2019-11-14 - We Are All Very Normal

A gray November midmorning in Gray Harbor. Gray and gray and gray but Steelhead Service Center is lit up from within. The lights are on! Somebody is home! Somebody is also playing violin music from within. Itzhak has his poor neglected rental violin out and he's fiddling while nothing else is going on. This one's a sailor's jig, made for dancing. He plays and snaps the toe of his boot against the concrete in time, grinning to himself.

A wild Alexander appears! He's slouching his way to Steelhead and stops when he hears the violin music. A smile lights up his intense features, and he moves towards the bay doors. He's not eager for the music to stop, so this time he doesn't knock on the door, but just sees if he can let himself in without causing a lot of noise, and meander towards the snake enclosure to say hi to Lemondrop while waiting for Itzhak to notice him.

Lemondrop is sleepy, her mind and her metabolism very slow and quiet. It's cold out there, her internal thermostat knows. Cold means sleepy time, until it's warm again. She half-flicks her tongue out at Alexander, a single blep. Her eyes are open (of course, snakes don't have eyelids) but she's not that home, herself.

Itzhak, without looking, picks up Alexander's presence. Something about his shine is a little different, a touch stronger in one area and weaker, or rather nonexistent, in another. Overall he glows so vividly it's barely possible to tell either thing. The point is, he looks at him, still bowing hot, and that grin gets aimed at Alexander while Itzhak finishes out the song. He can really make that fiddle roar, filling the whole space and some of the outside too. "Hey there, stranger!" he says, chipper as anything.

There is the low throaty hum of a finely tuned motorcycle engine as it crawls along the surrounding streets, throttled low against the seemingly constant wet roads of late. It purrs up to the bay door that's slightly risen, and after a moment of idling, it cuts off completely so the merry notes of Itzhak's song can continue without a base line. Oh, hey, remember that guy you popped in the mouth during karaoke, Itzhak? That would be him, traipsing into the garage in a black leather jacket thrown over flannel and white tank, dark jeans and works boots.

"You're very restful," Alexander tells the snake, low and fond. "I want to take a nap just looking at you." But he doesn't disturb her further, as Itzhak's grin gets aimed in his direction. He ambles over that away, hands in his pockets. His sweater is usually horrible, and this is no exception. "Hello, Itzhak. How are you doing? I understand Isolde lightninged you?" He breaks off from the friendly interrogation as a shadow enters. His head swivels in that direction, and his face goes from friendly to wary in an instant. "Mister Cruz. Hello."

"She lightninged me real good!" Itzhak says, eyebrows up like that was awesome. He sets his fiddle in its glossy, cherry-red hard case, the bow on the music stand, and comes over to shove the right sleeve of his hoodie up and show Alexander his bitchin' new scar. It's twisty and fractal, fernlike, seared white into the skin like it cooked out all the melanin. "Saved my life, that girl." He is so proud! Kvelling, like he'd say in his native tongue. Isolde saved his life and here is the proof, right on his arm for everybody to see.

His other favorite music, a well-tuned motor, approaches. "Wonder who that is." After a moment, well, it's Cristobal. Itzhak blinks at him, and tints red across his cheekbones and noble nose. "Uh, hey. Look, sorry about the, punching."

Cris doesn't step in very far into the garage, lingering near the door as his sharp blue eyes tick around to include its occupants, including the large reptile, noting but not lingering on the blush that's cresting Itzhak's cheeks. "That's a shame." He says off-handedly to Itzhak's apology, idly twirling the keychain for the bike around his finger. "The Tolerable Mister Clayton, good to see you again." It's a repetitive motion born out of either irritation or subtle anxiety, the constant twirl/catch of the keychain around his finger into the clasp of his palm. "You open?" The latter apparently for the shop owner.

"Isolde is a good person to have in a tight spot," Alexander agrees, with a faint smile. He doesn't ask for details, though. His eyes remain on Cristobal, not hostile, but that same reptilian sort of stare, weighted and thoughtful. "Why'd you hit him?" he asks Itzhak, without moving his gaze from Cristobal. Because more data is required.

Itzhak snorts and rolls his eyes, still a titch red. "Nevahmind then. Yeah I'm open. Whaddaya got?" Whew, that accent of his, Jewish New York as chocolate egg creams and Mel Brooks. He swaggers over to whap the switch that opens the bay door. "I hit him because he dropped a shitty pickup line on me," he calls over his shoulder to Alexander. "Also I was real drunk. It was karaoke night." Like that explains everything. "Coulda coped with the bad pickup line if I wasn't also smashed, so, there ya go." He flips his fingers out at both Alexander and Cristobal, whaddayagonnado.

"He called me on my shit." Cris further explains to Alexander as he walks towards the opening bay door. "Which is hot as fuck, but now Ruiz is boning him, so it's strictly hands off. Otherwise that would've earned him a follow up beer and a more charming come-on. Day late, dollar short." Whaddayagonnado. The opening bay door reveals a '66 Triumph parked just outside, "Harry Sutton had to ground it to avoid an accident. Said I'd get it fixed for her." It has some gouges and scratches in the paint and a few minor dents in the tank.

Alexander's eyebrows go up. "All right, then," he says, to both men. The news of Ruiz banging Itzhak gets a side-eye towards the mechanic, but no real surprise. And if he's upset at the idea, it doesn't show. He steps up to the bay to look out at as the bike is revealed, and there's the flicker of a smile. "That's a pretty bike. I understand Sutton's healing up from that, at least."

That look that was on Itzhak's face just before he popped Cristobal? Yeah that's back on him as he whips around, eyes wide and hot, lip curled. "What. The. FUCK?! How did--" he chokes back that question, instead growls, "That ain't none a ya fuckin' business, pal! So keep ya mouth shut!" Or I'll fucking shut it for you; Itzhak doesn't say that, but he doesn't need to. It's all there in the hard glint of his hazel eyes.

Then he blushes bright, brilliant red, and does not look at Alexander. He stomps over to the bike. Itzhak's fury settles a little as he sees the Triumph. "Oy, what a shame to scrape up this beauty. Well, she sounds like she's running fine." He crouches next to it, putting his hands all over the gas tank and frame, feeling the machine up.

Cris' hands come up in capitulation, the keychain dangling from his middle finger to bounce against his palms. "You're right. None of my business. Was just explaining why there wasn't a follow up." But there is just the barest hint of a smile he can't quite contain as Itzhak flares up again. He did say it was hot, after all.

Cris lowers his hands glancing back at Alexander. "She's a tough bird. She'll bounce back from anything." A few languid strides draws him back into Itzhak's peripheral as the mechanic examines the bike. "I didn't feel any hiccups on the ride over, but I couldn't really open 'er up in this weather. So the question is, do you do body work?"

"Itzhak," Alexander says, quietly. As if it might calm the turbulent mechanic. He shifts a little to try to catch his eye despite the avoidance. If he can, he just gives the man a smile, then settles back to let him do his job. The investigator is definitely no help here. "I don't know her well," he admits to Cristobal, "but she wields a mean bucket of bleach." That may not make a lot of sense, but he seems content to let it lie there so he can stare at Cristobal some more. "Are you friends with Javier?" he asks, at last, with open curiosity.

Itzhak sucks in a breath, lets it out between his teeth when Alexander says his name like that. He risks a flick of a glance over at him, and his shoulders relax when Alexander smiles at him. He doesn't manage to smile back, too full of angry embarrassment, but his ferocious tension eases further. "Yeah, I can fix 'er up," he mutters to Cristobal, and stands. He's a tall thin drink of water, this guy. "Roll her in." He saunters back into the garage, waving Cristobal along with him.

In answer to Alexander's question, Cristobal just gives a drawn out, "NNnnope." As if there's more to it, complications rolled into that one syllable that are implied but not voiced. The arms of his jacket crease with the subtle stress of muscles as he centers the weight of the bike and heels up the stand with a sharp movement. Leaning his back into it, he pushes the Triumph forward and walks it into the bay instead of cranking the engine up and motoring it inside. "I'll give you my number for when it's done." He jams the stand back down and leans the bike carefully over, twisting the handle bars to match. "But I want to pay for it up front, in case Harry picks it up herself. If there's still a balance, text me and I'll drop off cash same day."

Alexander studies Cristobal for a moment longer, then bobs his head in a nod. It's an answer that makes perfect sense to him, really. He steps out of the way of the bike being brought in, but once it's in, he slips up close to be able to study the vehicle in more detail. He doesn't try to touch, though. Another glance to Cristobal. "But you're Sutton's friend, then? If you're paying for her bike." Still that open, hungry curiosity. He has a MAP of people, and it needs updating.

Itzhak is so glad Alexander is here to ask the awkward questions for him. Nevertheless he shoots him a bemused look: 'dude, really?' But he's not about to stop him. Alexander goes after answers like a crow goes after something shiny in an overgrown field. He hands over his phone to Cristobal to let him put in his number. "Works for me," he says, about the payment plans, "write ya a quote."

"Nope." Comes his answer again about Sutton, Cris either not feeling the need to or the want to when it comes to explaining how he got mixed up in everything. He eyes Itzhak handing him his phone for a moment, and then finally takes it, punching in his number and apparently saving it under gilipollas which loosely translates to dick head. Because it amuses him. He hands it back before he fishes out money clip and starts thumbing out bills.

Alexander seems oblivious to the bemused look. His brow is furrowed and his expression flickers with frustration. "That makes no sense, then. Explain." There's a long, sort of awkward pause. "Sorry. You don't have to. I just," he makes a noise, and scowls at the bike, which does not deserve that.

So, so, so awkward. Itzhak's stomach feels like some sadistic clown attempted to make a balloon animal out of it. He swallows, not looking at either of the other men, but casting a longing glance in the direction of his violin. He shoves his phone back in a pocket without checking it and crouches by the Triumph again, rubbing his thumb over the dents and scratches. The paint and thin strips of metal are peeled off in long curls in spots. Itzhak clucks to the bike in Yiddish and pets it. Because he's perfectly normal and retreating from an intensely awkward conversation by turning his attention to an inanimate object is ALSO perfectly normal.

Cris turns his face back to Alexander so his sharp blue gaze dances over the other man's face as if trying to read micro expressions. His own face cracks into a wide grin that's matched by a mischievous glint to his eyes, replete with a smatter of tiny lines around his eyes that will some day progress into full on crow's feet. "Nope. Nothing I have to say wouldn't further raise your friend's hackles here, then he'll start swinging, I'll pop a boner, and it's all downhill from there." It's like he's intentionally crude to avoid certain points in conversation, a tact Alexander has witnessed before at the Platinum. As Itzhak crouches down to examine the damage, Cris passes over the keys - on a little pink frosted donut enamel keychain - and a fold of five hundred dollars to get the ball rolling. "Thanks again."

"Why would violence make you aroused? That doesn't really make a lot of sense, either." Alexander is just full of awkward questions. But he seems to note Itzhak's (very clear) discomfort, and so he just huffs out a breath, and adds, "Never mind. I'm sure it makes sense to other people. Sorry." He shoves his hands in his pockets, and just prowls around the bay, snooping around to see what's been moved, changed, or added since the last time he was here.

"Oh my GOD," Itzhak mutters savagely under his breath. First it's Cris talking about how Itzhak punching him is boner-inducing, then... "Alexander!" Itzhak is officially as red as a tomato. He covers his eyes with one forearm. Is it possible to spontaneously combust from embarrassment? Itzhak might be a pioneer in the field. "I'll explain it to you later." But hearing himself say that doesn't really help. He makes a frustrated wordless 'rrrrg!' sound and takes the keys and money from Cristobal. "Okay, look, it'll take me a few days, I'll text you when it's done."

"Now you know why I used to fight MMA." Cris says with his grin turning into more of a smirk. The words take on a conspiratorial tone, a wink flashed to Itzhak with the hand off.

"No real rush on the bike. I imagine she's going to stow it now for the season anyways. More about the peace of mind that her baby is back to normal." He raises a hand in parting to Alexander, "Stay tolerable, Clayton."

"An erection in the middle of a fight would probably be inconvenient," Alexander just can't resist pointing out. Possibly because he's trying to make Itzhak actually explode from embarassment, but it seems like a sincere and well-meaning observation. Still, he doesn't press any further than that, and just watches Cristobal. A brief, jerky nod at the hand in parting. "Try not to get punched more than is required for your sexual satisfaction, Mister Cruz," he responds, pleasantly enough.

Itzhak just shuts his eyes. He can't cope. He can't! "Okay yes fine great see you then." He storms off behind the counter to boop open the cash register with a vengeance, still as red as the word.

There is a new addition to his garage, turns out, and it's a third-or-fourth-hand battered dresser kinda thing, serving as a sideboard next to Itzhak's improvised waiting area. He's put coffee on it and hot water for tea, and the other stuff that in New York would get you called a sissy but in the PNW is de rigeur.