2020-07-02 - Uniform Cleaning Services

"I just got this," August reminds them when they arrive at Ruiz's cabin. "It was expensive." (He's said that before too.) And now it--his service greens--look like he stepped off a battlefield. A big vertical slash runs from his left shoulder to his right hip, rending the jacket and underlying shirt, and of course, his skin. It's not deep enough to require a hospital trip (good luck getting him there if it was), but it is deep enough to get blood all over. It'll definitely need stitches. A lot of them. His leg's just grazed, and the resulting vent looks silly more than anything else. (He leaves it like that, mostly because it looks silly. Fuck this whole day.)

He's been ignoring the pain by running his fingers over the feathers in his pocket. Reading these is going to be a bad idea. And yet he's going to do it anyways. But, not right now. Right now, "You have something other than tequila, right?" He glances around the cabin, maybe checking for signs of Itzhak's move in.

There's quite a few Rosencrantz signs about. Like the vivarium, full of live plants and interesting things to climb or hide under, that houses his pet lizard Iris. She's a big blue-tongue skink, who is solemnly digging a new hole at the moment. Also like a music stand, with sheet music on it, and a stack of spiral-bound music books sitting neatly on the coffee table next to his violin case. Somewhere there'll be a mandolin. Somewhere there'll be hard liquor that isn't tequila...probably.

"Are you gonna let me stitch it up?" he's saying to August, letting him lean on him if he needs to. "I can, yannow. I got a kit." He's tired and cranky. Oy. What a day.

As the only one of their little ragtag group who wasn't pulled into what sounded like a pretty fucked up Dream, de la Vega's been surely getting an earful about it on the ride home. Home, of course, being his and Itzhak's house. And his cruiser, which is fortunately equipped to carry them all. Blood on the seats? It'll blend right in. He slings an arm under Roen, once he's locked up with a chirp of the security system. His cover's already been tugged off and left on the dash, and he doesn't seem overly bothered by getting a little blood on his uniform. Probably wouldn't be the first time.

Once he's got the botanist inside, and seated, he goes to fetch them something to drink. "Sure, if you've got a fucking problem with tequila. Beer, cider, uh.." He glances inside the fridge. "The fuck is this, Rosencrantz?"

He wisely had civilian clothes in the sidecar of his bike - he'd actually changed there, before the ceremony. So now Joe's just in jeans and shirt, the white uniform stowed away in a garment bag, to be cleaned and tended to later. He's also got a heavy-duty field first aid kit, only partially depleted. "I can heal a very little," Joe offers, quietly. Now, in the aftermath, he's very subdued indeed. Being able to focus on Roen is a welcome distraction.

"Hey girl," August murmurs to Iris, sending a little mental flicker to her of greeting. It's been a while since he's seen the skink, and he's easily distracted like this. He's happy to let them help, but clearly is attempting to keep his weight off them. Fine, he's bad about being helped. And now there's grousing about stitches, and implications that tequila is sufficient for anyone who isn't a bitch, and--

He blinks at Joe, tilts his head. "Huh. So you can." A soft sigh. "Sure you want to get Them all up in your business? They really...really don't like it." He cranes his neck to see what Itzhak's put in the fridge which Ruiz disapproves of.

Iris cocks her head August's direction. Her tongue--bright blue indeed, it's in the name--comes flickering out at him to taste him. She's much more personable than Lemondrop, who really only cares about Itzhak. Speaking of whom, she tastes his scent and wriggles to the glass to rear up against it and paw at it with her tiny legs.

"Awwwww," says Itzhak, managing a bit of a smile for her. "Didya miss me, baby girl?" He's busy getting August to sit the fuck down already, Roen. "Mead," he calls in answer to Ruiz. The bottles are hand-labeled in Sharpie. "Honey mead, Roen's neighbor makes it." Joe offers to try to heal, and Itzhak gives him a narrow look, but...doesn't argue. Not immediately, anyway. That's a zombie scratch, it might be prudent to let Joe heal it via Song.

Yes, Javier can read, thank you very much. But his incredulity goes beyond what's written on the bottle in sharpie. He pulls the thing out, considers it for a moment as he shoves the fridge door shut with his shoulder, then ambles back on over to the couch while still examining the thing. He's certainly not going to start giving Roen orders, tempting as it may be. But he does thump the mead down in front of the botanist, and start peeling out of his jacket with a soft clank and clatter of the various medals pinned to it.

"Guess it was too much to think a funeral for that man would go off without a hitch," he murmurs, tugging his service pistol out of his holster, once he's down to undershirt and pants. It's unloaded as he prowls for the safe under the stairs.

Joe gets that look. They all know it, hooded eyes, that haughty, disdainful set to his mouth. Javier's been seeing it for decades, really, ever since that night in Bahrain. Like the world won't dare refuse him what he wants. "I can." Ooh, the drawl's worse, even. 'Ah kin' "And be damned to Them, They've had Their fun with me more'n once. It'd be a fine ol' time to monkeywrench some of Their works." He was in the Asylum for more than half a year, after all, helpless. But he waits on August - to give him permission, to dispose himself comfortably.

August smiles at the greeting from the skink, and to see her greet Itzhak like that. He all but says 'awh'. He's dazed enough that it's quite easy to order him around; he sits readily. Also the promise of mead doesn't hurt. "Oh, you got some of her mead," he says. "Thank you, de la Vega." He wastes no time in knocking back a healthy drink, like he's a Centurion fresh off the battlefield ready to relax.

"God, that's good," he says, eyeing the bottle. He glances up from it to Joe, considers him a time. Well, he can't deny the desire to tell Them to get fucked. "Hokay. Hit me, sailor." No need to take off the ruins of his jacket and shirt just yet.

"I fixed her Jeep," Itzhak says, kinda absently, just running his mouth while he sheds his jacket. "The one with the four on the floor." His jacket...has seen better days, but it's not as bad as he thought it was; most of the gore has sort of dissolved, once the Dream withdrew. Now it just looks like he maybe fell in mud or something. When Ruiz comes over to deliver the bottle of mead, Itzhak ambushes him, wrapping him up in a hug. He needs one. A lot.

Who're they talking about now? Someone's Jeep? Ruiz doesn't bother asking, mostly because he doesn't give a fuck. But just as he's ditched his duty jacket across the back of the couch, and is pulling away to stow his gun, there's a lanky fiddler ambushing him out of nowhere for a hug. And what's he to do but return it with a big arm thrown around the guy? "Mmf," is the noise he makes while trying not to shoot Itzhak's foot off. That accomplished, he nuzzles his nose into the man's hair, and kisses his temple. "You okay?" is asked quietly, and just barely out of earshot of the other two. In case he doesn't feel like announcing the fact that he isn't.

Speaking of who is okay. August is now a lot more okay...and Joe grins, delighted, as that least used of the three aspects responds to him. The arborist isn't healed entirely, but he's a lot better. It's not going to need stitching. Then he sets about tending the younger man with more mundane supplies, cleaning and binding with a brisk efficiency.

August sags with relief as Joe wills the wound into closing up. He watches it happen with clinical interest; this isn't how it used to be, when the wound would simply go away. Now it's like watching the injury heal on its own, new skin growing, pink and promising to scar, but a long thin slash rather than the ragged result it might have been even with stitching.

"Well done," he says, glancing up at Joe and smiling. He raises his bottle of mead in a salute, has a drink and gets to shrugging out of the jacket and shirt (and the meager remains of his tie). The injury just missed the fig tattoo, which draws a mutter of, "Nice try," from him when he notices that. He rolls up the jacket and shirt and tosses them on the floor, leans back to let Joe get to bandaging. He's not emotionally attached to this uniform; no need to use the Art to fix it. However...

"Want me to take care of your suit?" he asks Itzhak. An answer will arrive eventually, he figures.

Itzhak starts shivering, tiny tremors too small to see, but easily felt. This is an early Rosencrantz-melts-the-fuck-down warning sign. He shakes his head minutely when Ruiz asks him if he's okay. No, he doesn't seem that okay. He pulls away, though, to start unbuttoning his waistcoat, unknot his tie, fingers too hasty. Joe's Song draws his attention, and he looks over, sees August doing better. That helps some, at least.

The cop doesn't say a word. Doesn't tell Itzhak to shh or be quiet. Doesn't tell him he'll be all right. Doesn't tell him anything at all. Words are the source of misunderstanding. He simply tightens his arms around the man when he tries to pull away initially, curves a big hand around the back of his head, and breathes with him for a few seconds more. Perhaps something's intimated softly to him. Perhaps not. Perhaps only the bleed of him, skin to skin and mind to mind, a scent like ozone sloughed off him, curled away like smoke off a mirror.

Finally, he gives the fiddler a kiss and releases him to do what he needs to do. Javier's got his gun to put away, and, "You need anything?" quietly to Joe as he passes, a fingertip hooked under the blond's chin to direct his gaze upward for a moment.

"Thanks," Joe says, as he gets up. Pats August on the shoulder. "You're my first, thanks for bein' gentle with me." Yeah, he's teasing. A glance for Itz, but Ruiz has him well in hand. Then he just smiles, wearily, into the cop's face. "I should take my meds, get some sleep."

Read: go home, drug himself more than half insensible, and see if They show up.

August watches Ruiz dial Itzhak back, gives Itzhak a tired, fuzzy headed smile of 'I'm fiiiiine'. But since there's no answer about the suit--and because he knows Rebecca gave it to Itzhak--he glances towards it, wills the damage away, shoves the dirt off, leaving it brand new. He knows what that outfit means to Itzhak.

He chuckles at Joe. "Gotta start you off easy. We'll work you up to the fun stuff." He sobers a touch. "Thanks." He follows Joe's gaze, coughs a laugh. Around a drink of mead, he says, "You're crazy if you think these two are letting you leave this cabin."

Itzhak protests wordlessly, when Ruiz pulls him back, starting to shiver harder. But Ruiz isn't letting him get away with that, probably wisely, and he bows his head to what the other man whispers to him, his eyes closing. The sharp smell of ozone makes him sigh, and then there's the easing that comes after it, and his shivering fades, his breathing evening out, and he lets his boyfriend hold him like that, breathe with him like that. Until he kisses him, soft, in control of himself again. When Ruiz prowls off towards Joe, Itzhak looks after him.

Then August hits his suit with the shaping Song, leaving it perfect as if it came crisp off the hanger today, and Itzhak glares at him, not in good humor. "God DAMMIT, Roen."

Roen speaks the truth, of course. Joe's not going anywhere tonight. It's kind of funny that he's even considering thinking about it. "You want to grab your stuff from the bike, I'll find you a towel. You can stay over tonight." A kiss for him, too, and then a half a smile for Roen before he trundles off for the stairs. He's got towels to track down and probably some extra bedding to procure. The trick with the suit is observed curiously, but not commented upon. "No tardes demasiado, bebé," he murmurs low to Itzhak on his way by.

August holds up a hand at that tone from Itzhak. "Rebecca gave that to you," he says. Most of the mirth has faded in the face of Itzhak's reaction. "Don't pretend like a bunch of zombies fucking it up didn't bother you." He gives Ruiz an up-nod as he heads upstairs after Joe; August is well enough to walk home now, probably will in a few.

Itzhak scowls at August, but his heart isn't in it. It's like a 3 out of 10. Ruiz murmurs that to him on his way upstairs, and Itzhak's expression softens again. He watches him go up after Joe, then looks back at August. "Walk ya home," he says, surrendering the issue of the suit, at least.

August relaxes a bit. Itzhak-argument-bullet dodged. Not that it would have been much of one; he's too muzzy headed from the mead to put up a fight. He'd have just listened and nodded. "Yeah," he agrees, and gets up, fetching his jacket-and-shirt roll. One of the feathers from the crow falls out the jacket pocket, prompting him to pick it up as he stands. "This guy was a dick," he comments, and heads towards the door.