2019-12-06 - What the Wolf Saw

It was a clear fall day, which means a cold fall night. August already has the woodstove running, and is out bringing in the animals, getting them fed and tucked in for the night. He spends a few minutes holding the ducks by turns, because they like it, and he kind of needs it right now. He needs to give more serious thought to a dog. Eleanor had said she was thinking of a dog.

He pauses a second to feel the chill in the air. Snow wheels and tires need to go on the Outback next week. He makes a note to get that taken care of. (Maybe Itzhak can do it, it's not like it requires more than a jack and a pneumatic wrench.)

He leaves off harassing the ducks, gets them into their shed for the night. He has a seat at the table with its single chair on the front porch with a mug of tea and waits for Ruiz, takes a moment to stare at the aspen stump. It's now the pedestal for a large, dark red and orange, drip-dry, ornamental pot holding a young magnolia tree. The aspen saplings around the property are barren, white sticks at the moment; come spring, they'll look like a fairy ring.

The sound of gravel beneath tires is heard as a truck comes up the road leading into town, thumps over one of the many potholes created by rain and shifting temperatures, and pulls to a halt not too terribly far from where August has set up shop. The engine's killed after a moment, and cools off with a tick, tick, tick as the occupant pops his door and climbs out. The aspen stump is observed in silence for a time, like it brings something to mind that he'd forgotten about. Then he slams his door, hitches the brim of his cap, and trudges on over. Beer, two bottles caught in one hand.

"Roen," is unaccompanied by a smile as he walks up, and plunks the bottles on the little table. The cop is dressed today in a ratty old Seattle PD hoodie, ball cap and dark jeans with what looks like hiking boots.

A couple of honks sound from the goose shed when Ruiz pulls up, but they fall quiet when no obvious disaster befalls them.

August raises a hand in greeting; he looks tired, physically and otherwise, much like he did when recovering from the flu. He's in a dark blue, cable-knit cardigan, black, long-sleeved Henley, denim jeans, and his hard-soled slippers. Stepping off the porch is done for the day.

Once Ruiz is closer, he says, "Hey." His own smile is sincere yet strained. He gestures at the other chair. It's nothing fancy, but it's solid and in good shape. "Shouldn't be too cold for a little while yet." Around them the twilight activity is picking up, with small birds picking around the undergrowth. An owl calls somewhere in the trees.

The exhaustion is noted with a slow sweep of the other man's eyes, which drift briefly to the goose shed at all the honking issuing from it. Then back to August, and he gives the chair an assessing glance before settling into it with his usual spread-kneed sprawl. Inked knuckles rubbed across his nose, he looks out over the treeline and is silent for a long, long while. Then, "You look like shit."

August's eyes meet Ruiz's with the unflinching resignation of the weary. "Oh, rest assured, I'm feeling it." He tilts his head, eyeing the beers, takes one and points it at Ruiz. "Thanks," he says, bobbing his eyebrows, pops it open and has a drink. He leans back further in his chair, starting out over his yard. "Went through plenty of this in the late 90s," a quick, sideways glance at Ruiz, maybe expecting him to already know why, "was kind of hoping I was done with it. The...," he waves a hand, "whole, losing people tragically and unexpectedly, thing." He takes another drink. "Guess that'll teach me to be optimistic."

The beer is not an American brand. The writing on the bottle is in Spanish; could be something he picked up at a mercado over in Seattle or Portland. "De nada," is his low, rough-voiced reply, his hand closing over the other bottle, thumb pausing at the mouth of it a moment before popping the cap off with a little flick. It clatters onto the table, and he tips the thing back for a drink. The comment about August having gone through this in the 90s is regarded with some confusion for a few beats; and then understanding sinks in, and he looks away. "You, uh." Does he really want to say this? "Dated a lot of guys back then?" He downs a long swallow of the beer.

August laughs ruefully at the memories of his misbegotten youth which Ruiz's question conjures up. "Yes, indeed. Dated," he waves a hand, "hooked up with," a sideways look with a tilted eyebrow, "and anything in between." He has another drink of beer, huffs a small laugh. "I like to think I was making up for lost time. And, I guess I was. But I was just also one hell of a mess after Bosnia, trying to sort myself out and these powers and, not being able to really talk to anyone about what happened out there. So add in the whole 'growing up queer during the HIV epidemic' to it and..." He takes in a breath slowly, lets it out, fingers the neck of the beer bottle. "It wasn't bad, though. I wouldn't trade it, as an experience."

The word queer, or perhaps the whole angle of this conversation, stitches some subtle tension into the other man's frame. He avoids making eye contact with August throughout, and focuses on drinking his beer and absently studying what's left of the aspen that was cut down. "Right," he proffers, quiet, once August's done speaking. "Must have been hard. Being, uh. Watching.." He makes an agitated little sound in his throat. God, this conversation is awkward. "Seeing your friends dying. I've heard it did a number on.." Queer. Queer people, is what he wants to say. Another long drink of his beer, and the first knuckle of his thumb scratched through his beard. "You knew Itzhak back then, or?"

August's acknowledgement of Ruiz's awkwardness is to be entirely placid about it, like Ruiz hasn't just tap danced around what he's trying to say. He only glances at him, doesn't try to make eye contact or stare. He's content to watch the forest succumb to nightfall. "Yeah," he says, presently. "We lost a lot. And I was so, fucking, angry about that. I mean," he holds up a hand, "I still am. Just the anger simmers now. I don't think about it as much." Just when someone dies out of the blue like this. Then it's 1998 all over again, and aches and pains he'd long since become tolerant of flared back up.

He blinks, looks over at Ruiz. "Itzhak? No, didn't meet him until he moved out here. Needed one of the trucks worked on and he'd just opened." He laughs a little, remembering that. Had it really only been earlier that year? "We managed to piss one another off immediately, since we were both new to all of this." The Art, he means, or the Song, as Itzhak calls it. That's a fond memory, and makes him smile.

Sometimes August's placidness and utter unflappableness is absolutely maddening. Other times, it's almost grounding. Not that de la Vega will ever admit to this. He slouches a little deeper in his seat, tips the beer bottle to his mouth again for a long, thoughtful slug. "I think you have a right to be angry," is what he supplies after a long pause. And then a chuckle, the sound warm and rough all at once, like water slid over rocks. "Somehow, I'm not surprised." That they managed to piss one another off right out of the gate. "I'm sorry. For your friend. I'll try to keep an eye on the investigation, if it helps any." He's not a detective, so rarely takes the lead on these things.

August grunts about being angry. "Yeah. I try not to avoid it, but, I try not to marinade in it either. Hard balance to maintain sometimes." Like right now, with a dead friend. He sips from his beer, grins about Itzhak. "Eh, that's just his style, you know? It's a defense mechanism. Same way I try not to react to things unless I really need to. Once I realized that we got along fine."

He looks askance at Ruiz, studying him for a few seconds, nods. "Thanks. It's okay, if you don't get anything. This asshole's clearly a performer, so, he's doing it for us. Which means we'll run across plenty ourselves, and PD'll be left wondering what the fuck's going on." It also means dealing with Peregrine is unlikely to fall under the PD's jurisdiction, such as it were, but August supposes he can be hopeful about that. He'd rather they not have to play vigilantes, even if the Art's involved. A pause, then he adds, "Except you, since you know all about that."

No comment on marinating in being angry. No comment at all. Just a long look from the cop, a slight shuffle of his frame to get more comfortable in his sprawly slouch, and a sip of his beer. "Mm. Well, speaking of which. I can show you what I remember, from his mind. If you're still interested." August may or may not be aware of de la Vega's particular.. technique when it comes to mind bridging. If he isn't, he likely will be soon; there's a subtle tension that slides through his shoulders when he makes the suggestion.

A brief glint flits through August's eyes as he notices the lack of commentary and accompanying look. No judgment there, really, for opting to marinade. After all, he'd spent years doing precisely that.

"Yeah, sure," he says, finishing off his beer. He arches an eyebrow, shifts so he's facing Ruiz more directly. "You got a specific way you do things?"

Ruiz seems distracted for a few moments, and doesn't answer the question immediately. Two more pulls from the bottle before it drains empty; he tips it so he can glance inside and confirm there's none left, then slides it onto the table, and clears his throat. "I imagine everyone does." Have a specific way they do things. Which, although it may answer the question as stated, certainly offers little enlightenment. He runs his tongue thoughtfully along his lower lip, and then shifts himself to sit more upright, and offers his hand wordlessly. The pads of his fingers are callused, ink up to his first knuckle on each finger. Old, faded track lines along his forearm if August is looking really carefully. And come to think of it, he looks like someone might've punched him in the nose not too long ago; the bruising is faded, but bears the telltale mottling of a near-breakage.

Eye contact made, palm up, he simply waits.

"True enough," August agrees. He eyes Ruiz's outstretched hand a second, then takes it; his is similarly rough and calloused from decades of working with his hands. Climbing trees, digging in dirt, hauling equipment, setting up and tearing down camps. He has a scar here and there, most long and thin; accidents, probably, in dealing with trees or recalcitrant plants, or mishaps while out in the field. He doesn't hide that he sees the track marks, yet doesn't linger on them; they're not much more significant, to him, than the tattoos or the near-broken nose (which makes his twinge, just slightly, when their hands meet, because his shaping Art can't help but seek out damage and alert him to it). His expression's a bit distracted by that at first, though once he's dispelled it his eyes settle on Ruiz's once again, and he nods.

Ruiz's grip is firm, fingers sliding up to to take solid hold of August's forearm rather than his hand; and inviting him, perhaps, to do the same. Those first whispers of thoughts filter through the link like the precursor to rain; that heaviness in the air before the clouds break open. His eyes narrow as he settles in to watch the other man, and then the force of his mind and the brunt of his power is felt in what comes perilously close to an assault. He's holding back, that much is clear; but even with claws retracted, the wolf is a vicious, tenacious force of nature, and burns hot like a pyre as it tries to tear its way through.

Then his thoughts filter across the link, some moments later: <<I'm sorry. I'm still working on this.>>

August follows suit, gripping Ruiz's forearm, though as soon as the link begins to form, he's not really paying much attention to Ruiz specifically. His gaze is distant and distracted, focused on making way in the face of Ruiz's arrival.

A small twitch of his lips at the apology, almost a smile; in the link, it's a shiver of sympathy and amusement. <<It takes a lot of practice.>> There's a sense he means decades, though only a brief flicker of just how many: a boy, maybe twelve, emoting at ducklings to get them to do things. There and gone in a second.

August isn't a singular form or shape in the link, though there's a sense that, because Ruiz is, he's inclined to it himself. At first, though, there's a setting: a vast forest, regrowing after a fire (charred sticks poking up among newer growth like the scars on his hands), with a broad, deep river spilling through it, trees and water alike flowing from a huge stratovolcano crater. At the heart of that crater, the lake that feeds the river, with an aspen grove Ruiz will recognize, dotting the small islands which are the caldera's remnants. A single, tall aspen grows on the center-most island. One side of the crater is lower than the rest; this is where the eruption spilled out, destroying everything around it as far as the mind can see. It's a barren wasteland of mud and ash, with a lake choked by piles of tree trunks and pyroclastic flow. Destruction long past, but slow to recover.

He does recognise it, this blasted landscape fringed in regrowth; in life taking root wherever it can, and reabsorbing the damage in its slow, inexorable way. And though the wolf burns and burns, it doesn't damage the undergrowth where it stalks. Sproutlings unfurl in the path of its huge paws, and the smoke from its great gouts of flame twist and shape into the form of a multitude of gossamer-winged insects that flit into the canopy.

<<You've known this since you were young. I'm envious. I knew it, but I hid it.. I hid it for so many years.>> The wolf prowls toward that solitary aspen, the one he recognises from the Dream. He slinks in close, does a slow circle about it, then settles down in front of it. <<Would you like to see what he showed me?>>

A dark shape coalesces among the aspens and steps out. An elk, or something elk-like. It's feathered and furred, black and ash-gray, with hooves that gleam like hematite. The antlers are thick and full, and woody, more branch than bone. Roots and dangle from them, thready and loose; vines coil around them, some thorny and bare, others green leaved and flowering. Salmon berries gleam rich autumn gold between dusky purple foxglove and brilliant purple-black-green coleus.

<<Don't be too envious.>> A hint of something: the smell of cordite, the echoes of gunshots, wounds torn open in bodies not his own. The wind carries these away as soon as the wolf identifies them. Knowledge came with its price. <<I hid from it too, after.>> A rain forest; not a tropical one, but the one not far from where their bodies sit now. Years and years, the Art dozing due to his separation from other people. No judgment, then, for refusing to acknowledge it. How can they be expected to, not knowing anyone else who would come close to understanding?

The sky overhead is empty and waiting, a canvas to fill. The ravenelk flicks an ear. <<Let's see it.>>

The wolf's bright eyes pick out that dark shape easily, and track its progress with the tenacity of a born and bred hunter. It shifts back to its feet slowly, muscle rippling, coiling, as it prowls toward the feathered elk with the very forest growing in its antlers. Its body language, though, is not that of a beast looking for a way to subdue its quarry; rather, a sizing up. Curious, more than anything. <<I understand,>> says that voice that is not the wolf's, but perhaps the flame itself. Perhaps the firelight in its gleaming eyes. And of course he understands. They are forged in similar adversity, these men. They have been through similar things; the Army, the Marines. Bosnia. Afghanistan. Iraq.

There are more questions, the suggestions of which whisper along the link, then fritter away like those silk-winged insects when August says he's ready.

And suddenly, their immediate environs change. Not the scorched caldera, but what looks like a gentleman's sitting room. Pictures on the wall, a velvet chaise lounge and ikat rug spread across dark marble floors and gauzy curtains obscuring a hidden room. The broad, floor-to-ceiling front window has been completely shattered; fragments of glass litter the floor, some shards as large as knives. And standing there is a man in a pinstriped suit. Dark glasses, bowler hat and a cane. His features are.. difficult to discern.

The ravenelk watches the wolf approach; it's a huge thing, lending credence to why the early colonists thought the elk of North America were moose as well. As still and patient as the volcano's lake, like the aspens awaiting spring, it stands and allows the inspection without fidget or complaint. An orb weaver spider, bright yellow, white, and black, spins her web between two antler twigs.

A soft grunt of acknowledgment. Of course Ruiz would understand the part the war played in the landscape surrounding them. It and the Art had both made him who and what he was; no one or the other had done it alone. And August is open to those questions, but before he can hear them out, they're in that sitting room. His eyes lock on the man, and his stance goes rigid. He'd run him through on those antlers right now if it would make a goddamned difference. Smarmy shithead indeed.

He considers the broken glass for a distraction. <<Did you catch him by surprise?>>

<<Yes.>> To the catching by surprise. This admission generates amusement in him; a warm, bright swell of it that crescendos in time with the thrum of the wolf's hungry flames. It ducks its head and paces away from the elk finally, moving low on its haunches; its body is a burning pyre, and illuminates the dark marble of the sitting room floor where it slinks.

More details come into focus as the wolf leads this little exploration through the room. The bright yellow flower on the man's lapel, and the curtain at the back that conceals another room. The bright-eyed canine turns to look over its shoulder at the elk. And then, <<Come.>> And it slips on through, sifting through the fabric like the apparition it is.

Inside, a flickering image plays as if in a series of still frames; sepia toned and fuzzy, a blonde boy of perhaps 8 years old, speaking to a man seated behind a desk. Soft, barely perceptible voices, though the mouths of the people in the still images do not move:

"You were right, doctor." He sounds excited. "The birds can talk to me now."

A hand lifts, finger extended from where he is writing. "You know that isn't what happens, lad. Try again."

"Sorry." The boy sounds contrite. "I mean, the birds feel things, but I can make them feel what I want them feel."

The elk snorts, satisfied to hear that. At least one of them had been the one doing the pouncing. It sniffs around the room, eyeing the man now and again with disdain and hatred. Then the wolf beckons, and the elk follows, picking its way between furniture and across the marble floor as though it were an uncertain marsh full of traps for the unwary. The curtain passes over its antlers like a waterfall.

The elk's dark eyes watch with grim recognition. Well, that's how he'd started as well: using emotion to communicate with animals. Though imprinting emotions had taken him much longer to learn how to do.

<<Doctor.>> August wonders if Peregrine is the boy, or the doctor. (Or both? It is a memory, after all...)

<<Yes,>> he says again. And then, <<Look.>> The wolf pads in closer; so close that its flame ought to singe the child's clothing. It doesn't, of course, and the illusion is at once fragile and impenetrable. Flickering and brittle like crepe paper, but one cannot touch it; only pass through it. What the elk will find, if it does as it's bid, is that the young doctor is indeed Peregrine. And then the curtain is tugged shut, and they are once again faced with the man in the bowler hat.

Emotions flicker and flare across the link; the subsequent conversation between he and the wolf did not end pleasantly. There are twinges of sadness, confusion, regret and... perhaps most damning of all, hope. Then the illusion is shattered entirely, and curls away into no more than smoke from the wolf's guttering flame. They are again in the bowl of the volcano, with the forest sprawled out around them as far as the eye can see. <<He wants something from us. Several of us. I do not quite know what, though I do believe he may be an agent of the.. Dark Men?>> The phrase is hesitant.

The elk draws closer to the boy, looks upon the young doctor until the curtain shuts and they're once again faced with their nemsis of now, Pregrine, the man in the bowler hat. August puzzles over the emotions, but doesn't ask after them. He seldom takes, only accepts what is given. So does the elk snort and shake its head as they find themselves among the aspens, on the islands in the crater.

He turns over the notion of what Peregrine wants in his mind; wind stirs the water on the lake. <<He's a scientist. A researcher.>> His thoughts flutter around, small birds darting in the undergrowth. The orb weaver spins her web. <<He was...studying that boy. Or, maybe teaching, but seems more like studying to me.>> The elk moves between the trees as August thinks. As a human this movement might be pacing; as a beast of the forest, it's merely breathing. Life is motion. <<Isabella might have been an experiment. So what he might want from us, is to experiment. To know how our Art, our Songs, work.>>

Frustration makes the elk paw at the ground. <<I didn't think to check his skills in the church.>> Of course, he had other, much more pressing concerns, but like Alexnader's annoyance at himself for not dealing with the man when he might have had a chance, so August can't help but wish he'd thought to do it.

He shifts to the question of Peregrine's loyalties to focus on something else. <<Probably. Or at least, doing Their dirty work. This seems pretty specific, though, to not be something he's on behalf of Them.>>

The wolf, in contrast, is a study in stillness while the elk plods between the trees. Under its massive paws, the undergrowth flourishes as if at an accelerated rate of growth; tiny, fernlike tendrils begin to sprout from its burning body and unfurl with fractal-like precision. As if, perhaps, it held some residue of Itzhak's mind in its embers. <<It seems possible. Likely, even.>> The wolf's bright eyes track August's elkform, but it still doesn't make to follow. <<And as for skills, I know for a fact that his abilities as a reader are formidable. Much moreso than my own. I don't honestly know how I got into his head.>> Maybe not through raw skill, but de la Vega is formidable in a different way; he is a hunter, and a tenacious one at that.

The link, then, is broken abruptly. The wolf and its screaming, blinding flame are suddenly gone, leaving a seared emptiness where they were a moment ago. Ruiz slumps back in his chair like he's run a marathon, panting slightly as blood trickles from his ear and renders his eyes bright red with burst capillaries.

The elk stills, considering the wolf and its effect on the landscape, and also Ruiz's thoughts. But the link breaks before those notions can be shared, and August lifts his hand away from Ruiz's carefully, eyeing the blood with wariness. He settles back in his chair, rubs his fingers together as he thinks.

"He underestimated you. He didn't think any of us would come at him like that, so direct. So he wasn't ready, wasn't prepared." He looks to one side. "So he's probably not like me. He'd have been able to check, otherwise." His eyes narrow. "He's studying us. People with the Art. I wonder if he even sorted out a way to take it from someone else."

His eyes flick to the blood again. "You okay?" The offer to heal Ruiz is a subtle undercurrent in the question.

It's a while before the other man speaks again. The heel of his palm is dragged along his ear, the blood eyed, then wiped off on the leg of his pants. Once his eyes manage to refocus again, and his breathing's slowed to something approaching normal, he nods slightly. "Yeah. He did." Underestimate him. There's a furrow of his brow when August mentions that he'd have known, if he had Roen's gift. But he doesn't ask, or comment on the rest of what's said. Just a flick of his eyes toward the stump of the aspen, and the brim of his cap's adjusted as he pulls to his feet slowly.

To the question, "I'm fine. Happens every time." The bleeding's already stopped, and his eyes are clearing up; white gradually replacing those burst vessels. "I can't help but feel he's going to make another move soon, if we don't track him down first."

August watches Ruiz, wary for signs of injury, though at Ruiz's reassurance he nods and gets up as well. He makes a low sound about that happening every time, accepting it as the price Ruiz pays for using his power. They all have them, in their ways (along with the more obvious one).

"Yeah, I figure he's aiming to get up to more. I'll keep an eye out at James' funeral. Alexander wanted me to ask Maria to leave town for a bit, so hopefully I can talk her into it."

He hesitates, then says, "Your success this time aside, be careful, yeah? I'm not convinced he's not looking to snag some of us, like he did with Isabella. Definitely don't try to confront him alone." After some thoght, he adds, "Unless you think you can get the drop on him with a gun, but he's like you and Alexander and Thorne, so, that doesn't seem likely." A wince of apology for the cold hard fact there: it's difficult to sneak up on someone with the mind song.

"I don't have any plans to confront him again. No." It's offered after a time, the other man seeming distracted. Maybe the aspen he's gazing at. Maybe something else entirely. He pushes his hands into his jacket pockets, eyes alighting on August briefly. "You need me to have a word with her. Just let me know." Hey, sometimes a scary looking cop in uniform is all the incentive someone needs to take a little trip out of town. He sniffs sharply, rubs at his nose a couple of times, and starts ambling off for his truck. "I've got to go. I'll see you at Rosencrantz's tomorrow." For Hanukkah, he means. August's shadowed a quick smile that manages to not quite come out like he's baring his teeth at him, and then de la Vega resumes his trek toward his vehicle, gravel crunching under his boots as he moves.

The stump is mostly an altar now, with that single pot sitting on it. The saplings, ringing the property (thanks to Alexander's hard work), keep their silent vigil over it. August has pushed them along to three or four years of growth, so they're all tall and rangey, and far more likely to survive the winter.

August nods. He won't say 'good' because God knows, some part of him wants to confront Peregrine, and teach him an abject lesson or two. But that's assuming he even can, and who knows--he could be like Finch's great aunt, highly skilled in both shaping and mind. What then?

(What then is, they have Itzhak and Easton deal with him. That's fucking what.)

He focuses on Ruiz again. "Thanks," he says, after a second. "If she hasn't left by the time he's buried, I'll send you a text maybe." He raises a hand, nods and smiles. His is a little wry, maybe in response to the almost baring of teeth. "Yeah. See you tomorrow." He fetches the beer bottles and heads inside, looking forward to an evening dozing in front of the woodstove.

He has quite a lot to think about.