2020-02-15 - May They Choke

Itzhak hadn't sounded like he was handling anything well, via the texts he exchanged with Easton. No, he's pretty upset. Handcuffing him to the bed, he'd sent, is not as fun as it usually is.

Number 15 Elm Street, a run-down little two-story house like so many of them on Elm, has Ruiz's truck parked in front of it. Not that unusual, really, with the amount of time he and Itzhak are spending together. But Itzhak's big orange pickup isn't there, and nor is Stephanie's station wagon. Nor is there fiddle music playing, or anything else going on. Only Ruiz's truck, sitting silently at the curb.

Easton knows what's it's like to be handcuffed up by your friends and loved ones for their own safety. That he found himself on the other side of what should be a very unique situation is somehow not that surprising though. His Jeep pulls up to the address and with only a glance he can sense where he's headed. He fires off a text to Itzhak, just a quick I'm here and he grabs a bag out of the back and heads inside.

Itzhak's apartment is a partial basement suite, with an entrance on the side, down a path around the house. He doesn't wait for Easton to knock; he opens the door as Easton's coming towards it. And he looks a wreck. The snug, ribbed gray tank top he's wearing shows bruises and scratches all up and down his arms, his collarbone, and is that--yeah. That's a splendid bite mark in the side of his neck, black and red and just scabbing over. He's sporting a couple of black eyes, too, slashes on his face, that magnificent nose bloodied. Looks like he got hit by a truck. He kinda did.

Under other circumstances Itzhak might wear these war wounds with pride, but today, he looks at Easton with an air of exhaustion, hanging on the doorframe. "Hey. C'mon in."

Coming down the stairs Easton also looks like garbage, but in a more subtle way. His eyes are hollowed out and it's clear from his face that he hasn't slept in at least a day, maybe more. He's dressed in a hoodie and a dark pair of jeans with an military style duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Once he gets a look at Itzhak, he does a full look up and down before asking, "What the fuck?" It's not really asking for details, he can fill those in himself, but just in case this isn't why Ruiz is handcuffed currently, it'd be good to know.

He drops the bag and pulls Itzhak into a handshake / bro hug. He asks, "How ya holdin' up?" in the much taller man's ear as the embrace brakes apart.

Itzhak moves stiffly when he hugs Easton back. And he hugs him for way too long, leaning on the man's sturdy muscular frame, fingers curling into his shirt. He laughs once, rough and ironic, in answer to that first question. "Yeah. All him. The schmuck." He actually kisses Easton on the cheek, grabbing his face to do it, then brings him inside. "Not so great," he says, flatly, shutting the door. At least the apartment isn't a wreck.

The interior of Itzhak's suite is still, and perhaps discomfitingly silent. No music playing, no sound of food being prepared. Just that tense, precipitous quiet, the air tinged with a faint scent like an electrical fire that's burned out. A glance into the bedroom would find the bed occupied by a dozing Mexican. Who just happens to be attached to said bedframe, and likely none too happy about it if the mess in there is any indication. The man himself is a disheveled mess; dark hair all askew, rumpled tee shirt half hiked up over an inked flank, mud-spattered jeans, and an equally mud-spattered hoodie slung over a nearby chair.

Easton's fine with the hug taking as long he needs. Goodness knows he's prone to overly long hugs at far less dire times, just ask August. But the kiss on the face gets a scrunch of his eyebrow in questioning, but that's all. When Itzhak confirms this was all due to Ruiz, Easton looks him up and down again with a serious, scowling face. "What the fuck happened? Do we know?" He unzips the bag to pull out bottle of tequila, some clothes and a pink taser. He looks at the taser and back at Itzhak, "It's a friends. And I figured some clothes wouldn't be the worst thing, he's closer to my size than yours." But no actual food or anything else that Ruiz will likely be jonesing for soon, not that Easton knows that.

Taking a look into the bedroom, Easton just nods at the mess and steps back to shake his head. "Fuck this place." It's not said to Itzhak per say, more said for the benfit of Gray Harbor itself.

Itzhak shakes his head. Not only is he rocking shiners, he's just got big dark circles around his eyes anyway. He looks like he smeared his mascara real good. "No idea. Christ, Easy, I wish I did. It's like with Gohl, I guess. Except worse, because he ain't mad. He's...cold." Goosebumps ripple up Itzhak's inked, scarred arms. "Ain't him. You know him. He ain't ever cold. Thanks," he adds, glancing wearily at the clothes. "He's got some clothes here too." ...because of course Ruiz has clothes at Itzhak's place, apparently.

If either of them are listening carefully, the cadence of Ruiz's breathing shifts slightly. A faint stutter, and then a rough sounding rasp. He tries to pull upright, but of course, that's not happening right at this moment. So there's some noisy clattering before he thumps back down again, and takes in the state of the room with a slow flit of his eyes. Surely he's aware of the conversation going on just past that wall over there, but he doesn't pipe up with anything for the time being.

The mess that is Itzhak is noticed but it's not terribly helpful for Easton to comment on it just yet. At the very least he can stay up with Ruiz so that Itzhak can crash out later, hopefully. He shakes his head at the mere mention of Gohl. "No, it's not like it was.." He remembers the anger, the boiling, murderous anger. And he knows he didn't see any of that the other night. "No, there was no rage. He wasn't ..." He thinks about it and the best he can do is, "He just wanted to fuckin' hurt me for the sake of it. Not because he was angry, or riled up or even in a bad mood." It was different but hard to explain.

At the noise Easton steps back towards the doorway. "Gunny? How you feelin'?" He looks at Itzhak a bit warily and then back to Ruiz. Who knows if handcuffs will necessarily hold him if supernatural shit starts going down.

But Itzhak's nodding, listening to Easton. "Yeah. Yeah, exactly. They're at the wheel." He is listening carefully, as it happens, listening with all his musician's keen ear to his lover's breathing, and when it changes, he knows. His eyes go directly to the lump of muddy, wrecked Mexican handcuffed to his bed. But he doesn't say anything, letting Easton talk.

Ruiz's head lolls to one side as the pair wander closer to the doorway, dark eyes tracing Itzhak's profile first, and then lingering a bit longer on Easton's. Whom he doesn't recall being here, last he was awake. He should by all rights be furious right now. Filled with rage at the indignity of this situation, and the fact that his Marine buddy is seeing him like this. But there's just that blankness at the surface, like the life's been leached out of him. "Be feeling better if you let me up," he murmurs, that directed at his battered looking boyfriend with a slow, hazy glance. He seems for a moment like he might smile. "I've got to take a piss."

Easton nods and looks at Ruiz, and for a second he considers trying to test him. There was a time when he was sure he could tell when someone was under the influence of the Dark Men, but it wasn't anything he ever could confirm. And now he's not so sure. Not since the other night. And what good would it do anyway at this point. The fact that Ruiz isn't swearing at them, threatening them or at the very least cracking a joke about being tied up is disconcerting.

I've got to take a piss

"Fine. I'll unhook one of your hands and get you a bottle." Yea, taking a piss is actually how Easton got the jump on Aidan and Bailey when he was supposed to be locked up. He looks to Itzhak and says, "You got a bottle handy?" And then back to Ruiz as he approaches cautiously, "You try anything Gunny and I will break your fuckin' jaw and then your arm and you can just piss yourself next time. Got it?" Itzhak is emotionally tied up in this, Easton isn't so encumbered right now.

A wise man would be afraid of Ruiz. Under normal circumstances, he can be frightening, and like this? He could ice over the steeliest spine. Itzhak's not wise. Ruiz almost smiles, looking at him like that, and Itzhak's reaction isn't fear as he stares back at him. The way he wets his bottom lip and swallows, bruised eyelids lowering, isn't about fear at all.

It's about hunger. You'd think the maniac wants to go another round or three with his possessed boyfriend.

He comes out of it when Easton speaks to him, grunts, and limps to the kitchen, banging around. "Hate this," he growls, while he opens cupboards and slams them back shut. "Hate it hate it hate it HATE IT. A curse on Their heads, may They always eat latkes for breakfast," slam slam, "with sour cream and applesauce, and pastrami for lunch," SLAM, "on the really good rye with saurkraut and mustard, and may They have brisket and chicken soup and challah every night for dinner, and may They choke on every single fucking bite." SLAM. Then he comes back to give Easton a bottle, mutters, "I can't watch this," and stalks across the apartment. It's small. There's not a lot of room to stalk.

And he knows. Javier knows, the bastard, what effect he has on Itzhak. There's a sound in his throat, a chuckle without even a trace of warmth, as he watches the man limp away trailing Yiddish curses. Then drags those dark, hooded eyes back to Easton slowly, tries to snag the other man's gaze and hold it. The old intensity's there, but it has a very different tenor; fine, sharp filament instead of the livewire he usually is.

"Crees que puedes lograrlo, puedes intentarlo," he murmurs, and there's a little flicker of his upper lip to one corner that makes his eyes narrow a tetch. Almost a baring of teeth in challenge. There's no other verbal acknowledgement of the younger man's words, though. Just that steady, unsettling stare while Itzhak clanks around in the kitchen, like he wants to take the man apart piece by little piece, and figure out what makes him tick.

Easton glances back at Itzhak to see how he's taking this. The look on his face is not at all what Easton was expecting. He raises one eyebrow slowly, judgementally, at the tall Jew and all but shoves him out of the room. He looks back to Ruiz and meets the gaze, trying to see how much of Ruiz is home or not. The stare is unnerving sure but Easton doesn't seem to mind, at least not outwardly.

The murmer in Spanish only gets a muttered English reply, "Still don't speak Spanish El Guapo." As if Ruiz had forgotten. He doesn't have to get close to loose the handcuffs but with a point of his finger and a slight narrowing of the eyes he manages to turn the inner workings and release one set of the cuffs. He doesn't break the gaze on Ruiz though, watching him, expecting him to try something. And with whatever the hell is going on with him Easton's not even sure what that might be. He doesn't have a good handle on Ruiz's abilities, it never seemed important to know. But now dealing with a possibly hostile Ruiz, possibly under something else's influence, it seems like a stupid oversight to not know.

He tosses the bottle to Ruiz and says, "You gonna give us any hints here? What happened to you De La Vega?"

Itzhak glares at Easton. "Don't give me that look, Marshall." Aaaand yep he blushes as he limp-stomps off again. He looks like he got thrown in a blackberry bramble and then kicked by an entire team of mules (and bitten pretty good by one, too), but he's, apparently, starving for more.

The sound of the latches flipping on his violin case goes clicky, and he's getting out his instrument. Partly this is to keep his hands busy, but partly, it's that he knows how much Ruiz likes to hear him play, and how much it soothes him. Maybe it'll help Easton get an answer to his question. Itzhak settles his violin under his chin and draws the bow sweetly across the strings, playing something Vivaldi.

Usually, Itzhak's music works like a charm. Usually it's like a balm on his aggravation, but tonight? The sound of the reed being drawn across those strings so sweetly makes him flinch as if struck. His head twists to the side and he buries his face in the pillow a moment, muffling the low, raspy hiss in his throat. It's like no sound he's ever made; like he's got a mouthful of steel bearings.

Then the feel of one of the cuffs unlatching, and he turns his eyes on Easton slowly, head lifting a fraction. A glance at his wrist, which is bruised and bloodied from his attempts at breaking loose, then back to his fellow ex-Marine. None of his usual lazy tension; the man looks dazed, if anything. The bottle tossed at him is nearly dropped; he gets his fingers on it, fumbles, then barely manages to snag it before it hits the floor. And then, in lieu of answering any of the questions posed to him, "Get the fuck out. And tell him to stop with that noise." Him, presumably, being Itzhak. He still looks vaguely pained by the sound of the violin.

"You're going to get more than a fuckin' look if you keep hanging around lookin' like that" Easton fires back at Itzhak as he retreats.

The reaction to the violin causes a flicker of alarm on Easton's face. That was unexpected. He gets it back under control though and is back to watching Ruiz with his cool gray eyes showing nothing but a determined steel resolve. He shakes his head and says, "No. You can piss with me right here, unless you suddenly got a lot shyer than every Marine ever." He doesn't seem to have much to say about the pain of the violin. He does take his eyes off Ruiz for a moment though to check on him.

After confirming that he's not around, Easton face soften just a touch for him to implore Ruiz, "Come on Gunny, fuckin' help us out. What happened? Fight this shit and tell us how to help you."

Itzhak, seemingly oblivious to Ruiz's discomfort (or intending to increase it? who knows, with this guy), plays on. Swaying and dipping on the downbow, eyebrows quirking along with the motions of his wrist, he segues into 'Storm', dark and vivid and blustery, the music sweeping from his strings. It's Ruiz's favorite. He knows it's his favorite. Itzhak plays it imbued with his ferocious emotions.

Of course it's a ploy. De la Vega doesn't have a shy bone in his body, when it comes to things like this; complete lack of privacy was pretty much de rigeur, back in the Marines, and they both know it. But rather than snarl about it, there's simply a twinge of something in those blank eyes, which remain on Easton while he tucks the bottle in against his side, and unfastens his pants. At any other time, one could read any amount of innuendo into that look. Come get some, at the very least. But tonight, nothing.

A few moments later, the sound of him actually taking that threatened piss. Right into the bottle, because what other option is there? And then it's capped, and his pants are done up again. Slow, one-handed.

And then, right as Itzhak's playing shifts to that dark, intense number, something in him seems to shatter. Just for a moment. "The man in the bowler hat. He caught me in a dream, he made me forget. He might be after the others, too. You have to.. you have to fucking find him.. he.." There might have been more, but his head sinks back against the pillow like a marionette with its strings cut, and he drifts back into that fitful sleep he'd been in.

Easton just gives Ruiz a look of 'uh-huh' at the fact that yes, he's going to stand there and watch him. It's not like he's distracted by puerile thoughts at time like this, unlike some other un-named parties. He's about to offer a change of clothes considering the state Ruiz is still in when there is a sudden shift.

"The man in the bowler hat?" He growls, "fucking hipsters." Though it's not quite on the mark in this instance, it's still true. He winces when Ruiz drops and waits for a few agonizing moments before reaching out with his abilities to pull the free hand back up by the handcuff and resecure it so that he can check Ruiz's vitals. He does it quickly, and then moves back away clear.

Coming back out of the room he asks Itzhak if that means anything to him before informing him that he's going to stay and keep an eye on Ruiz so Itzhak and get some rest. Hopefully. It's not like Easton's able to sleep anyway, might as well be useful.