2020-07-17 - Crash Landing

It's a warm summer evening, indeed. Long golden rays of sunlight slant down towards sunset, the shadows lengthening. Comfortable out. The kind of evening that encourages storytelling on the porch after dinner, watching moths drum softly against the window screens. It's peaceful - it's their happy home, the workshop in progress behind.

Which makes it hard to parse what's lying at the base of the front steps. A form in faded jeans and a darker blue camp shirt, huddled into a nearly fetal curl, back to the drive. His feet are, bizarrely, bare. Someone took his boots and socks....and there are rust-colored stains here and there.

One of those gorgeous warm summer evenings that are a hidden gem of the PNW, and Itzhak and Ruiz were out doing something normal. Shooting pool, namely, and Itzhak didn't even cheat, mostly. There was also drinking and smoking and Itzhak laughing and flirting with Ruiz, earning himself some specific threats of retribution. Maybe even followthrough--but the point is, they're coming home, and Itzhak is slumped against the door of Ruiz's truck, grinning lopsided at him and telling him something, hands on the move.

And there's someone on the porch. Itzhak looks before he quite knows there's a reason to look, just some ping of something's-wrong. "...oh Jesus," he says, grin fading right off.

Except Javier insists that he did. Cheat, that is. Because there's no fucking way he could've pulled off that carom, kiss, cut shot without a little help from his Gift. They'd argued about it, of course, and Javier always follows through on his threats.

But as of now, they are indeed coming home. Eyes on the road ahead of them, one hand on the steering wheel while his other arm's draped against the rolled down window, breeze rifled through his hair. He's laughing at whatever Itzhak's telling him, and for once. For fucking once, he's not thinking of the shit piled high and deep that's accumulated over the past few weeks. Just this. This moment, with this incandescent soul who helps him remember and forget.

Then those two soft words, and his whole body goes rigid. The truck's brought to a messy halt with a skid of gravel under its tires, and he kills the ignition and goes for his gun. "Get a light on him and stay behind cover," is the curt order as he pops his door open. Then starts to climb out, slow.

The only things that stir in the soft evening breeze are the loose cloth of that shirt, gauzy and light....and the hair of the man lying there, what of it isn't matted with blood. There's not much blood around him, he did his bleeding elsewhere.

But no bullet comes cracking out of the forest, no assassin bursting out of the silent cabin or from behind the workshop. No one there but them. And no sign of movement from the body by the steps.

Itzhak isn't about to argue with those orders; he slithers down in the seat to drop below the windows. His fingers tap, one-two-three-four and glimmerlight rises around Joe, as kind and golden as the late-hour sun, bathing him. He cracks the door to slip out, staying low; you'd almost think he was a military man himself.

Javier, meanwhile, draws that gun of his nice and slow and steady. The sound of steel on leather as it leaves the holster, and then the clack of a round being dropped into the chamber. The crunch of gravel under his boots, the way his eyes cut the dark and his mind unfurls, quick and brutally efficient; the mental equivalent of an electromagnetic pulse spread for miles, trailing sparks and arcs of electricity in its wake.

Satisfied that the only things out there are animals, his neighbours, a guy in his car headed east and a game hunter packing up with his kill, the cop quickly stalks toward the crumpled heap of bloodied man on his porch with the gun's muzzle trained on him. He uses his boot to turn him over, so Itzhak's glimmerlight can illuminate his face, and... what he sees causes his stomach to lurch and the world to tilt suddenly askew and the blood to start screaming in his ears. He doesn't say a word.. just stares. And stares.

He rolls bonelessly, gone from that half-curl to a limp sprawl, one hand ending up flung out, fingers curled. A face battered close to unrecognizability, bruised and contused, but familiar nonetheless, behind the wounds. Ruiz has seen so many crime scenes, so many bodies....and this one, at least, doesn't have the pallor of death. If his heart's stopped, it's recent, and the blood hasn't settled yet.

There are spots of blood on the pale shirt beneath the camp shirt, on the jeans. Ligature marks on the scarred wrists, deep and narrow: zip-ties. And tucked into the waist of his jeans, a little envelope.

Itzhak, crouching by the truck with long limbs folded up like a fawn, watches Ruiz come to a halt over the man on their porch. And not do anything else. Oh this is bad. Ohhh this is bad--Itzhak reaches to him, a curl of violin music, tense and pensive. No words, just a sense of an interrogative like hitching his eyebrows up: what's going on?

Nothing, no words from the man. He shoves the gun back into its rig, and sinks - body shaking ever so slightly - into a crouch so that he can find Joe's carotid pulse with two fingers and check the beats by his watch. Then the envelope is spotted, tugged free, and its contents cautiously checked.

In the kythe, his mindform's gone mad. The wolf is wild-eyed and lost, savagery dripping from every inch of the beast designed as nothing so much as a killing machine. The violin music is responded to with a plaintive whining that sharpens and resolves into a long, low baying. A call to the hunt, perhaps.

Weak and thready but there, and not fading. Still alive, the skin beneath Javier's fingers clammy but not cold. The envelope has spots of blood on it, too. It proves to contain, of all things, a greeting card. Nothing written in it, nothing folded within. Just an image of two adorable children waving, and the phrase "Don't Forget Your Friends!"

Itzhak hisses in a breath, goosebumping and shivering real good. That howl stirs things in him he tries to forget. The shape of the black unicorn quivers into life in the kythe, with the low resonant sound of a violin chord drawn out and out and out. The beast paws the ground, ears pinned. Itzhak himself rises, slinks quick over the gravel to find what the hell is going on over here.

And he learns. "Ah, fuck, Joe," he breathes, upon beholding what their enemies have done. "Come on. Let's get him inside."

That little scouting mission seems to have fairly well tapped his mental resources for the time being, so the wolf locks eyes with the unicorn for but a moment.. before wafting away in a curl of ozone and deionized charge. There's a low snarl in the cop's throat as he finishes reading the card, shoves it back into the envelope, and the envelope into an inner pocket of his jacket, and sinks lower so he can slide his arms under Joe and heft him up. Which is no small feat when the man weighs roughly the same as he does, give or take a little, on account of his greater height.

"Get the door for me, baby?" he grunts to Itzhak, struggling to his feet with his limp and battered load.

The calf of his left leg is dark with blood - there's a wound there that's more than a bruise. His feet are bruised and swollen, too, more of the ligature marks around his ankles....and not a twitch from him as he's carried in. Lolling in Ruiz's grip, limp as a sleeping child, head against his chest.

Bearing the message as Reyes requested, whether he wants to or not.

Keys, feh, Itzhak just pushes the door open with two fingertips reached around Ruiz. When he touches it, the bolts throw themselves open and the door swings itself wide. This door knows its master's touch. "Go on, I got it." He follows Ruiz in, his mouth twisted, his eyes hot. Then he's going right for the couch for the blanket folded there. Gotta keep Joe warm.

That poor couch sees more blood than not, some weeks, it seems. But this is their life now; things that want to hurt them, want to kill them, mundane and otherwise. Once the couch is cleared, Joe's laid out lengthwise atop it. His head's arranged as comfortably as possible against a cushion, and the wound in his calf is noted with a furrowed brow. "This one's going to need looking at. Fuck, can you get Roen over? I.. I don't want to take him to a hospital right now." He, meanwhile, gets the blanket unfolded and shaken out, and draped over the blond. He sinks to his knees, pets fingers through his hair, seeks for his mind tentatively while he waits to see if August can be reached.

It's a ragged mess, that wound, the original knife puncture torn and widened. But's clotted enough that he didn't bleed out. His pulse is still steady, and while his breath rasps, it's not the stertor of someone struggling against internal injuries bad enough to have ruined his lungs.

Inside....he has to be there, somewhere. He's not dead. But far gone enough that there is no ember-limned winged creature to resolve. Not even ash and shadow.

Only a glimpse of a lunar landscape, barely more than an afterimage, pale as a gray pearl...and footsteps in the dust.

Itzhak's pulling his phone from the pocket of his tight jeans, swiping for August's speed dial. Doesn't everyone in town have August on speed dial? "Hey. You at the cabin?" Then a whoosh of breath, presumably at the affirmative. "Look, someone got to Cavanaugh and roughed him up pretty good, he's in bad shape. Think you could help? I wouldn't ask but--" he winces, laughs a little reluctantly. "Yeah. Bye." He paced the whole time he was doing that, long legs carrying him around the living room to the kitchen and back.

He knows what it'll do to him, to see Joe like this. Javier knows, and while part of him does care, because Roen's his friend, he doesn't care enough. He doesn't care anywhere near as much as he cares about getting Joe back in one piece. Because with the chips down, if it's between August losing his everloving shit on the floor of his bathroom, and Cavanaugh bleeding out on his couch, he'll take the former. And he'll take it every time.

"Vuelve a nosotros, cariņo. Regresa. Donde estas?" Soft, rough voiced murmurings to the unconscious blond while Itzhak rattles away on the phone. The occasional glance is sent to his dark-haired boyfriend while he puts fingers through Joe's hair. Then he pushes to his feet, goes to find the first aid kit so he can bandage up that leg while they wait.

An explosive sigh and a growled, "'Wouldn't ask'? You're unbelievable," is all Itzhak gets says before August hangs up. The cabins are close, but still he drives, if only to make sure he gets there without interruption. The Outback practically kicks up gravel and dirt as it comes to a halt. August hops out; he's clearly post work-shower, in simple UW sweats and a black hoodie.

De la Vega's truck and cruiser are parked out front; the former somewhat sloppily, like he did so in a hurry. Blood smeared across the porch, front door shut and locked, security system armed.

Poor August. Joe's a mess. Beaten to a pulp, face swollen and bruised, blood matted dark in his hair. Ligature bruises on ankles and wrists, narrow and deeply graven. A ragged puncture wound on his calf, and more bruises and swelling on his feet. Deeply unconscious, but he's breathing, if shallowly.

The former soldier, like the cop, at least, will know the marks of torture when he sees them.

Don't leave out the ex-con from that count. Itzhak mutters, "Guess I deserved that," ruefully as he tosses his phone on the counter and comes to check on Ruiz. Also on Joe, but really on Ruiz. His fingers twitch as if he really wants a cigarette or his violin. Probably both.

August stops dead in his tracks when he sees the blood smeared on the porch. (No, smells it. Or maybe he's imagining that.) "Roughed him up," he mutters under his breath, pulling out his phone to shoot a quick text that it's him out front, and not someone who needs shooting. He climbs the steps and raps on the door. He can already feel it, the pressure from those wounds, and he swallows against numerous automatic reactions.

Ruiz hasn't dared delve too far into Joe's mind. Hasn't dared read that note beyond the mundane parsing of the letters on the page; not yet. He will, no doubt, when he's more sure of his fortitude for such things. When he's reasonably certain he can do so without losing his fragile hold on sanity that's been unraveling since he spent twenty-seven days in a prison cell without being able to eat or sleep or control a single fucking thing in his miserable existence. Without being able to die.

He pushes that intrusive thought out of his mind when he hears the rap on the door, reflexively draws his gun from the shoulder holster, and prowls over to answer it. He doesn't need to check the window, as he's sending out a little mental pulse to feel for any mind within twenty feet - Itzhak, Joe, squirrel sleeping in the aspen, fucking raccoon rifling around in the garbage - but he does so regardless. Then shoves the door open before re-holstering his gun. "Roen," he greets darkly.

Itzhak's mental fractals are churning, spiking, but under control. He's emotional but not distressed, not about to spin out--for once. It's fucked up, but Joe being tortured by a rival gang? This to him is something he knows. Something, even, that he can control. Massive thought-constructs are turning in his mind, slotting together, driving the too-hot engine of his intellect. He crouches to smooth dark blonde waves stiff with blood away from Joe's face, touches him tentatively through the kythe. (The sigh of the ocean in a sea-cave.) There's what Ruiz has seen, the surface of the moon, pale gray dust with footsteps denting it. He pulls back, gets up, his jaw clenched, and faces August. ...he wants to apologize, but holds it down.

"Hey," August says, sparing a second to give Ruiz a visual once over. No reaction to the pause for him to double check; August would be doing the same. He pauses after taking a step inside and seeing the tracks, Joe on the couch, sways. 'Roughed him up' indeed. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask what happened until he spies the deep grooves on Joe's hands and wrists. The blood on the porch, but not a path from either of the other vehicles.

"Fuck," he mutters, and moves closer. He's already sweating. "Look, it's not like before. It won't...just go away. He'll experience the healing he works normally, just, faster." He looks at Itzhak now. "If he's got broken bones, that might hurt like a motherfucker." Maybe a suggestion they bust out pain meds, or something stronger if they've got it.

Warning given, he doesn't wait any longer (because that steady ebb of life out of Joe is like a razorblade going under his fingernails), just closes his eyes, takes a long slow breath in and out.

The stab wound goes first and fastest, pulling together at the deepest points, leaving it not much more than a nasty gouge. The deep bruises and internal bleeding, broken bones and dislocations, those are slower and more reluctant to come together. They're stubborn, and there's a lot. He has to spend energy guiding the bones into the right place, which is energy he's not spending on fixing the fractures. But they'll come together correctly, now, if they're seen too.

This goes on for almost a minute, August's jaw set, skin getting more ashen by the second. He stops with a gasp, coughs, and bolts for the kitchen sink.

The healing....it is miraculous, even if it's not like it once was. But it brings him up out of blissful unconsciousness into a sea of pain. The pilot's awake....and half-way fixed. The sound he makes is awful, confused, and the blue eyes are glassy. Even the touch of familiar minds - he pushes back there, feebly.

Bewildered, afraid....and enough so that there's a little ripple of force out from him, Glimmer striking nothing in particular, but making the lamp on the end table sway and tremble.

Ruiz doesn't even bother trying to shove the dishes out of the way. They'll just have to deal, later. He will, however, return to his task of breaking open the first aid kit and doling out pain medication. Whose dispensation will have to wait until Joe's conscious. Then for the more blatant injuries that August couldn't see to immediately, he sets to bandaging them, to make the aviator more comfortable. He has gentle hands, when he wants to. "Warm water and a towel, por favor?" he murmurs to Itzhak, seeing him loitering and looking at odds with his hands. A touch to his side, a kiss, as if to make it clear he's needed. To Roen, once he's done emptying his guts into the sink, "Thank you for coming. I know it's difficult for you-" And then Joe awakens, and he draws the man's blond head into the cradle of his arm, and speaks low to him.

Itzhak grimaces in sympathy as August bolts for the sink. Oy gevalt is practically written with his eyebrows. He follows him so he can perform some logistics operations on the whole Roen-throwing-up-in-the-sink situation. "Sorry, bubbeleh," he murmurs to him, the apology getting out anyway, and Itzhak never apologizes. Except sometimes. Like now. He rubs August's back and then leaves him to put himself back together a little, coming over to Ruiz and Joe again--pacing, with the pacing--and receives a touch from his boyfriend, and a kiss that he accepts solemnly, like a pact. "Yeah," he murmurs, kisses Ruiz briefly again, then he's getting that done too.

Fortunately, they hadn't had dinner, so it's just (?) dry heaving. August gets himself under control, makes a small sound of acknowledgement for the apology and shakes his head in a 'stop apologizing oh my God' manner.

He has to clear his throat and wash off his face. "It's fine," he says, a little hoarse. A wince for Joe waking to incredible pain, and on instinct he reaches out to deaden it, turn Joe's mind away from how his body just sprinted through a week or more of mending itself. He doesn't know space to think of that, but boats he can do. A huge, black and white yacht, on a long, narrow lake, party goers mingling against a gorgeous summer evening, clouds turning pink and orange in a way they seldom do in the Northwest...

Joe's pain is too much. August's stomach threatens round two, and he lets go, sagging against the kitchen counter. "Sorry," he says, running a hand over his face. "This new...way of healing...it fucking sucks." He waves a hand at the difficulty part. "It's fine." He sinks to the kitchen floor, rests his head back against the cabinet.

Now they all get the spectacle of Joe breaking apart at apogee, starting to tremble and cry....trying not to make whatever's still hurt within worse. Which leads to him making these little hisses of pain, even as he tucks his face into Ruiz's arm.

Oh, he's been hurt worse....but in those cases, they had him strapped and dosed with morphine before he could properly wake up. Break-through pain warded off until he was in the soft cocoon of a hospital bed. But August's efforts get through, to some extent, and he's no longer tensed against it. Limp and exhausted and leaking tears, but calm enough, for the moment.

It's fine? "It's not fine," Javier snarls, snapping the lid shut on the first aid kit, tossing it back atop the coffee table with a dull clatter. "None of this is fine, Roen." He leans back in to dose Joe with the pain medication, the instant he's conscious enough to take it by mouth and down a sip of water. Then starts cleaning the blood off the man's face and hair, assuming Itzhak brought him that damp cloth he asked for.

And as he cleans, meticulously, with those hands that have done such savage and gentle things, he murmurs beneath his breath, "You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on." As he speaks, the kythe bends to his will, adding small details to that image in August's mind's eye. The scent of bonfires melting onto the air from the shore, laughter and music, the constellation of stars beginning to bleed through the sunset. Distractions, one and all.

Itzhak did bring the washcloth and even a bowl of warm water. He's not too shabby in the mind Song himself these days, and his presence is a beacon, a lighthouse on a stormy promontory. Even when Joe wakes to animal whimpers of pain, even when August comes a hair's-width from hurling in the sink again. And when Ruiz murmurs poetry, he pauses to listen, eyes closing, the better to focus on the low words.

August's mind is a whirlwind, but not of Joe's pain and misery. This is other people's, yet of similar make, memories graven into him and called up across two decades. Layer upon layer under crushing darkness, the tastes of cordite and concrete heavy in his mouth, and he can barely breathe around his own pain but if he tries just a little harder, pushes himself a little further, maybe this one won't--

You do not have to be good. He hears someone else's voice say the words; old, scratchy, a woman's, against the backdrop of the fire and the beach, the lighthouse overlooking the ocean. These distractions erode the ugly darkness like a tide, washing it off as surely as Ruiz and Itzhak are cleaning up Joe. August sighs, sags with relief, swallows. "Thanks," he says, voice soft. He scrubs at the tears which were making their way down his face. "Yeah, you're right. It's not. None of it." He opens his eyes, watches them taking care of Joe. "Do you wanna...keep him here? Or take him somewhere." He leaves 'somewhere' open to interpretation. Addington Memorial is fine, but there are also very good hospitals in Seattle, for instance. Or Portland. ...or Canada.

Maybe it's the comfort offered, the web of mental threads woven around him, the wish to give something back....or to rise beyond this body, still half-broken and aching. The merely mundane drugs haven't hit yet, but they've cushioned him, borne him up....and now he's sinking back, needing more rest.

But, in the kythe, the image of the stars above the yacht brightens and brightens, turning impossible and vivid, the universe unveiled by atmosphere. Sunset conducted at speed, over the visible arc of horizon, dwindling down into darkness.

And then he's out of the link, dropped into the refuge of unconsciousness again.