2019-11-24 - All In

It's a cloudy day, but not raining, so there's tree work to be done. August is out in one of the smaller trucks, Little Lou, taking care of a job that's part of their contract with the company putting up the new A-frames. These are a bit fancier than August's, intended to appeal to home owners somewhat less inclined to hide from civilization, and accordingly the developer doesn't want the trees in too close. No roots threatening to tear open water or sewer lines, no old growth firs coming down in a storm to bisect an entire house or take out a back deck.

He's just come down from a tall ash tree and is getting out of his gear so he can load the various branches into the back for mulching; the fifth one this afternoon. About time for a break.

A truck pulls into the makeshift dirt drive currently being employed as an access route to the construction site. Dark blue, spattered with mud, might look familiar. Might not. The driver kills the ignition and rummages around for a minute in the glove compartment before climbing out, and slamming the door. "Roen?" He pauses, and adjusts the brim of his cap slightly upward, dark eyes squinted across at the man climbing out of his gear.

August gets out of his harness with ginger movements, teeth set, rings jingling brightly as they clank together. Off comes his helmet with attached GoPro, which he switches off. One of his eyes is bloodshot to the point of looking like he might have had a subconjunctival hemorrhage which is just now clearing up; it's an open question as to whether or not he actually spoke to one of his employees before snagging a truck to go do work, since Cy is notorious for grounding him.

He drops the helmet on top of the harness, half-turns and gives Ruiz an up-nod. "Hey." He starts hauling rope in; it was a big tree, there's a lot to remove. It's a careful process, bringing the entire setup down. He glances over his shoulder, eyebrows up. "What brings you all the way out here?"

Ruiz shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and ambles in closer slowly. A slow flit of his gaze takes in August's appearance: the bloodshot eye, the gingerness with which he's moving. Questions on the tip of his tongue, though he doesn't ask them. Yet. "I had a couple of hours to kill, thought I'd come out and see how things were progressing." With the construction, he means. "You, uh. Need a hand with anything?" He glances at the tree, then back to the other man.

August peers at Ruiz, casts a look at the in-progress cabins around them. "Ah, buying one?" He nods his unasked for approval. "They should be pretty nice once they're done. You might even get paved roads and street lights." A wry smile follows that, and he nods at the truck. "Sure, thanks. If you're not up to anything more substantial. I was going to go get some lunch, take a break." A tilt of his head extends an offer to join him, but first--tree detritus. He picks up his gear, makes a face, opens the side compartment to stow it. "Branches go in the back there. There's some shears if they won't fit. Got some gloves if you want." He pulls a pair out, sets them on the truck's running board (he's still wearing a pair himself).

Over his shoulder, he asks, "I take it moving back into Thorne's apartments doesn't appeal? Or were you somewhere else before all of that went down." Gohl, he means; or at least, he assumes the murders are what drove everyone out of the apartment complex. The D rings on the harness continue to jangle as he stuffs everything into place and closes up the compartment.

Ruiz looks like a man who's no stranger to physical labour, fortunately. His jacket's shrugged out of and stowed in his truck, and he prowls on over to fetch the gloves from the back of August's truck, and tug them on. "Buying one," he confirms, low-voiced. "If these delays don't halt construction entirely." He squints over at the tree, then gives his shoulders a roll and heads on over. "Moving back in? Never lived there. You're thinking of Sutton." Then a breath's blown out his nose, and he starts gathering up the larger bits and pieces of tree to haul into the other man's truck.

August grunts, pauses in the act of picking up a handful of boughs to survey the construction's status. "Well. Here's hoping. If not, there might be some lots out where I am, if being more off the beaten path's your preference." He sounds like he might be teasing just a little. But not completely.

He nods at the comment about Sutton, accepting it as a factoid and nothing else. He doesn't toss the branches in so much as set them down, pausing to snap one in half with the shears. "What made you opt for out here and not something closer in?" He glances at Ruiz between piling in branches. "Given your job and all, I figure you probably get a lot of 'this needs you right now' kinds of calls at all hours. A bit of a drive."

"To be honest," he grunts, hefting an armload of branches into the back of the truck, "I was looking for something nicer than Elm, but less pretentious than Bayside. There's surprisingly few options in this town." He rubs the back of his nose with gloved fingers, then holds his hand out for the shears. Once they're passed over, he's off again, bracing one of the larger boughs with his boot while he clips off some feeder branches. "And it's a small town. The drive's not bad from out here. Not much traffic to speak of."

"Oh ain't that the truth," August says on a sigh. He hands over the shears, sets to gathering up some of the smaller branches as they're cut off. "When I was first looking a few years back this would have been a nice option." He shrugs. "Probably better where I am, though--developments like this usually have a HOA, and," he huffs a laugh, "they're never too find of urban farming."

He pauses a second to consider the route from where they are to the shared FD/PD building. "Yeah that's probably not too bad. Not that my opinion means much, considering my drive in the morning." Speaking of which, he needed to get the winter wheels on. He makes a mental note.

He's quiet a second, then, "Looked like that book we ran into in Portland kicked you in the head pretty good. You holding up okay?" He asks it without looking at Ruiz, continues loading branches.

There's a chuckle from the other man, and he finishes clipping off the branches, tossing them August's way as he goes. "Not usually, no," he murmurs, eventually hoisting up the tree limb with a grunt of effort, and carting it over to the truck. The question, posed without an accompanying glance, gains only silence in response for a while. There's a crash as the hunk of tree is deposited into the cargo area, and he pants once into the rapidly cooling evening air, and cuts his gaze toward August. "Holding up fine, yeah," he offers after that lengthy pause. His eyes narrow a touch, his tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek, and then he tromps off to fetch more bits of tree. Looks like small talk is over.

August glances up at Ruiz during the ensuing silence, studying him thoughtfully as he goes to get more branches to load. He finishes to with the current batch, moves to do the same.

Like he's not talking about a mystical book that drove a pick into Ruiz and Hyacinth Addington's brains, he says, "You know it's fine if you're not, right? Those fuckers don't fight fair." He laughs, sharp and bitter. "And don't I know it," he mutters, then continues, "I'm just saying, Itzhak's right. You have to not listen to them. No matter how true it feels." He stops there, arms full of ash boughs. "Their truth isn't a truth worth listening to."

Though August isn't watched directly, Ruiz is no doubt aware of the other man's thoughtful study. He pauses a moment to assess what's left to be hauled away, and reaches down to test the weight of one of the remaining thick boughs. After a brief shake, he seems confident he can manage it, and hoists it up and over his shoulder. "I don't need your advice, Roen," he grunts as he passes him by. Another crash as it's tumbled into the back of the truck, hands wiped off on the thighs of his pants. "Addington doing all right?"

August guffaws. "No I suppose you do not," he says, watching Ruiz haul the last of the branches. He tugs off his gloves, tosses them into the side compartment. He considers the question, shrugs. "About like you, more or less." A brief lift of his eyebrows inviting Ruiz to take that however he'd like. He winces, shifts uncomfortably. "Not sure if he's talked to you already, but, Eatson's in the hospital. So's Bennie."

No real reaction to the guffaw, aside from a slight narrowing of de la Vega's eyes. He watches August in turn for a few moments, then strips the gloves off and holds them out to August. He starts to smirk at the comment about Hyacinth, but the next thing the man says wipes all trace of humour from his expression. "They what? Why, what the fuck happened?"

August moves to lean back against the truck. "Those letters we all got? The ones that burned up after we read them? They finally showed up to collect." He makes a face. "A few of us were banged up. The two of them got the worst of it. They should be alright, just might be in there a couple of days." He clears his throat. "Also I didn't tell you that, since I'm reasonably sure Easton won't thank me for ratting him out." He sighs. "And the...the one doling out the enterainment, she gave us a whole speech about how this was what we could expect any time we use the Gifts. So." He shrugs, looks out over the development at no point in particular. "I think I keep seeing her, around town. Probably just get idea of a joke."

Judging by the puzzled look on Ruiz's face, he didn't get one of these letters. But he takes up a lean nearby, brows slightly furrowed as he listens. "I'll have to stop in on them, then. I assume they're at Addington Memorial." The ratting out comment gets a soft snort. "Won't breathe a word of it, don't worry." He's well aware what the guy is like. "How're you doing?" The taller man is the recipient of a slow, assessing look as he pats himself down for his pack of cigarettes. "Were you hurt?" A beat. "Anyone else?" You know, nobody in particular. Just an idle query.

"Not that he won't sort it out," August adds, tone dry, "but thanks." Well, there was always a chance he could assume Isabella told Ruiz. But not likely. "Pretty sure they wound up at Memorial, yeah." He pulls a face, shakes his head. "I'll be fine in another day or so here, Erin patched me up. I don't think anyone else was that badly hurt." He tilts his head, narrows his eyes as he tries to remember who all he saw there. "It was me, Bennie and Easton, Thorne, Lilith, Erin, Isabella...some red head I don't know." He nods, satisfied with this list. Then he licks his lips at gives Ruiz a shrewd, sideways glance. He's almost, but not quite, smiling as he says, "But Itzhak wasn't there. If that's who you mean."

Easton's a pretty sharp guy, when he's not busy drinking. He'll probably sort it out. Something about this makes the cop smile slightly. A cigarette's tapped out finally, and settled between his lips before he lights it up. He takes a pull off it as the names are run through, and actually chuckles at the last thing August says. "Fuck off," he grumbles in reply. It lacks teeth, really, owing to the fact that genuine relief washes over his face. Much as he tries to hide it. Added in a low murmur, "He can take care of himself."

August chuckles, scratches at his beard. "Finch wasn't there. So there's that." He runs a hand through his hair, glances up at Ruiz a moment, back down at the at the ground beneath his feet. The last thing August needs is Finch and Itzhak flinging themselves into deadly situations simultaneously, simply because they feel it's their calling and all they're worth. That alone will age him well before his time.

Of Itzhak, he murmurs, "Yeah he can." Then he sobers a fraction, lets out a long, slow breath. "Mostly." He clearly has something specific in mind when he says that, dismisses it with a sigh. "He's a good man and I love him, but there's plenty for Them to use against him. And They will. And that's not the kind of shit you get through by yourself." He looks up at Ruiz, eyes steady. "No one does."

There's a slight tic in his jaw when Finch is mentioned, though he doesn't say anything of it. Or her. Probably thinking plenty, though. His cigarette is dragged off of and ashed with a little flick, flick of his thumb, eye contact avoided once the subtext starts to roll in. He does, though, meet his gaze evenly at the last. "The fuck are you trying to say to me?" There's a slight edge to his voice, though he seems more confused than angry just at the moment.

"Not sure if you've noticed, but," August folds his arms, "when They come for us, to take Their share--to pull us into one of Their, constructs. Dreams, Ellie calls them." His eyebrows go up. "In Portland, with the bird and the book? That's what that was. We were waylaid by Them. Dragged off for some quality time." He drums his fingers on his forearm. "Sometimes it's like that, or with the letters--a whole bunch of us. And sometimes," his eyes close a moment, and he rubs at them, "it's not. When it's just a couple of us, at least, in my experience...They get personal. Real, fucking personal." He considers Ruiz again. "If you're with him? You're going to wind up in those things of Theirs." He laughs, bitter. "Maybe a lot. Because he's like me--he's not going to stop Singing. No matter how much They come after him. That's just how he is. And that means when he's in there, all he has is whoever's with him."

"Well maybe he needs to fucking learn." To stop Singing, he means. Dark eyes on hazel, he holds August's gaze steadily, smoke twisting from the cigarette trapped between his fingers. Then his gaze slides away, and the thing's lifted to his mouth for a drag. Abruptly, he adds, "You're not his keeper, you know." Apropos of what, precisely, he gives no indication.

August gives Ruiz a tired look. He starts to say something, stops. Glances aside, back at Ruiz. "You saw that scar he came back with, right? The lightning scar." The lichtenberg figure, from where Isolde had burned something evil and foul out of him.

August looks down at the ground. "I saw that thing I knew, he was all in for this. He's not turning back." He sighs. "Same way I'm not--knew I was all in five months ago. Same way Finch is." He regards Ruiz again. "You're right, I'm not his keeper. I'm his friend. That's how I know what They'll try to do him. And to you, too."

Of course he's seen the scar; the glance and slight frown he gives August says that, yes, he's quite familiar with it. Though the man's next words summon a brittle tension in his shoulders. Not quite anger; this is something that runs deeper than that. Fear? "Well," he murmurs, flicking some more ash from his cigarette and tipping his eyes skyward at the rain that's started hissing into the trees and the dirt, "Supongo que primero tendrán que atravesarme." That muscle in his jaw again, and he exhales smoke away from the other man. Softer, "Para llegar a cualquiera de ellos."

August makes a low sound. He might not know the words, but he can guess some of the sentiment. He squints up at the rain. Good thing he was planning on a break anyways. "Not for nothing," he says, "but I don't have some kind of problem with him and you being a thing. So if it's seemed that way, rest assured--I don't." He straightens off the truck. "His happiness and safety and concerns of mine. And," he laughs, resigned, "with a guy like him that's already a lot. So." He pauses to see if Ruiz has anything else to say to that.

Ruiz is examining some bruising on his hand while August speaks. Looks pretty fresh, the sort of bruising one gets from hitting a person. A little more smoke tumbles from his nose, and he sniffs sharply and looks back up to the other man. "I don't give a shit if you have a problem with me." Me, not him and me. He keeps his lean against the truck even as August pushes away from it. Dark eyes to lighter hazel, like he's daring him to be the first to look away. "I don't.." He trails away, and is quiet for a long moment. "He." And stalls out again. Because fuck words. And fuck feelings, while he's at it. Muttered as he flicks his cigarette to the ground and pushes off the truck as well, "Anyway, I've got to get going."

August doesn't look away, but his stare isn't challenging in the least. It's his usual, steady gaze: assessing, wary, curious. He's not a domineering man, just a patient one. Or maybe that's 'resigned'.

"Well I don't, either way," he says to that. "And not just for their sake either." He nods as Ruiz gets up to go. "Thanks for the help. Take care of yourself."

Ruiz's boots crunch the gravel as he shifts away from the truck, grinds out the still-smouldering cigarette beneath the heel of the left. "De nada," he replies evenly, sniffing again. Allergies, maybe? "I'll see you later, Roen." He turns and heads back toward his own truck without a backwards glance at the man.