2019-11-18 - Surprise Dinner!

Knock knock! Itzhak's voice calls through the door. "'Ey! Ya home?" He's standing on the porch, having observed the flowerbeds and the new mailbox (what happened to the old one, anyway?), and he's got a paper bag of groceries in one big hand. He didn't text first, maybe he's feeling a little impulsive. It's raining, and he's wearing a battered GHPD hoodie that Alexander is probably familiar with, as it belongs to Ruiz. Well, it belonged to Ruiz, past tense.

Is Itzhak tired of rain, yet? BECAUSE RAIN ISN'T TIRED OF ITZHAK! It pours steadily from a leaden sky, and it's a good idea to stay on even the cracked pavement and sidewalks of Elm street, because the browning grass can hide a soupy mess that tries to devour one's ankles. It's cold, too, and the wind from the sea has a bite to it that reminds everyone that winter is just around the corner. As a result, Alexander's been holed up in the house all day, working on research and chores, rather than roaming around the town without umbrella or car. He's currently in the living room, sitting on the shabby carpet, with case materials strewn all the way around his body. Some of them are obscured by the lounging body of a fluffy white cat, while a green bird paces around on Alexander's shoulders, whistling. "You know," he tells them, "I don't actually need research assistants. Especially ones without thumbs."

He is ignored. At least these assistants don't comprehend the bloody nature of a few of the photos on the ground. He looks up at the knock on the door, and a smile blooms as he recognizes the voice. He stands up and tiptoes around his paperwork, while Luigi squawks indignantly and flies back to his cage. The door is opened, and Itzhak is waved inside quickly in deference to the rain. "Hey." The hoodie is noted, not remarked upon, but clearly noticed. "I'm home." A pause. "Which is obvious, since I answered the door. Sorry. Or, were you looking for Isolde? She's out."

"Lookin' for you, tateleh," Itzhak says, flashing Alexander a crooked, tired half-smile. He steps in, spattered with rain, the grocery bag bearing dark splats. "Whew. God damn, they were not kiddin' when they said it would rain for months straight. How's by ya?" He paws down the hood and unzips the sweatshirt, one-handed. Hoisting the grocery bag invitingly, he says, "I brought stuff to cook for ya. Promised you I would, right?" There's papers and bird, and cat!, and it's all very Alexander in here and Itzhak smiles, a little more relaxed. He gets out of the damp hoodie to hang it up. Underneath he's wearing one of those goofy violin t-shirts of which he has an endless supply. This one is just silkscreened to look like a violin.

The smile is met with a brighter, non-crooked one from Alexander. "Really? I'm glad. And I'm okay - I did accidentally upset the chair of the Historical Society by exposing her to a ghost. That wasn't great. But I warned her." He reaches out to take the hoodie as Itzhak gets it off, and hang it on the back of the door. "And you brought things to cook?" Curiosity and pleasure light up his features, and he leans in to peer into the bag. "That's exciting," he murmurs, with enthusiasm threading the words. The sight of the violin shirt makes him say, "I was glad to hear you playing again. It's beautiful. How are you doing?"

"Who, Clarissa whatshername? I met her. She got a set of lungs on her, that one." Itzhak whistles to Luigi, not expecting a warm welcome there but making the effort. "I brought a bribe for featherbutt over there, too, maybe he'll like it. Whatcha workin' on?"

The bag has cans of tomatoes, a couple big yellow onions, anaheim peppers, eggs, and a fresh loaf of sourdough, the kind that's 'rustic' and crusty. Itzhak explains all this with, "I'll make shakshuka, it's real easy." Then, when Alexander says he's been hearing him play again, his smile grows complex and he ducks his head a little. "Took a while. I just...after the funeral..." he shrugs, and makes to go to the kitchen.

"Bribe? Luigi likes bribes. It just takes time, with him. He wasn't well treated." Alexander glances over to the cage, where Luigi has bobbed his head in response to the whistle. Bob, bob, and then back to ringing the nearest bell like it might drive the invader from his home. "Kruger murders. I'm still trying to put together a series of events that makes sense to me. It's harder than you'd think, because I feel like I'm definitely missing data." He frowns. "Broke into the casino, found the murder weapon, but it's not like that's necessarily a," he pauses and laughs, "smoking gun, under the circumstances."

He follows Itzhak to the kitchen. "What is shakshuka?" There's no hesitation at getting fed something he's never heard of, just curiosity. "And there's no shame in needing time, Itzhak. Time's important." He takes up a space that's out of the way, like it's not his kitchen, and leans against the wall, his arms crossed.

Itzhak, mid-unloading, makes a throttled startled sound in his chest and snaps his gaze to Alexander. "You what? You broke into the casino?" Then he's laughing, sudden and helpless, hand going over his face and sagging against the counter. "Sandushka! You fuckin' reprobate! ...Alexander, sorry, but holy shit, you went there." He needs a minute, laughing until he's red-faced and teary.

"Technically, I didn't. The security guards let us in," Alexander says, looking just a shade indignant at Itzhak's reaction. "We did end up breaking a couple of cameras along the way, but that was on accident. I'm not a reprobate. I am an investigator of unconventional means." Watch him frown! He is frowning! His eyes are laughing a little, maybe, but the frown is clearly meant to be ferocious. Doesn't quite make it, though; Itzhak's laughter makes it hard to hold, too.

"Sure. Technically, and accidentally you broke the cameras." Itzhak's grinning and not least because Alexander is adorable making that face at him. All of Itzhak's crow's-feet and the lines of a hard-lived life on his face are showing. "Unconventional, that's you all over." His fingers flicker outwards, as if he wants to touch or hug or even kiss the guy, but he catches himself, and turns the motion into pulling out the rest of the groceries. Smooth, Rosencrantz. "Uh, so, anyway." One of the things he gets out is a little bag of dried fruit: mango, papaya, banana chips, apple. "That's for Luigi, thought I could offer him a treat if it was okay with you. Shakshuka, that's a kinda spicy tomato sauce with eggs, and you eat it with bread. Got a knife, cutting board?"

The question of his violin he's avoiding a little bit. He struggles to cope with those feelings. And other feelings, too.

Alexander has a lot of knives. And for a guy who doesn't cook much, they're all kept very sharp. He also has a cheap plastic cutting board. Which is found, and placed near the food on the counter, along with a knife Alexander pulls from the butcher's block and handles with an easy if unconventional familiarity - his grip suggests he's more used to stabbing things with more resistance than steak. He sets it down on the cutting board before retreating back to his corner, smiling. "Well, it's true. I just wanted to shut the camera down for a little. Not fry it. I need to learn more about electrical systems." He watches with interest. "Those are all fine, for treats. Um. Not all of them at once, of course. I don't think he's had papaya before, so he'll probably be a little cautious about it. That one last."

At the explanation, he perks visibly. "I like all the words you just said, food wise." He notes the avoidance, and the struggle - he doesn't immediately ask about them, but his dark eyes are fixed on Itzhak, weighing and thinking.

Itzhak rummages around for a pan. Butter he brought with him. He takes the knife, one eyebrow quirked at how Alexander handles it and how damn sharp it is. Okay, let's not get on that train of thought, it has stops in Creepyville and Violencetown. He just sets to dicing the onion, which he does with a fair amount of competence if not real skill. "So, uh, yeah, you probably already know, but I guess I oughta tell you, de la Vega and me are kinda having a thing." Such nonchalance that Itzhak absolutely does not pull off! He's nervous and it's obvious.

Pans can be found! Not a wide variety of them, but a couple of the basic shapes and sizes are in the nearly empty cabinets. Alexander shows no concern at his rummaging; he's watching with interest as the onion is diced, as if memorizing it. His eyes flick up to Itzhak's face at the confession, and he smiles, briefly. "Thank you for telling me. Yes, I knew." His brow furrows, taking in the nervousness. "You don't have to...worry about me being jealous. I'm okay. Are you okay?"

Slice the onion in half vertically. Peel off the outer skin. Set the half cut-side-down. Slice perpendicular to the root, then cut two-three horizontal slices down to the root. Then chop off the bits from stem to root. Itzhak handles the knife and onion decently. He's a home cook at best. The anaheim peppers are next, and a jalapeno. Itzhak tosses all that into the pan to sweat with butter. As he works, he glances over at Alexander, eyebrows soulful. "You don't got nothin' to be jealous of," he says quietly. "And...yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. At least the reasons I'm not okay ain't because of him."

"I know," Alexander replies, pitched to reassure. He smiles at those soulful eyebrows. "You're both still my friends." A pause. "What are the reasons you're not okay?" Because he definitely didn't miss that part, and his eyes remain unwavering, focused on Itzhak like he might try to pull the information out of his brain. But, well, they've already done that dance and he was Very Sorry About That. So, he waits. Not patiently, but he does wait.

Itzhak smiles back, hesitant. "Uh, well, yannow. Had a pretty bad Dream. I dream a lot that I'm still in prison, but this one was a real Dream. Roen was there too, and...it was bad." He hitches them eyebrows, bitterly wry. "I was due for it, I guess. Hope They choked on me." He starts opening the cans of tomatoes, and he brought a can opener, like he was worried maybe Alexander didn't have one. "I keep dreaming about breaking my violin, too. Man, I just...you just don't fucking do that as a musician, you know? You treasure that instrument. She's your baby. That's why it took me so long to," he waves, between making the can opener go 'rrrnk!' on the cans. "Pick it back up. Ehhh listen to me go on. How are you? How's Isabella?"

"It's not that you're due for anything. None of us are due for it," Alexander says, quiet. There's a wince at the content of the Dream "I'm glad you and August survived. Would you like to talk about it?" A flicker of anger on behalf of his friends, to get trapped into something like that. "You sacrificed the violin. I know it hurt. But it wasn't frivolous or out of carelessness." He looks down. "I'm sorry, though. That it was necessary. I often wonder if I should have just gone with Thorne's idea and just let Thomas be taken to the Asylum. It did so much damage to people who didn't deserve it. I wonder if one old man was worth that."

He sighs. "But it's done." A shrug. "I'm...okay." He has to think about it for a bit. "I have work. Paying work. Javier offered to, uh, see if the department will approve me as an official, paid consultant." He tries not to sound horribly excited about that, but he's not that good. He practically glows with pleasure from it. "But Isabella was attacked by an asshole who's still hanging around, I think. And Thorne was kidnapped. And Lilith was lost in a Dream for days."

Itzhak shrugs one shoulder. "I fought four guys with Roen backing me up. I won." The unmistakable tone of 'so fuck Them' infuses his fake casual attitude. "Something different happened. One of 'em tried to put the zap on me, and I just...kinda...made it stop?" Itzhak glances at Alexander, frowning. "I didn't know that was a thing. Anyway, beat that guy's face in. Feelin' kinda messed up over it. Not as messed up as Roen, poor guy. He broke one of 'em. He told me before that they're just Dreams, like the people you see in your regular dreams who aren't real, they're just somethin' ya brain made up, but, didn't seem to help once he had the guy choking on his own blood. I can take this shit, but I hate seeing Roen go through it."

He pulls a grimace and rubs his forehead on his sleeve (mechanic-style scratching an itch). "Roen told me about Thorne and ya girl. How they doin'? I don't really know them like that. Isabella's like me, I wanna show her some stuff if she doesn't know."

Alexander shakes his head, slowly. "I've never fought someone with your skills. Not to kill - I've heard that sufficiently advanced psychokinetics can turn aside the lightning and fire that other people make, but I've never seen it." His eyebrows go up. "If you ever want to test that, I'm game." There's curiosity in his eyes; Alexander's hard-pressed to ever turn down a chance to experiment with their abilities. But as Itzhak goes on, he sucks in a shocked breath. "No. That's...bad for anyone. But August? I think that's very bad. Did he go to talk to Eleanor? Or someone else? About it."

Worrying more immediately about August, his answer to the others is distracted, "They're both recovered. Isabella got very drunk with Easton, and sent me charming texts. I keep waiting for her to sober up and check her history. It'll be fun when she does. Thorne is," he huffs out an exasperated breath, "Thorne. So if I asked him, he'd be doing fine."

"Uhhh, it's pretty bad. He's pretty fucked up over it." Itzhak shakes the pan, where the onions and peppers are getting a little charred around the edges. That seems to be his cue to dump in the tomatoes and spices (which he brought in a tiny tupperware about an inch tall) and get everything stirred up. "I don't know how to help him." Frustration, anger, helplessness. "He did it for me. I don't know what to do."

Then he turns on the oven and cleans the knife, to slice the bread. "Glad they're okay," he murmurs. Keep busy; that's the way he gets through these things. "Easton's a solid guy."

"Yeah. Yeah, he would be." Alexander frowns. "It doesn't always matter that they're not real. Because you know that, in the moment you were killing them, it didn't matter to you whether they were real or not. You know you would have done it even if they were. That's hard, when you're not used to thinking of yourself like that; and August is a healer down to his bones. I'll...give him a call. I don't know that I can help with any of that, but I'll give him a call." He smiles, a bit sadly. "He cares about you a lot. That's not a bad thing, Itzhak." A nod given to the assessment of Easton. "He really is. I think he's having a rough time of it, too. They hunt us all."

"Roen's a healer. He ain't no wimp, but he's not a brawler, not like me. And I--I love that about him." Itzhak blushes a little across the cheekbones over this confession of mostly-platonic love. "If you'd call him I'd sure appreciate it. You're good at talking about stuff like that. I ain't. I'm just good at yelling and wrenching and playing violin." He gushes out a breath between his teeth. "Look, I didn't come over to get mopey at you. I wanted to tell you about de la--about Javier, and make dinner for ya and hang out and have a good time." Did he actually turn redder when he called Ruiz by his first name? Yes he did.

"No. I would never say August was weak. He's one of the strongest people I know," Alexander says, slowly. He continues to stare at Itzhak with that reptilian focus. "I will. Call him. After dinner. Although you sell yourself short. Again. I wish you wouldn't." Then he smiles, a little, at the stumbling over Ruiz's name. "I'm not sure I'm very good company, in genera, but I'm glad you're here. I was worried about you. But you seem to be doing better." A pause. "So. Uh. How did you and Javier get from the 'angry snarling' phase to the hot sex phase? Or was the punching that arousing?" Is he teasing Itzhak? It's entirely likely, because he's watching for that blush to deepen.

"Pfft, what's to sell short?" Itzhak mutters. "Ex-con, half a step above unemployed, real all-around asshole. The wonder is any of you put up with me." Then he bites his lip, hard enough for the flesh to go white under his incisor, and shuts his eyes, swaying against the counter. "I...'m sorry. That Dream got me feeling some kind of way."

Glancing sideways at Alexander under his lashes, he makes a visible effort to rally and stop being like this. "Yeah, uh, well, remember how I told you when he was bracing me it was hot as hell? Pretty much that the whole way. Fighting don't always turn me on, not even most of the time, but for some reason, when it's his hands on me..." Itzhak gets a faraway look in his clear hazel eyes, and then he really turns red, and wrinkles his nose at Alexander. "You do that on purpose."

Itzhak isn't the only one who can go from 0 to 120 in the blink of an eye, although perhaps he and Alexander have different triggers. Either way, fury blooms across the investigator's face like tinder catching fire, and he's suddenly way too close, fists balled as his hands drop down to his sides, eyes jet black with emotion. "Will you shut the fuck up?" he snaps, right over Itzhak's apology. "Stop acting like you're worthless, or an asshole, or that people are wrong for liking you." Alexander doesn't yell, but his voice becomes as sharp as his knives, each word precise and cutting. "It's fucking insulting, and it hurts. I hate people putting down my friends, and I can't even hurt you for doing it because you're you. So STOP." Everything else is forgotten as he glares.

Itzhak jerks, startled, dropping the knife with a clatter so he can bring his hands up in defense. Alexander is yelling at him! Not of course by raising his voice but whew, he's tearing a strip out of him. Itzhak stares at him, heartrate elevated, while Alexander works him up one side and then down the other.

Then, damn him, he starts grinning. "Oh, wow, you're beautiful when you're angry." Itzhak presses a hand over his heart and the worst part is he's not even joking around. "Say all that again in Yiddish, really make my week!"

So why he's hot for de la Vega is not a mystery, turns out. Itzhak spreads his hands, palm up in surrender, still grinning. "Okay, okay. I give! Ya too much for me, Clayton. I'll stop." And he might have hearts in his eyes, the jerk.

An angry Alexander is a petulant, tantrumy Alexander. When Itzhak grins at him, his voice does go up, and he actually does bellow. "Don't laugh at me!" Even though Itzhak hadn't been. His eyes flick towards the knife, and just for a moment, there's something violent and dark that flashes across his face. He reaches out and sweeps the cutting board to the floor with a terrific clatter. Then he turns and stalks away, shoulders hunched, crossing over to the other side of the room to lean his head against the far wall and take deep breaths. Luigi whistles in alarm a few times, until Alexander holds a hand out to the bird, and it flutters over, and promptly starts trying to eat his hair.

After a moment, Alexander mumbles, without looking around, "Sorry."

That would be a hell of a fight if it happened between them. Itzhak does not miss the way Alexander looks at the knife. Real fear lances through his gut in a way Alexander merely yelling couldn't achieve, but he welcomes it. He embraces that shit. Fear keeps you alive.

"Hey," he calls, turning to track Alexander but not following him. "Hey, hey." Then, biting his lip again, Itzhak takes in a breath, and does something he's rarely ever done. His mind reaches out, unheard violin music asking if it might come in please.

Alexander still hasn't turned around. He takes a shuddering breath as he feels that light touch on his mind. There's no hesitation in opening himself to the music, drawing it in. His starscape crackles in the throes of a storm - there's some old damage here, still healing; a few stars shattered, slowly drawing themselves back together as time passe - and red lightning, flickering with the copper taste of blood, arcs from star to star, darkening every one it touches. He's not all anger, anymore, but it's easy to read that just a few moments ago, that's all he was, a bundle of rage that wanted to destroy whatever hurt him. But the rage is passing, leaving shame and self-loathing in its wake. These, he pushes away, hastily hides behind black stars where no light is shed. <<Itzhak. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled.>>

Good thing the sauce needs to simmer. Itzhak turns down the heat, slides a lid on the pan. His violin sings in the mindscape, playing to the storm. Vivaldi, to match the turbulence but create order, music theory harnessing the power of Alexander's rage. Itzhak is not afraid of rage, of violence. It's as much as part of him as his violin. Is it unwise of him to take that murderous rage as something beautiful, something about Alexander that he adores? ...yeah, kinda. Not that it stops him.

<<Wasn't laughing at you.>> Strings sing to the churning stars. <<Why would I ever? There's nothing laughable about you, tateleh.>>

His rage passes as fast as it appeared, very much like the summer thunderstorm it resembles in his mind. The music helps, transmuting the emotion into something that can flow through him without damage. <<I know you weren't,>> Alexander replies, more ashamed than anything, now. <<I overreact. Sometimes. I'm sorry.>> There's a twitch of sad amusement at the last comment, a disagreement that he doesn't voice, even in his mind. He just acknowledges that it was a thing that was said, and pushes himself upright so that he can turn around. Luigi reaches up and bites his ear, and the pain is a quick yellow burst, followed by laughter. "Don't you put your two cents in," he mutters to the bird. "I feed you."

He doesn't quite look at Itzhak, even as he slinks back towards the kitchen, shoulders hunched. Luigi takes off in a flutter of feathers, having been strictly taught never to come near the kitchen when hot things are on. <<I wish you wouldn't put yourself down,>> he adds, after a moment, even as he goes to one knee to pick up the cutting board and the knife.

Itzhak wants to hug Alexander so much! The urge self-assembles into a fractal construct in the kythe, built of how much he wants to sweep him up in his arms and all the reasons he shouldn't (Alexander doesn't like to be touched primary among them). So he merely smiles at him, hiking his eyebrows at him fondly. <<S'okay. God knows I never overreact, right?>>

The glass stars are different. Itzhak's music explores a little, tentatively weaving through the currents stirred up by the storm. Is this damage done by Gohl, by the things Gohl's rage drove Alexander to do? He thinks it's a good guess, at least.

<<Hard for me not to put myself down,>> he murmurs. A construct erupts of all the bad things Itzhak himself has said, done, and been, and how difficult that thing is to live with, all razor-edged iterations and cruel warped reflections. <<But I'll give 'er a try.>>

Alexander feels the urge through the link. How could he not, when it's built so beautifully? He smiles, briefly, then takes a breath. Bracing himself, to reach out and lay his hand on the man's arm, if allowed. It's not a hug - he's still crackling with too much nervous aggression to make it a hug - but he squeezes with warm affection before letting his hand slip away. The damaged stars are not Gohl; in response to the curiosity, the other stars reflect, shining and bright - Alexander and another man fighting to restrain a great, half-burned dragon that is Isabella in some sense, her flames and terrible strength shattering bits and pieces of them in the conflict. <<It will heal,>> he tells Itzhak, quietly.

He makes no effort to soften the edges of the construct, nor to hide from it. He watches, and studies, the heavens pierced with those hungry lights, shining down on Itzhak's memories and reflections. There's a thoughtful silence, before he speaks. <<You've made mistakes, and you've hurt people, and you hate some of the things you've done that you can't take back.>> A pause. <<You and everyone else. I'm a particular hypocrite in this regard, I guess. But just because you've fucked up doesn't make you bad. Not if you at least try to learn from it, and be better from it. If you were blaming everyone else in your life, well...I don't think I'd like you very much. But I do like you a lot. I just don't like that you treat yourself like you're bad. You're not. You're human.>>