2020-02-08 - A Gross Crow

A miserable fucking morning, and Itzhak dragged himself away from his warm bed for his ruined garage. He gets out of his truck, grabs his violin case, slings it over his shoulder, and trudges up the gravel driveway. He can barely look at the place, bent weird and horrific, like some animal been run over with all its bones broken. He has to do something with it. He has to do something. But he can hardly cope with just coming here.

Not long after Itzhak steps inside, he hears the unmistakable sound of a decent-sized bird flapping its wings to land. That's not unusual; this close to the coast there's seagulls ('flying sea rats,' August calls them, with a vitriol only someone who's worked in National Parks can manage), as well as all manner of waterfowl and crows. Maybe more unusual is how close the sound is; there's the tick-tick-tick of it hopping on a low wall, then more flapping as it lands somewhere just inside the severely busted bay doors. He'll have to turn to see what's come to inspect his ferkackt garage.

The first thing Itzhak thinks when he hears the delicate scritch of claws? Raccoon. And it lifts his battered heart, the thought that the world's most annoying spirit guide might have come back to torment him, and he turns to look eagerly for her.

For once, it's not the raccoon. Standing there on the concrete is a crow. A white one, though not albino, since the eyes are a dark, dirty orange, as are the beak and feet. The feathers aren't white like an albino bird's either; they're the semi-yellowed shade bleached bones take on, with grayish brown at the edges.

There's more wrong with it than it just being white and not albino: black tar oozes from its beak and claws, and even a little from its eyes. It makes a low, muttering sound at him, turns its head to regard him with one seeping eye.

No raccoon. It's--well, what the fuck is that? Itzhak's next thought is it's a seagull, with the orange feet and beak, but, no, that's not right. In fact, nothing about this creature is right. Itzhak's hand tightens around the strap of his violin case. Fear is born in his gut, naked and mewling.

He says something to the crow, in that classic New York accent, ornamented with his up-and-down Yiddish cadence. "We are not always what we seem, and hardly ever what we dream." A line from The Last Unicorn.

The crow fluffs up its feathers in response to Itzhak's Song, the strains of reality around it warping. He begins to hear something: an ugly, sound, the combination of a bow drawn wrong on a cello's strings; kettle drums with warped drum heads warbling; an oboe with a split reed. As the noise builds, he sees more than this crow; he sees an icy, ugly gray mist rising from that black tar. That fear in his gut knows this much: this is one of Theirs.

It caws, the sound impossibly loud in Itzhak's ears, wiping out the discordant song to replace it with the crow's rough voice. Under it, he hears a word. A name.

Yusef.

The crow regards him, as if checking for a reaction. Daring him.

Itzhak sucks a pained breath through his teeth, both hands coming up to clamp over his ears. That cacophony pierces right through, however, because it's not a real sound. It's the voice of the Unshaped singing horror to him. And then. The name of his father. The man who had died blind drunk behind the wheel, and for whom Itzhak had refused to say the Mourner's Kiddush for the requisite year. Because Yusef left him. And he, in his fifteen-year-old fury and grief, could not forgive.

Don't lose it, Rosencrantz! Whatever you do, do not fucking lose it! He clenches his jaw, slowly lowers his hands. "You go to hell," he whispers, his eyes hot on the crow.

The crow hops closer, bold now, caws once more. Again the noise fills Itzhak's head and his heart, raw and scraping. Another name sifts through.

Naomi.

The crow's getting bigger to his Song, crowing into some impossibly huge, ugly, bird-beast thing. It's not really, it's just a crow, standing on the floor of his broken garage. Yet there it looms in his mind, ghastly, eyes weeping black, wing arms rustling, mist oozing off it.

All the color drops out of Itzhak's face. For a second, he's convinced he's going to pass out. The thing is huge, suddenly, overlaid on the physical reality of his garage like a cartoon cel. But it's not huge, it's just...it's just a crow, except...it's huge, carving the names of his father and sister into bleeding gashes on his soul. No. No, goddammit, think! What would Roen do? He wouldn't stand here and lose his shit, that's for sure! He'd tell you to do something--something to rise above it--

There's only one thing Itzhak knows, when you get right down to brass tacks. Only one thing he knows like his own blood and bone. He crouches, setting his violin case on the floor. While he opens it, takes out bow and violin, his eyes don't leave the crow. He's shaking, awful white as the crow itself, but his hands are steady when they tighten his bow and set his violin to his chin.

He brings it down, and it's the quavering notes of 'Istanbul'. TMBG version.

Something hears those notes. The bushes at the back of the parking area stir and tremble. A large, rotund shape edges towards the garage.

The bird beast hisses in response to the music, draws back. The crow's feathers fluff out again. Another caw, this time almost overwhelming, Itzhak's eardrums trembling, nausea threatening as his physical body comes under pressure from this thing's will.

Miriam.

It looms large over him, opens that ugly, tooth-filled beak to caw again--

The vision shatters with the sound of the crow shrieking in surprise as a huge raccoon barrels into it, grabbing it with her clever hands and biting it right in the neck. The crow flails, once, twice, then goes still. The raccoon drops it immediately, spitting that black ooze out of her mouth and wiping furiously at her muzzle to clean it.

The tar hisses and smokes where it bleeds off the crow and onto the concrete. The crow is just a crow. Maybe. At least, to his Song, the gray mist has faded, the raucous song is over.

Itzhak bares his teeth at the crow-thing, his bow sawing over his strings. "Istanbul was Constantinople," he sings at it, voice breaking, not on key at all. Stamping his boot in time, he sings hoarse and raspy. "Now it's Istanbul not Constantinople, been a long time gone oh Constantinople, now it's Turkish delight on a moonlight night." Nausea cramps his gut, shrivels his voice in his throat, but still he sings. "Every gal in Constantinople lives in Istanbul not Constantinople--"

Then the raccoon! Itzhak freezes, everything except his bow arm which keeps going, never let the audience think you've run dry, always keep playing. Blood squirts and for a horrible second he thinks the crow's got her through the eye or something, but...no. No, she's come out on top. Itzhak sobs dryly, heat now rushing his face. He softens the volume, so as not to bother her, and sings to her, now. "So if you've a date in Constantinople she'll be waiting in Istanbul," he croons to her.

The raccoon snorts and sneezes, annoyed. Gross! This is a gross crow! She sniffs in Itzhak's direction, offended at first. Why is there this gross crow in your garage?? her expression suggests. But he's playing to her, which seems to be acceptable compensation, mostly. she walks around the crow, inspecting it like she might any other kill, but there must be nothing for her to take from it, because she doesn't touch so much as a feather.

She sits, listening for a spell, still cleaning her muzzle. Eventually she gets up to go find something to clean her mouth with. And to contemplate what she's stealing from his garage next time, which is so much more interesting now that it's weird. She has to re-examine all of it! He did something, made it a new shape! Tricky Artist, that won't fool her. She's not a squealing kit.

She trundles off into the bushes to the beat of Istanbul (Not Constantinople). The crow's body lays there, growing cold.

Itzhak laughs shaky. All of him is shaky. His knees are made of Jello. But he plays for her, and when he runs out of 'Istanbul' he segues into 'Goody Two Shoes.' "Don't drink don't smoke, what dooo ya do you don't drink don't smoke, what doooo ya do, subtle innuendo follows, must be somethin' inside!" And he plays for her until she's good and finished with her bath, and she waddles off to go about her raccoon business. Only then Itzhak stops, letting his bow and fiddle swing from his hands, and laughs out loud in the empty garage and knows he looks like a crazy person and he doesn't care.

Itzhak's phone pings in his pocket with a text. Which he might not hear right away, but a second one follows it shortly after that.

(TXT to Itzhak) August : hey

(TXT to Itzhak) August : not sure if you heard, but alexander's in the hospital

Itzhak doesn't catch it at first--then the alert that lets him know it's Roen (a cello note). He hastily sets his instrument down in the case and digs his phone out and has to wipe his blurry eyes to actually read the screen. "...Aw, fuck," he mutters, and swipes a reply.

(TXT to August) Itzhak : hey, shit, didn't know. what happened

(TXT to Itzhak) August : he was talking to a guy in a bar, a known town asshole, and things got ugly. wound up with a concussion.

(TXT to August) Itzhak : what? fucker

(TXT to August) Itzhak : hope he hurt him real bad

(TXT to Itzhak) August : then when a bunch of us were visiting They got in on the action. it's been a hell of a couple of days.

Itzhak almost tells August about what just happened. Almost. Something in the tone of Roen's texting holds him back from it. Maybe August doesn't need to hear that right now. Anyway it turned out fine.

(TXT to Itzhak) August : a few of them wound up in the hospital too, though apparently someone else did that. he can explain it better.

(TXT to August) Itzhak : you sound worn to a sliver, man. you want I should bring you something?

(TXT to Itzhak) August : up shot is everyone seems okay.

(TXT to Itzhak) August : (...)

(TXT to Itzhak) August : you could stop by. I'm at Ellie's, but she's at work right now.

(TXT to August) Itzhak : yeah, I will. Leaving my shop now. hey, do you know what raccoons eat

Itzhak buttons up his violin case, phone held in the last two fingers of his left hand. Suddenly he's very conscious of having a lot to do, like, a lot to do, and not only that, but he's eager to get to it. But Roen's more important than any of that right now. He swaggers out of the building, his head up and his eyes fierce. Save the botanist. Save the world.

(TXT to Itzhak) August : this is where I say 'literally anything' but more typically, and when cities and campsites aren't on the menu, they eat a lot of bugs and worms. big fans of eggs and nestlings, too. also nuts--walnuts, acorns.

(TXT to August) Itzhak : sounds like I could feed her the same stuff I feed Iris. fancy canned dog food with leafy greens and worm and stuff. so that said, ya hungry? I'll pick something up. no dog food, promise

Said Botanist is doing his best to not overwork himself, but with Eleanor at work and Bosnia hissing static in his head, that's no easy thing. He's in black commuter pants, hard soled slippers, a purple slub tee, and a black hoodie over that, nursing a mug of tea at the island with his tablet and phone. He glances at it as it pings, grunts a laugh.

(TXT to Itzhak) August : yeah, anything for a pet reptile would probably be healthy enough. and yeah, sure. I'll provide coffee. or root beer. w/e.

August frowns down at his phone. "...hang on..."

(TXT to Itzhak) August : ...wait, you got a pet raccoon??

(TXT to August) Itzhak : nah. she's got a pet fiddler. no time for details, be there soon

(TXT to Itzhak) August : this sounds like a hell of a story. can't wait

When Itzhak shows up, he's got a Waffle Shoppe bag in hand and his violin case slung over his shoulder and a funny look in his eye. This look is like someone pissed him off and they're gonna pay in blood, which ain't that unusual, but what's funny about it is the smile he's got. That is the smile of a man who has plans. He raps his knuckles on the door, calls, "Hey, lemme in, I got waffles and a story!"

August opens the door, and for all that he looks about like he did while struggling through that brutal flu, Itzhak's announcement has drawn a smile out of him. His eyes are bloodshot, with big dark circles under them; his face is drawn with pain that's not just his implants aching. But he's smiling.

"Waffles and a story? Guess I can let you in." He reaches out an arm for a hug, because Christ, he kind of needs one, and suspects Itzhak does too.

Itzhak without hesitation wraps his arms around August. This jostles the waffle bag and his violin, but ask him if he cares. He murmurs into August's broad shoulder, "Bubbeleh, you look like death warmed over." Well, you can always count on him for an honest opinion.

"Feel like it too," August says, equally honest, some of his smile fading. He pulls back, rubs at this face. Everything about him is raw and twenty years ago, not that Itzhak would know that. He steps aside, waves him in. "Get on in here, I can hear Hannah telling me to stop letting the warm air out clear from Portland." He manages to dig the smile back up. "How're you doing, how's de la Vega."

Itzhak smooches August's cheek. Then he knees the door shut with a rueful quirk to his mouth and offloads his stuff, violin case on the coffee table, waffle bag on the actual table. "How'm I? I been spending the last couple weeks not knowin' which way is up. Between my garage, and Cavanaugh, and every damn thing." He doesn't clarify while he gets out containers from the bag. "They're doing a thing with roasted plums and oranges, thought you'd like that one." And so that container has fluffy waffles, crisp on the outside, topped with the promised golden-fleshed plums, roasted until their juices became syrup. The whole is topped with whipped, gently sweetened mascarpone. The orange part seems to be zest, Itzhak might be a little confused there. He also produces sausage, bacon (not kosher but tasty), and for himself, waffles piled with strawberry compote and a mountain of whipped cream. "But hell with me, what's wrong with you, huh?"

August's smile returns at the kiss, and he ducks his head. It feels good, to see Itzhak, to talk with him, when August feels this way. And it's sign how worn down August is, that he doesn't react to mention of Cavanaugh with a roll of his eyes and the threat of an extensive lecture about everything therein. Also, there's this work of art of a waffle Itzgak's placed in front of him and dear God is that gonna hit the spot. "Wow," he murmurs, checking it out from a few angles. "You're sure spoiling the hell out of me." He heads over to the coffee pot (fresh brewed, that amazing Vietnamese one Joaqim sent Eleanor as a Christmas gift), pours them each a mug. Itzhak gets the HUNKS mug; it seems August has gifted Eleanor with one.

He fetches them some silverware and napkins, offers both over and settles into his. He has a few bites, hoping the flavor will get him talking. It does, actually.

"I went to the hospital to visit Alexander. He's..." August toys with his fork, has more waffle. "His power's expanded. He's like Hyacinth Addington, now." He glances up at Itzhak to see what he makes of that.

"Gotta make sure Ellie ain't workin' too hard to spoil you," Itzhak says with a glint in those hazel eyes. He turns the HUNKS mug to see what's on it, and laughs. He salutes August with it. "L'chaim." Sips, and rolls his eyes in appreciation. "Jesus, that's good coffee." He settles to eating, listening to August with eyebrows up. Like a dog with ears perked.

"No shit," he says, eyes widening. "So he's as strong as Hya now? Oh, wow." This is gratifying and alarming in equal measure, as the look on his face shows.

"Keeping her from overworking herself is a hell of a task," August grumbles. He's about to add on something else, seems to think better of it.

"L'chaim," he echoes, raising his mug as well and having a drink. "Damn fine stuff, isn't it? Can't get it in the States if you don't know an importer."

He turns back to the topic of Alexander, his own expression mirroring a fair amount of that alarm. "It's got him behaving all kinds of weird. Don't be surprised if you wind up with a few interesting texts." A bob of his eyebrows, and a few more bites of waffle. Then he says, "Something happened, when a few of us were visiting. Byron and Lilith, me, de la Vega, Isabella..." He pauses, has some bacon. No complaints from his stomach yet. So far, so good

Itzhak shakes his head, swallows his mouthful of coffee hastily. He sets his hand on August's forearm. 'STAY' on that one, his right hand. "Don't. It's okay. I'll ask Isabella. Don't ruin this nice waffle I got you or I'm gonna be mad. Let me tell you my story instead."

August seems like he might say something anyways, but then, he doesn't. Itzhak's given him leave to not say, and for once, he'd rather not. It's a great waffle, as Itzhak says.

"Yeah," he says, glancing up at Itzhak, back down at the waffle. He smiles, small and grateful. "But, ask Byron. Isabella and Alexander were asleep for the...end of it." He has some coffee, leaves it at that. "So. A raccoon?" His eyebrows invite an explanation.

Itzhak smiles back, and it's understanding, underlined with warmth. "I'll ask Thorne." He tucks back into his own waffle, along with some sausage. And waves at August like he does when he can't think of words, only now he's just got his mouth full. Bird. His inked fingers flash out to sign, thumb and forefinger creating a beak. BAD bird. A swoop of his flattened hand, palm down, then the beak sign again. Swallowing, he goes on. "A fucked up lookin' crow thing was in my garage. Somethin' from Them. It said names to me." And that those names got to him, Itzhak knows August can tell by the way he goes still for a moment, eyes going fixed, staring at nothing.

August eats as well, making short work of the food. He glances up when he sees Itzhak sign, pauses with a bite half way to his mouth. He finishes it, but his brow's furrowed and he's on alert. Something about that has his attention.

At Itzhak's description, August sets down his fork and takes up his mug. He holds it with both hands, like they've gone cold. "Did it--attack you? Or just sit there doing...that." There's a tension settling over him, a need to do something about a situation he can't actually do anything about.