2020-01-18 - Unburied from Ice

A crisp winter morning, with the sky a uniform shade of gray like the undercoat of a wolf. Snow falls, white and silent, not sticking to the streets. Itzhak shows up to Mallard House. He swings out of his big orange pickup, grabs a flat-bottomed canvas grocery bag out of it and his fiddle case, and swaggers up the porch steps to the front door.

Knock knock. Dove lets him in, and he trades a few affectionate words with her, calling her Dove-lieb in a very old-fashioned Yiddish term of endearment, kissing her cheek and smiling at her, making his crow's-feet wrinkle.

His rough, gravelly voice can be heard from the parlor, mixed with Dove's. There's no mistaking that Yiddish cadence.

Ignacio is getting around, though poorly. He's trying so damn hard not to grouse about having to star. all over. again.... another time. He's had six rounds of this shit and his naturally good mood is threadbare and his patience thin. That said eve he's tired of listening to himself be angry out loud and it's not something he can handle doing to Finch who has tried to hard to give him something worthwhile to hold onto, and Gran who has endured the strange time and time again so they have a refuge. For them? Well... he's got to try.

His crutches bear the weight while he works with rebuilding strength in steps that bring him back to the living room slowly. "Oye, The... the hell you doing here?" Crabby but said with all affection. Looking at the window and back he boggles, "It's cold out. You came here to make Finch fix your pneumonia you're giving yourself?"

"Oye yaself!" Itzhak swags on over to thwap Iggy lightly in the chest with the backs of his inked fingers. "I came to fix you, yutz." He points at the flat-bottomed bag. "Brought chicken matzoh ball soup, kugel, black and white cookies. Wanna set up in the kitchen?"

The kitchen is just about Iggy's favorite place, aside from behind the wheel of a fast car or wherever Finch happens to be. Itzhak knows it well. And Itzhak? He's as Jewish as a Mel Brooks movie, but sometimes he's really Jewish. Like now, when he tries to fix his best friend via the medium of calories.

Itzhak's not wrong. If he had the fastest car it'd be to drive to this kitchen because it's Finch's. So... here we are. A light smile comes to his face being flicked in the chest with those lanky fingers. He clarifies dryly, "I said we need a carburetor, not a carb-o-nator, cabron." hey it's said with love. That's what counts. Affectionate hostility.

Stick-stick-walk-drag. Stick-stick-walk-drag. His cadence sounds like it needs a tune up for certain but he drops into a seat and says to Gran, "Ahhh, Abuelita, I got the thing coming later this afternoon." There is a faint smile and he says, "I still ain't told Finch." Looking up to Itzhak and the soup it's grateful. he's working hard at reevaluating all things and getting back to any place he can feel hope again. Being tired and hurting has a way to knowck it right out of you tha is for absolute certain.

Looking up he asks, "Uhhhh, 'mano, not that I expect you to do the heavy lifting buuuuut I got something showing up for Finch and I was going to try to finesse it, but if you have time? Ayudar?" Help, bruh?

"Yeah yeah, always the funny guy." Itzhak's kvetching is accompanied by a tiny glint of humor. He moves around the kitchen like it's his own--well, he's spent enough time here--getting out a pot for the soup, carefully dumping in the big tupperware, setting it on the burner to heat. He gets plates for the kugel and cookies, tableware.

He seems tired and sore himself, but in his case, it's emotional tiredness, and a soreness of the heart. "Why ain'tcha text me to come help?" he grouses at Ignacio. "'Course I'll help. Jesus effin' Christ. ...What'd you get her?"

Ignacio looks to Itzhak sincerely, "Well one of us have to be." Such a shit.It's slow going but he makes it to the kitchen. There's a pause and he catches an impression on the 'Home Network' that looks like Finch's head and a curious impression. "No, Mags, mom's not home yet." Looking back to Itzhak he says with a hint of a smile and some of his former energy, "I'm, um... I'm moving in aaaaand since there's a bunch of these rooms that are kinda hollowed out spaces since it's not a full house? I thought, ya know, I might help fill teh place. Weed and re-bed the garden. I'm flipping one of the guest rooms on the second floor with some of my stuff so we can have a game room. Futon, two tv's and her own x-box. She doesn't know it yet."

"Too bad it ain't you." This is a game Itzhak never wins, but he wouldn't insult Ignacio by not trying. Them ain't the rules. Itzhak really isn't funny, not anywhere near Iggy's level, but the rules require buddies to hassle each other. "You're moving in? Well about damn time." That gets a smile from him...but Ignacio can sense it: a lightning flash of fear.

Figgy and Inch wouldn't be technically married, but would the Harpy care?

It's that heartsore weariness that leaves him vulnerable enough to even think that. Ignacio can also sense the way Itzhak shoves that thought away, furious with himself for even letting it pop to the surface of his brain. As he does, he's running his mouth some more to cover up. Ignacio sure gets a front row seat to all of Itzil's seething emotions and processes.

"She's gonna love that. It'll be awesome. So we're gonna party over here all the time, is what you're telling me." He cuts a block of creamy, sweet kugel and sets it in front of Iggy on a plate, with a fork.

Ignacio rolls Itzhak a look "You're right. I'm not funny. I'm hilarious." Smart ass. Really the pride is healthy on him. A peacock without feathers to puff up is a sad affair. There's a pause leaning into his crutches, poking at the ground with them. "Yeah. Yeah it is." Confidant words still heavy with concern. He knows. He s well more than aware, but Itzhak knows more than anyone Ignacio fears inaction most, not facing danger. He's got a healthy concern about being killed and possibly eaten, but that is still second to making her fight alone. That he can't do.

The food draws his mind and his focus from that path of thought. "OOOooh, hermano yoooou spoil me." NOW he hobbles to the kitchen table to sit his grump ass down. The smile hits his eyes with the approval of his idea. "Yeah we can! I'm getting her this game we can play. It's pokemon with dinosaurs. Then she can have her deinonychus and I can still have 4 chickens, 2 parrots, a rat, and 3 adults still here at the end of the day. I thought it was a pretty great idea."

He pauses and sighs, "She... feels bad for those lil raptors. They're little and hungry and can't help being themselves. And she wants to adopt the world." There's a pause and he adds, "She doesn't want to just abandon something fending for themselves in the big bitey world. Too close to home ya know? And I don' blame her. This just isn't the optimal environment for ALL the things, but... I think it'll help."

Itzhak flashes a crooked grin when Ignacio responds with such enthusiasm to the kugel. "Ma's recipe. I added the nutmeg like you like."

Yeah. He knows all about Figgy's need for action. It's something they share, the two of them. Fine-tune the injector. Another hour behind the wheel, work on those turns. That idle isn't so smooth, gonna take her apart this weekend... Itzhak goes to the stove, to stir the heating soup. "You want I should help? Roen can tell us what to do and we'll do the work, with the garden. I can fish wiring for the X-Boxes and stuff, run the coax." He huffs a wry little sound, at Finch needing to adopt the world. "Know that feel," he murmurs. His love for all critters bitey, and if they're from the Veil, so much the better.

Ignacio looks out the window and back to Itzhak regarding the 'garden' "It's baby snowing." This isn't NYC snow. The's snow-snow. This is babysnow. "What garden!?" which is Iggy for sure that sounds great. His eyes go to the food and he murmurs, "Kuuuuuugel.... I always thought this was a type of shelving unit from Ikea. I've never been so happy to be wrong."

Looking back to Itzhak he tilts his head with that knowing look, "Some animals are better in their natural habitat and will cause damage to said current habitat and the chickens in it so... it's a good compromise on be half of Poultry-Americans."

"Exactly." Itzhak points at Ignacio, two fingered New York style. "Better to love 'em from afar." Conservationist Rosencrantz thus speaks! He rolls his eyes then. "The future garden, yutz. You know what I mean!" The soup hot, he ladles a bowl for Iggy and sets it in front of him next to the kugel. Then a bowl for himself. Rich with chicken fat, it has clear savory broth, lots of vegetables and chunks of dark meat chicken, and of course, light fluffy matzoh balls. Little green lines of fresh dill make everything pretty. Itzhak has two things he makes for other people, and these are them.

He sits down with his own bowl. "After we eat, we'll make some noise." He just informs Iggy, while spooning up broth.

Ignacio weathers the blowback on the garden and considers, and nods. He stirs his kugel and when informed they're going to make some noise he apologizes putting broth on his spoon, "As much as I appreciate the offer I'm injured and seeing someone right now." Oh. Yeah. He's hilarious and knows damn well Itzhak can't punch him right now. He pauses and asks curiously, "What'chu thinking?" He notes the small violin case and asks, "You're serious?" Well... it's something. Something other than fretting and being angry and trying no to be angry. "I didn't unpack over my trumpet."

Oh CAN'T he! Itzhak doesn't exactly punch his brah from another ma but does reach over and whap him in the bicep with forceful affection. "I liked ya better when I couldn't hear ya over the engine," he mutters, with all the angry love in his bristly heart. "I'm thinkin' yeah I'm serious. Bust out ya horn. I didn't clean 'er up so she could sit in the case."

Ignacio wobbles to the side, smug and overly satisfied with getting to ruffle those feathers. His mood falls into his soup looking down, however. Snark aside his mood has been run through the ringer, but he's making an effort here. This is a definite improvement from the monosyllabic texting and marathon napping that the previous week had to offer. It's not great but it's not ready to give up which is really a testament to Finch helping him remember he has something to hold onto with both hands. Other than his blanket.

"Where you find a good kugel and don't tell me you did this because it doesn't taste like grease and spite." There's the faintest smile trying to be hidden before the dip of his head in acknowledgement, "Look I know I've been not the best member of the team to have around, but I appreciate this. I'm gonna find a way to fix... something. I'm sorry man." He will never not be down on himself for not being able to run, drive, fight, or be any sort of physical presence as he once at least partially passed for. Not here in the land of hiking at least.

Taking a deep breath he is still considering it and finally agrees, "I can make Lucy and Desi hate me a lil while. I think they'll forgive my presently mediocre trumpeting for a while." Those poor parrots.