2020-06-16 - The Bitter Watches

Outside, there's a hell of a storm rolling in off the Pacific. Like Poseidon and Gaia got into a shouting match and now he's determined to win by brute force. Flashes of lightning light the windows, thunder booms like distant artillery, and the wind moans around the corners of the building.

But inside, it's warm and dry and relatively snug, if getting on towards later night. Joe's at the bar, nursing a drink. He doesn't look at ease, though. He's got that set expression, that tightness to his jaw....like he's listening for something past the sounds of the storm. Waiting.

August comes in, rain sliding off his squall jacket. He shakes it out in the entrance and yanks back his hood, revealing a surly expression. One of his hands is bandaged, the gauze wrapping around his palm, bound neat and tidy. He's dressed for the weather, so probably biding his time while Eleanor finishes up at the coffee shop. His Glimmer's still oddly dimmed, though not so much as it was when they went to that Godforsaken Asylum.

Spying Joe, he angles that way, pausing to order a black and tan from the bartender. It's not Easton--well. Who knows if it ever will be Easton, again. Nor is it Bennie, so he watches for a few seconds before deciding to wait and see what he gets. "Hey," he says, sitting near Joe. "How you doing."

Joe's waiting, perhaps, for the storm to settle so he stands some chance of getting home without being soaked? Or waiting for someone to show? Surely not a thuggish looking Mexican in a sodden looking black hoodie and snug black jeans, looking distinctly irritated at the weather he's had to brave in order to get here. He stands by the doorway a few moments, dripping, and eyeing up the current occupants of the bar. Spots the blond easily enough, and spots the taut look about him from a mile off. August is just settling in beside him, and he sniffs some of the dampness out of his nose before prowling on over to the pair.

"Tequila," is murmured to the 'tender without making eye contact, and the spot beside Joe claimed with a casual brush of fingers through the aviator's hair. "You picked a shitty day for a drink," he feels the need to inform the man. And, "Roen," is greeted with an upnod.

He's yet to give it a cut, in the six months he's been here. It's grown out from that short clip, military in its severity, into loose curls now touched with brass by the Pacific sun. Another of those little changes the Harbor's wrought, as are the tattoos on his fingers. "No such thing as a bad day for a drink," Joe retorts, but he grins, that sly, feline expression.

August gets a little sideways waggle of the head. "Enh, I'm doin' okay." And indeed, the effects of those visits to Asylum and Patusan seem to've faded. He's certainly regained his share of the shine, back to his former steady candle-glow. "How 'bout you, Roen?"

You know shit is getting real when Itzhak starts refusing to go anywhere without an instrument. He could be accused of using his violin as a safety blanket, with justification. When he shoves the door open some minutes after Ruiz, it's not his violin case over his shoulder, but a mandolin case in hand, wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. "Are you fucking kidding me," is how he greets the bar, "it's two weeks into June, this is bullshit."

Eyeing his hand, August admits, "Been better." He gives Ruiz and Itzhak an up-nod, accepts his properly poured drink with a murmured thanks and a generous tip. He eyes Joe, taking in the return of his Art to it's previous level. So, that's one good thing, at least.

He shifts, setting his hip against the bar. Itzhak's complaint gets a wry smile; yes, this is more like it. "There's a reason we like to call it 'June-uary' around here." He bobs his eyebrows. "Why the instrument?"

The instrument case being toted along under Itzhak's arm gains a curious look, and then double-take by Javier. Probably because it's wrapped in that plastic grocery bag. His eyes tick up.. and up the lanky man until they reach his face, and he favours him with a fleeting smile that leaves no imprint except at the corners of his eyes. "June in the Pacific Northwest, yeah. Bullshit's kind of par for the course." Then August goes and asks the question he was going to ask, so he simply indicates the empty seat on his other side with a tick of his eyes (a demand, not a question), and turns to retrieve his drink as it arrives.

"Looks like it," Joe agrees, placidly. Settling down a bit now that Ruiz is here, as if the Mexican's mere presence were reassuring. But then, it would be, considering how often Ruiz has saved him. "Rosencrantz," he says, tone pleasant. "Could be worse. June in central and south Georgia is storm season, and y'all don't gen'rally get tornadoes, last I heard. Though there is the earthquake thing to consider."

"Why the instrument? Why the hand." Itzhak jerks his chin towards August's bandaged palm, scowling at him. Oh, he's in that kind of mood. He's damp from bootsoles to curly hair, so that might have something to do with it. Ruiz looking him over gets a delicate pink tint to his face, but he narrows his eyes at him. Unconvincingly, since, like, he's blushing. He comes over, pauses to look at Joe out of the corner of his eye. "...ya got better," he says, like that's a good thing, he guesses. In that accent, when he's annoyed he can make anything sound like a problem. Whatever he's annoyed about--it's probably 'everything'.

Instead of sitting where Ruiz indicated, he rolls right past it and slings himself on the other side of August.

"We used to not get tornadoes," August says, tone dry. "Climate change blessed Gig Harbor with one last summer." He sighs, adds around a drink, "Much as the damage keeps me in business, I'm happy for that to be an exception and not a new rule."

He watches Itzhak's blatant choice of a different seat, coughs a laugh. "It's nothing. Ellie saw a ghost in the bathroom mirror and cracked it. When I was taking it out I might've gotten a little irritated with it." Or he might have convinced himself he saw something in it, taunting him, reassuring him that when he wasn't around it would be back. "Anyways, now I've got a nice new mirror on order, and we have to deal with this ghost." And there's a gash in his hand, but, priorities. He looks from Joe to Ruiz to Itzhak. "How about you three?"

Plenty to ruminate on tonight, where the state of his companions is concerned. August's hand hasn't been commented on by the sodden Mexican, but he too explains what's what there, and the cop's sort of half listening to it. Mostly, he's busy giving Rosencrantz the stinkeye as he patently ignores that little request and goes to sit elsewhere. His glass pauses a hair's breadth from his mouth, dark gaze tracking the fiddler as he saunters away. Then he takes his sip and swallows, glass set down with a quarter turn counter-clockwise. "Doing fine," he murmurs, reaching up to pinch at the bridge of his nose at mention of ghosts. A rough, agitated snort, and a shake of his head. "Esta jodida ciudad."

"I love that this is a perfectly sane conversation for this town," Joe notes, that grin still curling at the corner of his mouth. "Ghosts in the bathroom, maybe tornadoes. Just another day in Gray Harbor." A glance at the windows, where rain lashes viciously at the glass. "Makes me glad I got Surprise all battened down 'fore this hit....glad I ain't at sea in it, glad to be sleeping on a bed on land, tonight."

A nod for Itz. "Revisited the old hospital, looks like it done me some good." What an odd time and place to pop back into shape. No questions about Megan. He does, however, pause a beat and wonder, "Y'all ain't been back to that ship we were on?"

Is Itzhak sliding Ruiz a sideways look to make sure it's noticed that he's misbehaving? Oh you bet he is. Then he unzips his wet hoodie (battered and old, it has 'GHPD' on it in flaking letters), squirms out of it, cussing savagely to himself in Yiddish. Cursing the town, cursing the weather, cursing himself most of all, not that anybody here knows that. The bartender looks at him to see what he wants. He looks back at her, and a moment passes where he transparently remembers that Easton is gone, lost to the Veil, and then he sighs, drooping. Shoulders drooping, head drooping, eyebrows drooping, just everything drooping.

"We all miss him," the bartender says, currently one of Easton's redoubtable waitresses, and not in the mood to take his shit. "Now what do you want?"

"I don't care," Itzhak says, and he looks like he means it. So she shoves a beer mug of whatever's on tap in front of him. He seems to consider this only what he deserves.

Joe asks about Patusan, and Itzhak shakes his head silently. He unwraps the mandolin from the plastic bag, unzips the case, and pulls out the instrument.

August grunts in agreement with Ruiz, not certain of the meaning yet able to read the sentiment. He lifts his beer, has a sip. His eyes remain on the drink for a moment after Joe mentions the hospital. He's not going to stop seeing what happened to Alice any time soon, not going to stop shuddering any time he thinks about what the doctor really...is.

He shoves that aside, focuses on the question instead. He watches the interaction between Itzhak and the bartender, sighs and stares down into his beer. "No. Just that one time." 'Thank fucking God' says his expression. "Now that I can't...heal, like I could before, would be better if we didn't." He glances from Ruiz to Joe; he's told Itzhak this already. "It's changed now. I can't just...make injuries go away anymore." 'So don't get fucked up real bad' is the unspoken warning here.

Misbehaviour noted, surely, but de la Vega doesn't seem to have it in him to do much about it, tonight. Being here reminds him, too, of the fact that Easton isn't. He turns his glass another few degrees counter-clockwise, pauses. Ticks dark eyes up to meet blue, when Joe talks about revisiting the hospital. "You think that's what's.." His brows crease slightly in the middle as his gaze skims over his lover. As if to say, you think that's what's brought back your shine? His eyes stay slightly narrowed, a hint of some vague displeasure, like a splinter worked into the skin. Difficult to spot, even more difficult to pull free.

"No, I.. not after that.." He blows a breath out his nose and decides not to finish that thought. Tequila, instead. Until August has to go and speak. And then his response is a single, murmured, "Understood." Doesn't take a rocket scientist to intuit that he's.. unusually reserved. Even for himself, tonight.

"I know it is," Joe's voice is light, gentle. "That's what it was. She ...." But nor can he finish that thought, either. He's sitting at ease, nursing his own drink. Something dark, scented with rum. Cuba Libre, maybe? Not a night for hard drinking, not a night for those buckets of whiskey he favors.

A nod at August, "I hear ya." But his gaze has drifted to Itzhak, in expectation. Waiting on music, or something, in that sort of sere patience. His shine may be back, but that determined good nature is subdued, too.

Is Itzhak now actually sorry he didn't sit next to Ruiz? Yeah, he sure is! Good call, Rosencrantz. Well, just another way he's fucking up literally everything. He keeps his head bent over his mandolin, but asks August, quieter, "What'd the ghost do? That you hadda punch a mirror? Also, punching mirrors is totally horning in on my territory, Roen, I'm supposed to be the irresponsible one."

He glances over at Joe and Ruiz while they talk about the asylum, his expression unhappy, his entire posture unhappy. "Glad you got it back," he mutters, and actually reaches past August to grip Joe's shoulder for a moment. Then he's back to testing the tuning of the mandolin. A mandolin has eight strings. It takes a while, especially when the weather is bad.

August studies Joe, nods his understanding about the strength of his Glimmer coming back. "I felt a little of mine shake loose in there." On the Patusan, he means; when he smashed the compound, specifically. So what does that mean, he wonders?

"Oh I didn't punch it." He sounds a bit exasperated with himself about that. "Kind of wish I had. No, I smashed that damn thing to pieces. The cut's from cleaning up after myself." He cuts a sidelong look at Itzhak. "Anyways, I've punched plenty of mirrors in my time. Maybe you're horning in on my territory." What about that, Rosecrantz?

His gaze shifts to Ruiz. "Sorry, by the way, about the Chief." August doesn't tack on any platitudes about 'he was a good man' or whatever since he doesn't know that and anyways the likelihood he was is slim. "Figure we can go the funeral in uniform, since it's a military service, if you don't mind."

Ruiz doesn't offer up anything else presently. Inked fingers drift around the rim of his glass, trail through the condensation sweating along the side of it, as Itzhak tunes his mandolin. As the others talk, conversation dimmed to a warm burble that doesn't quite seem to break his deepening introspection. "Mm," is all he offers to August. Either to the condolence offered, or the not-quite-request for confirmation on attending in uniform.

"Thank you," Joe says, quietly, and gives Itzhak a little smile. "It's....a relief to be un-dim again." At the comment about the Chief, his gaze shifts to Ruiz. "What branch was the Chief?" he wonders, with a hair more curiosity.

The sound of the mandolin being tuned is companionable....and then Joe's looking at each of them, in turn. Survivors of Dreams with him, of strange adventures already. It's marching on towards his birthday, a month or so to the 51st anniversary of the landing, and of his own arrival on the terrestrial globe. Half a year here, almost to the solstice, and the long swing down into darkness.

"No that's not the way it works. The way it works is you're the sensible rational one and I'm..." Itzhak pauses, finishes in a mumble, "a fucking mess," and strums the mandolin a couple times. It's bright, pretty, nothing like the mood he's in, or Ruiz is in, or, yeah. It's one of those days.

Sensing Joe's eyes on him, he lifts his head to look at him in return. No smile back, though. Whatever's going on, he's sunk in it up to his hips. Then he looks back at his mandolin, picks out a melody. He messes it up, makes a face, tries it again, paired with a few low rough words. "The Queen of light took her bow - and then she turned to go - the Prince of Peace embraced the gloom - and walked the night alone..."

August glances between Joe and Ruiz, curious about the answer to that question. It's been a while since he's worn a uniform, for numerous reasons, but this is maybe the one case where he's willing to.

He smiles at Itzhak, fond and amused. "Mmmm, if only it were that simple." The strains of the song, one he'd listened to relentlessly when he was in high school, have him smiling even more. He sings a bit under his breath. "Dance in the dark of night, sing to the morning light..."

Speaking of Ruiz and his mood, "I'm going to go grab a smoke." Yes, outside. In the rain. Somewhere along the way, he's lost his ability to absorb electricity with his body, but this doesn't seem to concern him overly. The remainder of his drink's tossed back, and he starts to his feet as Itzhak begins to play, patting himself down for his pack of kreteks. Joe just gets a look, a beat, and a furrowed brow. Then a murmur of, "I don't know," before he pushes off and heads for the doors that open onto the deck. Sorry, August, you're not gonna get that answer.

The song's apparently tweaked some memory. Hit some nerve. Because Joe's heaving himself up from his seat, muttering something about needing the head. Just as transparently an excuse to break off, he hasn't finished half that drink.

Limping, a little, but one can blame that on the storm, certainly.

Itzhak's eyebrows go quirked as Joe reacts like that to the song, and Ruiz possibly does too? He's not sure if that was a coincidence or not. "I'm fuckin' terrible at this, Roen," he asides to August, with a certain dark and self-deprecating humor. And he doesn't mean the mandolin, by that. But, "Usually I don't drive people off that quick."

His fingers don't stop. Never let 'em think you've run dry. "Dance in the dark of night, sing to the morning light..." He has to drop the octave but that's okay.

August watches Ruiz go, a faint frown of concern settling over his features for half a second. It's not a shock Ruiz in a mood; the Chief did get murdered, right there in the damned Forest, after all. But then Joe's heading out too. Presently he looks back at Itzhak, smiling, wry and sympathetic. "Nah, I don't think that's you." Thinking of the obvious refusal to sit where Ruiz indicated, he adds, "Not just you."

He leans back against the bar, nudges Itzhak's leg with a foot. "You can apologize to him by coming to that funeral. Wear a nice suit. Be there for him. Police chief getting straight up murdered like that?" He shakes his head. "Probably mean a lot to him, if you go."

Then he's content to sing along with Itzhak, unconcerned for how low he sings all the parts meant to be a good two to three octaves higher. It's a dark and stormy night. There'll be many more in their future. That's just life in this town. But they can still sing in the bar in defiance of it.

Itzhak snorts ruefully. "Yeah. I'm being a dick. I noticed." He glances out the glass doors to the deck, eyelids hooded. "I'm gonna go. Ain't gonna make him do that by himself. They were friends. Kinda." How much more there is to the story...but he's not telling that, not here, not now. Instead, he sings, voice rough and perfectly on key, if an octave lower than the original.

I hear the horses' thunder
Down in the valley below
I'm waiting for the angels of Avalon
Waiting for the eastern glow...