you why?" He seems to doubt that, though since he knows Finch, he also suspects she might not have communicated it so well. He hesitates, then nods at the shop. "Come on. I've got cider, coffee, tea in the office." Also, it's getting cold, and Thoma's gone. They'll have privacy.

The outdoor collection is buttoned up for the night, delicate plants tarped and breakables shuttled back indoors. August leads the way through the back area into the patio, running a hand along a series of blooming cabbages as he goes. The main lights are still on, though the regiter tablet is stowed away (the truest sign they're closed) and the front lights are off. Inside, the office sits at the back, with a glass window looking out into the shop that can have a set of blinds dropped down over it. There's an old, chrome, 50s table with a set of motley chairs, some filing cabinets festooned with indoor plants (string of pearls, sedum, spider plants, numerous types of air plants), and a large, scarred, oak desk with an equally aged oak office chair.

There's no response from de la Vega until after they're encsonced in that back room, and the door shut. He'd have helped, of course, to haul things in; brawn he's got in spades, and clearly keeps himself in shape despite working a desk job. Some dust from a bag of potting soil is wiped off on his pants absently, once they're alone, and his ball cap tugged off so he can rifle his fingers through dark, slightly squashed hat hair.

"She said something about a curse," he confides finally, replacing his cap and going for a slow prowl around the room while he waits for August's thoughts on that. "Ring a bell?"

Fortunately there's only a little left to do, and it's overwith just as one of the larger supercells settles overhead and starts to rain.

August settles himself in the oak chair, sets the tablet to charging. He leans back and pulls a pear cider from the minifridge to set on his desk, gestures at the fridge and the coffee and tea assembly on top of it. "Help yourself if you want."

He cracks open the bottle and has a sip. The office is tidy, and has a number of amusing little posters and flyers stuck to the various walls. There's a window out onto a small grotto garden; the chimes in it ring in the wind and rain. "Yeah. Ugly piece of work. Every other generation the oldest woman in the family is forced to kill all the men. As a sacrifice to a harpy. Maybe one from Over There." He pauses there, unsure how much Ruiz was told, not totally sure it's is place to explain the finer points.

Instead, he addresses something he didn't outside. "Back to this whole, having me and not needing you, thing." He looks directly at Ruiz. "Sure--we're close. But it's not about just one person having that role in her life. And, like it or not, because you share blood, that alone's probably relevant to the whole," he waves a hand, "Curse thing. So even on that alone, there's a need. But beyond that," he leans forward, "all she knows of parents, is that they try to fucking kill you, and abandon you. You've got a chance to change that."

The rain, and the wind buffeting the trees and lifting the tubular-shaped bells, like silvery streamers in the gathering gloom draw Javier's attention for a long while. He can feel the static in the air, even in here. He can taste the electricity and every fibre of him responds to it. There's a tic in his jaw when he turns away from the window, and looks back to August after perusing one or two of the pithy posters on the wall behind him. "Si. She told me about that, too."

And then the last bit of wisdom, and he starts to speak. And stops. His lips twitch. "I don't think I'm equipped to be anyone's father. Much less hers. You have no idea.." He trails off there, uncertain how to finish that sentence. Though really, August must have some idea. However distant their orbits, they do pass close to one another occasionally, and surely have had glimpses into one another's minds.

August leans back in his chair, surveying Ruiz. "You're right," he says, finally. "I have no idea. But I can guess. Severity, if not...specifics." He looks out at the grotto. "Thing is, I don't think anyone's actually equipped to be a father. Everyone makes it up as they go. And sure, you've been through shit. Bad shit." He has some cider, regards Ruiz again. "And so have I. I don't say this as some sort of, one-up-manship thing about who's had it worse. Just to point out, I'm far from some kind of, fatherly platonic ideal. I will be dealing with what Bosnia did to me for the rest of my life. That's just how it is. So certainly I don't know if I'm objectively more suited than you to be a dad. I can't even live in the city full time."

He shakes his head, waves that aside. "But it wouldn't matter if I was. This isn't about me. It's about you and her. She found out it was you, and came to you. So what this is, is whether or not you think you can help one another. Because," he coughs a laugh, "as I'm sure you've noticed," he's smiling now, "she doesn't need to be raised. She's an adult. But there's a lot more to being a parent after they're out on their own. You could still have that." He toys with his bottle of cider. "And maybe she can give you something too."

Ruiz thinks on that for a while, hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket, weathered face limned in stormlight as he half watches August, and half watches the thunderheads roll in, pregnant with rain.

Finally, he shifts toward the table with the coffee and tea, and pulls a hand out of his pocket, and gets to pouring himself something. No sugar, no milk. Might've acquired that particular taste in the military. "Why can't you live in the city full time?" The question's casual, but the undercurrent's not. His dark eyes seek August's with a deep, hungry curiosity that's not entirely unlike Alexander's. Then, "Maybe." A breath's blown out his nose. "When I lost my son, I accepted that I wasn't.. fit to be a parent. I couldn't keep him from dying. And don't tell me she doesn't need me to protect her, because that's fucking bullshit. THAT IS THE JOB OF A FATHER." His voice, so often low and steady, does not lend itself to shouting. Which makes his sudden outburst all the more uncharacteristic of him.

He sucks in air in the wake of that, and releases it shakily, and sets down the coffee cup. Silence.

August shifts when Ruiz shouts, eyes narrowing, jaw set. Several responses come to mind; Ruiz can feel, on the emotional surface, that a couple are particularly unfriendly. But August directs these aside, turns the pear cider bottle in his hand while watching Ruiz unflinchingly. He takes in a breath, lets it out. "I'm sorry. That's the worst thing that can happen to a parent." He weighs what to say next carefully. "But unless there's something about you which I'm very wrong about, that wasn't your fault." He holds up a hand. "I'm sure you don't agree with that. But I'm entitled to my own measure of you." Now he runs a hand through his hair. He's not going to argue what a father's job is; for one thing, they're not going to agree culturally. To say nothing of numerous other ways. "And what Finch really needs is support. People to be there for her. Because if this curse comes for her, she's going to wind up killing people she cares about."

A few seconds of silence, then he answers the earlier question. "When I'm in town," he looks out the front of the shop, "on the sidewalk, driving, in a store. All I hear is shells falling. I smell that," he rubs his fingers together, "concrete smell, mixed with old cordite. And people's injuries...I'm bad, about not listening for those." He shrugs, has some cider. "War is the gift that keeps on giving."

Ruiz seems as much taken aback by his sudden bellow as August is. He may not be a gentle soul, but he is not a shouter. He's spilled a bit of the coffee on his tee shirt, but after a glance, deems it unworthy of further attention. The fabric's dark, anyway. "Lo siento," he murmurs after a long pause, both to cogitate upon the other man's words, and come down from whatever wound him up. He rifles his fingers through his hair, scratches the back of his neck, and reaches for his cup of coffee finally. "Be there for her. Well I'm fucking here, aren't I?"

The rest of what August says seems to have sobered the cop up though, somewhat. He drinks his coffee, and nods once with the description of what sounds, effectively, like PTSD exacerbated by the Gift. "After Afghanistan, I.." Whatever he was going to say is aborted. He shakes his head, and finishes instead with, "It must be hell. I'm sorry."

August nods in response to the apology, leans back to fetch a couple of napkins from the top of the minifridge. He offers them over. "I don't mean semi-conscious and in the same county," he says, tone turning wry for a second. "I mean, getting to know her. And letting her get to know you." He gestures at Ruiz. "She's half-Mexican. You're the one who can teach her what that means. She can't get that from Ignacio, or Itzhak, or me, or Dove. Only from you. And look," he leans back in his chair, "maybe you're not up for that right now. That's fine. We'll start with the curse. Help us get her," his eyebrows go up, "and you, out from under that. After that," he shrugs, "take it a little at a time. See if it works."

He makes a low sound, nods. "Afghanistan." He says it in a way which suggests he's heard stories; a lot of them, in group therapy. An acknowledgement that he's aware of what might be contained in 'after'. "Yeah it is," he murmurs. "It's like any other scar, though. You learn how to live your life with it. Because you have to." He clears his throat, makes a face. "Thanks."

Cider done, he tosses the bottle into the recycling. "We have to do some research, see if this...harpy, is one of Theirs. Go Over There, talk to whoever we need to talk to." He smiles, wry. "You know--real family bonding type stuff."

The napkins - and August - are watched steadily for a few moments. Then grudgingly accepted. Like a wary dog, uncertain if it wants to get too close to a bigger one. He dabs at the mess on his shirt, which isn't truthfully too bad. Then balls up the napkins and pitches them into the nearby garbage. "She asked me what it was like. Veracruz. Tijuana." Where he's from, presumably. "I told her she wasn't missing out on anything." He watches August steadily, then flickers a wry smile. "Might be best to start with the curse. Si."

"And yes. You keep going because you have to. But it helps to know that there are others who get it, all the same." It's almost an olive branch of sorts, offered to the man. An if you want to talk, some time that isn't quite said.

"You can count me in, then. On any of this.. research. Not sure how helpful I'll be, but." He finishes off his coffee, sets the mug down, and looks to the other man. "Just keep me in the loop. Yeah?"

August watches Ruiz in turn, so still he could be a statue holding out some napkins if not for the occasional blink. He grunts about Tijuana and Veracruz. "Well, I meant culturally, but," he raises an eyebrow, "that's for you to decide, ultimately. I think you both might get something out of getting to know one another. Just something to think about."

He makes a low sound. "It does help, yeah." He looks away a moment, back at Ruiz. "Doesn't always have to be someone who went through the same thing, either. Some kinds of suffering, they resonate." It's a maybe. It's also possible he's not taking about just Finch at this moment.

But then he is again. A shrug about the research they'll be doing and Ruiz's usefulness there. "You're no less capable there than we are. Only a few people really know this kind of stuff. We're not necessarily them, but we'll have to become them. And if we go Over There," one brow rises, "it wouldn't hurt to have you with us. If you're comfortable with that."

Ruiz's lips twitch slightly, like he's not sure what to think of the first thing August said. He slants another look to the window, the storm in full force out there, and rolls his shoulders to settle his jacket more evenly, shoves his hands in the pockets. "Si. I agree. We'll have to become them." He meets August's gaze a moment, then prowls for the door. "I've got to head off. And the question isn't whether I'm comfortable with it, Roen. The question is whether I'll do it. And the answer is yes." His fingers pause on the handle. "Thanks for the talk. Te veo luego."

August smiles, small and faint. There's a topic not being discussed, but Ruiz came to talk about Finch. He's happy to leave it at that.

"Understood. I'll let you know when we have anything to go on." He leans in his chair. "And you're welcome. If you need to talk again let me know. I'm invested in her being okay, and I don't mind helping with that when and where I can." A nod at the storm outside. "Careful out there. This one's a mess."

The cop watches August a beat longer, perfectly fucking aware that there's something not being discussed here tonight. Then a twitch of his lips, and he turns to go without another word.