2020-08-12 - To Be Good

It's evening when the invasion happens. It's a small invasion as these things go, just a single man, dressed in a scruffy t-shirt and faded jeans, his workboots crunching on stray rocks as he walks up to the cabin. One of his arms is in a sling; it's a deeply mottled purple from the fingertips on up, and swollen. His other hand is carrying a cloth bag. Inside the bag is a box of fresh cupcakes of various flavors. The man, of course, is Alexander, and he is sweating slightly in the summer heat, but his stride is steady.

With any luck, Itzhak will actually be home, and he doesn't have to stand awkwardly on the porch waiting for someone to arrive.

Music floats from within the A-frame. The lights are on and Itzhak must be home. He's working on some classical piece, and he's working on it, instead of the fluid playing he usually does; starting, stopping, restarting and focusing on some particular part. And then stopping and complaining-slash-cursing in Yiddish, and then restarting... whatever it is, he's struggling with it.

He is not half bad at the mind Song these days (comes of falling in love with a bunch of mentalists), and as Alexander approaches, there's a swift little run of much more internal music as Itzhak touches his mind. Then the violin stops, but the violin in Alexander's mind blooms into a flourish of welcome. <<Hey!>> ...so casual, to touch another person's mind, to talk to them without sound, but Itzhak's mental presence is all sound. <<Hang on I gotta do the thing, with the security system.>>

The welcome is felt, and returned; Alexander easily lets the connection strengthen, and pleasure flows back to Itzhak, along with admiration for the work he can hear, a touch of relief that someone is there (one day he'll learn to call ahead), and as always, that hungry curiosity. There's also a low constant pain, and the stars of his mindscape are cracked and slivered, but still holding together. <<Hey.>> He comes to a halt before the door. <<A security system? Good. I heard someone tried to kill you.>>

Itzhak, of course, pauses to examine the damage, fractal music fronds delicately weighing the fractures. <<Ehhh, which time someone tried to kill me is this,>> his violin sings absently, while on the other side of the door locks are being unlocked and there's the chirp of a disarming security system. The door opens and Itzhak, wearing one of his silly violin t-shirts (this one says "if it ain't Baroque, don't fix it") and soft pants with the Captain America shield all over them, beams at Alexander. "C'mon in!" It's like he lives here or something.

<<At the church. I visited August in the hospital.>> The inspection of the damage is either not noticed, or willfully ignored. Alexander's there when the door opens, and returns the beaming smile with one of his own, although it's as brief as a flash of lightning. "Hey. It's been too long." He lifts the bag and offers it one-handed to Itzhak. "I also hear you discovered a dead body in your sand castle. So I brought you cupcakes. Usually, I eat ice cream after too much murder, but I thought it'd melt before I got here. So. Cupcakes." With that, he starts to sidle on inside.

Standing back so Alexander doesn't have to risk touching him, Itzhak lets him in, then shuts the door again and with the air of someone doing what he was told, relocks all the locks and rearms the security system. "Oh yeah, that. Actually the guy didn't touch me. He shot Vic then stabbed Roen. He had a lotta opportunity to mess me up and he didn't, so personally that don't sound to me like he was trying to kill me. It was Roen he leaped for." This grisly story he tells also kinda absentmindedly while he goes through the ritual of re-securing the front door.

Then he groans through his nose, laughing, and shakes his head. "Yeah. Out of all the sand castles, why did it have to be mine?" He accepts the bag of cupcakes with a rueful hitch of a half-smile. "Thanks, tateleh, for thinkin' about me. Hell yes, cupcakes." And he's already digging for them while he goes to put the bag down.

Ruiz's house has transformed subtly with Itzhak living in it. There's speakers, for one thing, because Itzhak can't live without them. But these are nice ones, matched, and the cables run neatly in the same color as the paint on the walls. Almost invisible. Not like the ones he really obviously picked up from the side of the road somewhere that he had in his apartment. There's Iris's viviarium for another thing, with the big skink perched on a log, her ruffly blue tongue coming out as Alexander comes in. And of course there's Itzhak's music stand and a stack of music books and his violin case lying open with his violin and bow propped up in it.

"You want somethin' to drink?" Itzhak's saying, while getting out a cupcake. He hasn't remarked on the damage or Alexander's arm, yet, but he's surely clocked them.

Alexander makes a thoughtful noise. "Interesting. August was the target?" That little flicker of mental static as certain processes realign, but he doesn't argue with it, although his gaze is concerned as he watches Itzhak relock the door. "Seems like you're taking proper precautions, anyway. Good." The cupcakes are handed over, and then Alexander goes to Iris, his smile returning as she flicks her tongue at him. "Hello, sweetheart," he says, his voice softer than usual. "New digs. Look nice. You like 'em?" He takes little glances around. "The place looks nice. You're comfortable settling in? And...water, if you have some? It's a long walk." He looks vaguely apologetic for his sweatiness.

"Yeah well, de la Vega about fit to plotz if I don't," Itzhak mutters, pouring cold water for Alexander and setting it where he can get it without touching him. Then, peeling a cupcake, "Makes him feel better." Then he licks the pile of frosting. Like an animal.

Iris, who is much politer, wriggles off her log so she can rear up against the glass and flicker her tongue at Alexander in lizardy enthusiasm. She hasn't seen him in so long! For Iris, this is the edge of hysteria, although it also helps that it's her active time of day. Itzhak, sucking frosting from the pad of one finger, goes, "Awwwwww," touched by her display. "She missed you. Yeah, I like the place, de la Vega lives here." So obviously he likes it, DUH. "It's goin' pretty good," he admits after that, smiling a little, a private expression. "So what do I owe the pleasure, huh?"

"He's not wrong. To plotz." Alexander turns to reach for the water with a murmured thanks. "You're smart and powerful, but these guys?" He shakes his head a little. "Better to not be sorry." He takes a sip, and his expression softens further at the wriggling Iris. He touches her mind with the smallest bit of pleasure and gratitude for her recognition of him. "She's a good girl," he says, with the earnestness of someone who believes every word. Then his attention turns back to Itzhak. "Good. And like I said. I was worried. Hadn't talked in a while. Thought I should bring cupcakes. Are you okay?"

"He's not wrong," Itzhak says, grudgingly, "but Roen's telling me I shouldn't go around alone and what, am I a drunk tourist? And honestly I got no idea if the guy was trying to kill Roen or not. He damn near killed Vic and he wrecked Roen's shoulder but he didn't even really try to fuck me up. That's all I'm sayin'. I have his knife, though. Thought someone could read it." He takes a huge chomp out of the cupcake, viciously. After he swallows, he licks a crumb off his lip and looks at Alexander, eyebrows tilting up. "I mean, I guess? I was in a pretty rough Dream too. Poor de Santos got jacked up. I got bruises just like them you got now," he nods to Alexander's arm. "Lotta shit is going down all at once. I'm not not okay though?"

"People love you and don't want to see you hurt, or see you put in the position of having to hurt others to be safe. It can be confining, but it's well meant," Alexander says, calmly. He wanders away from Iris' cage towards the cupcakes, putting down the water in order to grab one for himself. Each one is a different flavor, and he shows no hesitation in following Itzhak's lead and licking the sugary frosting off with quick, long motions of his tongue in between comments. "The strongest emotional resonance is...probably that fight. I understand he died." His eyes widen a little. "Dark place, pale light, filaments coming out of nowhere to completely wreck your shit?"

To the rest, he acknowledges, "It's hectic. Which is why I wanted to check. Because we're friends. If I can help, I will."

"Vic put two in his head. It was actually real impressive, since I was grabbin' her trying to keep her from just keeling over while her chest was blown open. So yeah, he's dead as a fucking doorknob." Itzhak shrugs, like what can you do? "Blood and brains everywhere. I don't care too much that he's dead or anything, but having some bad dreams about the mess. Had to hold Vic's blood in, too. God. What a disaster."

This calls for another cupcake, which he uses to gesture at Alexander, nodding with his eyebrows up. "Right, yeah, dark place, pale light, and then nets trying to grab us up. I made light, like I can do, but it didn't work exactly the same. The dark traded. I put out light and it put in dark. Hurt a whole hell of a lot. But I'm okay now."

"Victoria Gray. The bad bartender at Bennie and Easton's bar," Alexander clarifies, for himself, with a bob of his head. "I'm glad she was a good shot. I'm sorry about the nightmares. And that she was hurt. It's hard. When things go in that way." He nibbles more carefully at his cupcake, neat, slow bites once the frosting has been removed. "That sounds about right. Lilith said that she got sucked into a place like that months ago, too. You were with two other people? One of the guys I was with tried to make a light, and the dark ate it." He shivers. "I'm glad you're better."

"Ate mine at first, too. So I, uh..." Itzhak waves vaguely with the cupcake. "Went harder. Deeper. You know? Hard to describe but I just hit it with everything I had. Then it was like light left me and the dark filled me up." He holds out a long wiry arm, palm up, so Alexander can see the lingering yellow of old bruises. At a second look, Itzhak has those all over, starting at the edge of his face and going downwards. "Mostly it's gone. But I looked just like ya arm, everywhere and I mean everywhere. Bennie helped. Then she made fun of me for having my hands on Gray's chest. But I don't mind too much, she's not doing great either."

Alexander nods. "I stabbed them. They didn't like that, so they got inside my arm. And then my head." Which is all he says about that, although he leans forward to look at the bruises and hiss in sympathy. "I was lucky. It was only my arm. And you were lucky to have Bennie there." A long pause, and then something like mischief flares in his eyes. "Did you blush? I suppose it was a very nice chest to have your hands on?"

Itzhak tips his head and his eyebrows. "Yeah, you're kinda beat up." Then pulls quite a face at Alexander and, yes indeed, gets red across the cheekbones and the bridge of that big crooked nose. "Stop that! Jerk." Joik, of course. "You met the new guy?" Blatant change of subject! He chomps this cupcake in half, too, and sighs happily. So much frosting.

"Just my arm," Alexander says. "And it's better now. Lilith took a look at it." He grimaces. "I have to figure out how to repay her. I don't like the healers putting themselves at risk for me. But it was...pulped." He doesn't dwell, instead that spark in his eyes growing brighter. "So you're saying that it was, in fact, a nice chest." Then hastily holds up cupcake-filled free hand. "Now, now I'll stop. Promise. But you blush nicely. I missed it." There's a blink, and a tilt of the head. "What new guy?"

Itzhak makes a wordless sound of aggravation through his nose: rrrrrg! flipping out his free hand at Alexander. And blushing deeper, of course. "Stupid overreactive capillaries!" He has to spend a minute scrubbing at his stubbly cheek as if that'll help, which it doesn't. "...new guy, he's from northern Europe somewhere, I forget. His name's Ravn." Itzhak pronounces the Scandinavian name quite well; in a way it has the same lilt as Yiddish. "And he's a really freakin' good violinist! He'll tell you he's no good and he's an amateur but he's a goddamn liar, he's as good as me. Maybe better. Probably better. Anyway he's just your type, into the weird research."

Alexander can't help it - he laughs a little at Itzhak's wordless sound, and grins as the man tries to scrub his blush away. He nods as he mentions Ravn. "The folklorist who's cleaning tables at the bar. Yes. I've met him. He seems nice. Not very good at not stealing things from crime scenes, but interested in investigation. And," he bonks himself in the temple with his cupcake when he tries to tap his head, "abilities and things. He's a mover. Like you, although I don't think he's anywhere near as powerful. I haven't heard him play violin. I like how you play, though."

"He's why I'm practicing Brahms," Itzhak has to admit, grouchily. "I can't be the second best violinist in town." Sooooomeone has a competitive streak ten miles wide. "And trying to tackle some Paganini because this shit can't stand. Anyway, I really like him." Only Itzhak could complain vigorously about someone he then claims to really like. "I can show him mover stuff if he don't know." Then he laughs, startled. "Did he lift something? Nice. I shoulda thought of that. Ugh, and he's smarter than me."

Alexander saying he likes the way Itzhak plays, though, softens his irritation, and he half-smiles, lopsided, at him. "Aw. Hey, thanks. It means a lot to me. I promise I won't be mad if you like his playing better. No, I'm lying, I'l totally be mad." But he says it with all the affection in his crabby Jewish heart.

"Dead guy's wallet," Alexander says, with the slightest edge of exasperation. "I had to explain why keeping evidence from the police is not only ill-advised, but it could also land him in jail. Still, it was useful. To have a look at it before it disappeared into evidence. He seems nice. He said you found the body." His eyes rest on Itzhak for a long moment, then he blinks, and smiles. "It's not a bad thing. To have someone who can challenge you. You'd get bored if you were just the best and no one was even close." Then, lower in volume, but somehow firmer, even sharp. "He's not smarter than you. Don't say that." He doesn't acknowledge the 'won't be mad' except by a tilt of the head indicating that he knows.

Itzhak, of course, snickers. He's far more amused than exasperated. "I used to be a pretty solid pickpocket, too. Got the hands for it." Leaning a hip on the kitchen island, like he owns the place, he folds his arms loosely. "Yeah, I found it. Someone cut the poor bastard's head off and stuck on an octopus. And cut like, runes or something into him. The body, not the octopus. The neck," he draws one finger across his neck, illustratively, "was all seared shut like a steak. What's the word for that? I forgot. Like his head got cut off with a lightsaber."

His eyebrows drift up at the sharp tone from Alexander...but he acquiesces, smiling a little. "Ahhh aight. I won't say that." The indignation Alexander gets never fails to charm him. "At least not where you can hear it."

"I wish I'd learned," Alexander admits, with a sigh. "That, and locks. Being able to pick locks would come in handy." He brightens as Itzhak talks about dead bodies, which isn't usually how that expression goes, but this is Alexander. Murder is his bedtime story. "Cauterized. It was cauterized." A frown. "I wonder why. Usually that's done to keep a wound from bleeding out. But when it's your fucking head, it doesn't really matter." It goes into the mental banks, nonetheless. He smiles as Itzhak agrees, but it turns into a half-playful scowl in the next moment. "You're difficult," he tells the mechanic.

"Right? I dunno what that's about. Why would they sear his neck? Reminds me of that Hercules story about the hydra. Did they want to keep him from growing two heads in its place?" Itzhak considers this, fingers tapping against his forearm in a rhythm to whatever song is surely running through his head. "Well if they're Hydra, I'm Captain fuckin' America. I need a shield. I could totally do all that stuff with the shield. See, I even got the pants." Oh yeah, his soft sleep-type pants have the red-and-silver shield all over them.

Then Alexander scolds him and Itzhak tosses his head back and laughs a big delighted laugh. All of his pensive, not-quite-okay-but-not-knowing-what-to-do-about-it aggravation vanishes for just a moment. "'Difficult' is my middle name, tateleh, you think de la Vega would settle for anything less?" There's a gleam of wickedness in his gray-green eyes when he looks at Alexander again, grinning, all the too-many lines on his face creased.

"Maybe the murderer /was/ afraid that he'd grow it back, somehow." Alexander shrugs. "None of this is particularly well-balanced, and ritual murderers often have reasons that exist primarily in their own psychological hang ups. It's what makes them interesting. Property, jealousy, power...boring motives. Someone who is killing because they're trying to relive a failed relationship with their mom? That at least has some nuance to it." Alexander smiles as he says it, but he's not entirely joking. "The runes. Do you remember what they looked like, at all?"

But the question seems forgotten for a moment when Itzhak laughs. Alexander beams that he made it happen, and just basks in the sound, his delight as plain as any of his other feelings as he watches Itzhak. Mention of Ruiz dims his delight for a moment, but he still smiles as he says, "I wouldn't know what Javier settles for, or not. But he's lucky to have you."

Itzhak forgot that Alexander and Ruiz are fighting, because of course he did. But that Alexander called him Javier instead of 'the interim Chief of Police' is a step up. He quirks his eyebrows at him, affectionate and wry. "He cares about you an awful damn lot, I hope you know that. I know things are rough between youse right now, but you'll figure it out. I know these things, I'm a mechanic. Sometimes stuff get broken, but it can be fixed."

He unwinds his arms so he can spread both hands, palms up, though, about the runes. "Yeah I remember more or less what they look like. They're just shapes. I'm good with shapes."

Alexander's joy snuffs out, replaced by slumped shoulders and anxiety. His good hand taps out a rhythm on his thigh, and he starts to wander through the room, instinctively gravitating back to Iris to study her a bit. "I know. He does care. Really care. He's been nice to me when he didn't have to be. When most people wouldn't be. He has a lot of good in him." There's a long pause, and when he speaks again, there's a hint of steel, of something dangerous, underneath the rest, and his expression changes just a bit, going blank. "So when he's not good, he needs to be corrected. That's all. To learn better. It hurts. But as Hebrews says, Now no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous: nevertheless afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby.." There's a moment, in reciting the verse, where his voice takes on a sonorous lilt, and it feels like he's echoing a specific person's way of saying it, a way of speaking that doesn't come easily to Alexander.

In the next moment, though, he blinks and the expression clears. Murder brings him back from wherever he was, and he smiles. "Would you draw them for me? If you can remember? I was going to ask Isabella to look into them. See if she recognizes them from her studies. Just in case it's an educated maniac."

Itzhak watches Alexander walk off, not following him, just listening to his steps, to his words. He stays there leaning against the counter, his expressive face going thoughtful. The silence he lets happen, doesn't fill it with talking like is so often his instinct. As if Alexander was a skittish reptile he wanted to bring to his hand, he waits.

But then...that tone, the recitation of Hebrews, and the hair on Itzhak's arms and the back of his neck rises. A warning bell rings in his mind.

Crossing the living space to Alexander, Itzhak comes to him on silent bare feet. His eyes are narrowed, his shoulders back and his head forward, and his usual rolling gait is a prowl. The question about the runes he ignores, he barely heard it, he certainly didn't register it. He heard only one thing: a declaration of intent about the man he loves.

It can be easy for him to forget Alexander has this blank-eyed thing in him, this thing as pitiless as an angel. Perhaps Alexander forgets (though could he, as a powerful reader?) that Itzhak has this violence in him, the soul-deep flaws of a troubled man. They both, these two, have dwelt in Hell, have eaten its food and drunk its water and come away carrying Hell inside them.

So many people in Gray Harbor have, and the man they're discussing is far from the least of them.

"You," he says, voice a low rasp, transformed utterly from the guy hanging out and catching up with his good buddy, "do not have the right to hurt him."

Alexander turns when Itzhak approaches, but it's not defensive. He doesn't project violence, or try to draw himself up into a dominant stance. If anything, he shrinks, wilts, nearly cringes, his hands twisting and the fingers spreading, as if to say I'm unarmed. But, at the same time, his eyes don't lower. He watches with those dark eyes that can so easily turn reptilian, all calculation and survival. But when Itzhak speaks, there's no resistance. In fact, he bobs his head, and says, "I know."

That Itzhak is doing no good whatsoever with this display doesn't occur to him. Sweet reason? Talking sense? Suggesting that maybe any 'chastening' de la Vega needs ought to be between him and God (that neither he nor Ruiz believe in, but that's another matter), that no mortal person can 'correct' another?

Nope. Only a drawing of a line in the metaphorical sand. This far and no further.

He bodies up too close to Alexander, not touching him, but too, too close. Close enough to feel the heat of his body and smell the clean cotton of his tank top.

"He's not yours to hurt. He's mine." Itzhak shudders a little--then he breaks away, stalking off. His voice is much more normal when he snaps, "Don't fucking DO this to me, Alexander!" Furious, shaky, but those are normal things for him.

Maybe it's a sign of Alexander's affection for Itzhak, his trust in the rangy mechanic, that he doesn't skitter backwards when his personal space is invaded, and he doesn't bristle or snap, either. Or maybe it's just that, although Alexander is a roiling cauldron of barely controlled emotions among which anger is a large part, there's no anger in him about this. Only sorrow. And a terrible sort of resolve that has more of resignation than pleasure to it. "I don't mean to," he says, and it's perfectly sincere. "I'm sorry." What he's sorry for, he doesn't elaborate on. But there's something about the shadows on his face that suggest everything. Everything he's done. Everything he might do.

Now he breaks his gaze on Itzhak, ducking his head and tucking his chin as he studies Iris instead. "You said we'd still be friends. Regardless of what happened with Javier. Are we? Still friends?"

Itzhak shoves both hands into his mass of black curls, grabs a double fistful, and yanks. He grunts in pain, and pulls harder, until he's gasping and his eyes are watering. It's a wild-eyed, too-glossy look he turns on Alexander. "I need you on my side! I need you on his side and not because you're playing God!"

So now it's pretty obvious he's not doing as well as he was fronting.

He loosens his hands from his hair, lowers them panting with pain and adrenaline. "What is it you're planning? I can't answer you until you tell me what you fucking meant by that." Sure now he asks--but at least he asked?

"I am on your side," Alexander says. "I am on his. He's my friend. I want to help him." He starts to pace again, this time towards Itzhak, his good hand coming up as if he'd try to gently prize Itzhak's hands from his hair. But he can't. His hand stops a bare few inches from the other man's head like it ran into an invisible wall. So, he just sort of pets the air in a weird gesture, his face contorting with worry. "I'm not. I'm not playing God. But sometimes..."

He stares at Itzhak, his heart in all its fractured, patched-together glory in his eyes. "Sometimes you have to be able to say no to your friends. You have to be able to stop them. Because you do love them, and sometimes when people are wrong, and you don't stop them, they get worse. They turn into monsters. I don't Javier wants to be a monster. I won't let him become one. And that means he has to know there's a line, and someone to stand on the other side of that line and hold him to account. And I can either handle it myself, or I have to turn it over to the authorities to handle. And then he loses everything that means something to him. I know that. And he's my friend."

His lips press together. "I'm not planning anything. I hope I don't have to do anything. But I've told him what I will do if he crosses the line again. He knows. It won't be a surprise. And he asked me to help him. So I will."

Itzhak, who makes eye contact so rarely, stares right back into Alexander's eyes. He and Alexander have communicated mind-to-mind so often, and yet right now, only a few inches away from each other, the chasm between their minds seems vast. Like any two people whose thoughts cannot reach outside their skulls, they are.

He swallows. "He told you something. Didn't he." Not exactly a question. Slowly he lets his hair go, a few black strands coming away coiled around his fingers. A little sanity returns to his expression. "Something he didn't think he could tell me."

Alexander slowly lowers his hand. He shakes his head. "He didn't. I mean. I don't know if he did. I don't know what he tells you. He tells me very little," he says, with a sort of wistful resignation. And under it, that hungry curiosity that wants to know everything about the people he's interested in, whether it makes any sense to know it or not. "But I have my reasons, Itzhak. It'll be okay. If things go bad, and you need to hurt me, I understand. That'll be okay." He genuinely means this to be reassuring, and even offers a hopeful little smile, afterwards.

Itzhak scrubs over his face rapidly. He's still leaking around the eyes, overwhelmed and fighting with it. "If--if he asked you. Then. Then for what he asked you, you have my blessing." The words are dragged out of him. Then, laughing bitterly, he wipes his eyes. "It takes a village to manage that man."

But when Alexander says it'll be okay to hurt him...Itzhak looks at him again. Long. Silent. He wets his bottom lip in a flash of tongue. Then, grimacing, he turns away. "You oughn't let me hurt you. I'd like it too much. Alexander, listen. I can't let you become a monster, either." His voice has gone quiet, just a rasp of gravel in his throat. "We're in some pretty fuckin' monstrous situations. We gotta watch each other's backs. We can't let each other fall."

Alexander watches Itzhak for a moment, then he turns away and goes into the kitchen to find paper towels. He brings a couple back, and offers them wordlessly to his friend. He blinks a little at I'd like it too much. His head tilts to one side. "Why?" A pause. "I mean, why would you enjoy it. Have I done something wrong?" It's a genuine question, and he's watching with a sort of frustrated bewilderment. "And I don't intend to let anyone fall. If I can help it." There's the point. There's Alexander's head. Watch the point go sailing over.

Accepting the paper towel, Itzhak wipes his blotchy face, blows his nose. "No, because I'm not just a masochist, I got the other end of it too. I'm fucked up every which way, that's why." He's flushing in angry embarrassment now too, but it's not like he demurred on that one. He throws the wadded-up paper across the room, landing it neatly in the trash (of course). Staring across the room moodily, he mutters, "I might need your help too. I don't know. I'll tell you if it happens. Jesus Christ I need a drink."

"Oh." Alexander thinks about it for a bit, then nods. "Okay. I don't think you're fucked up, Itzhak. I think you're too hard on yourself." It's gently chiding, and his eyes follow the wadded up paper in its flawless trajectory to the basket. "If I can help, I will. You know that." He shuffles his feet in place, back to looking anxious and uncertain. "We are still friends. Right?"

Itzhak finally smiles a little, just a little, in one corner of his mouth. "Yeah. We're still friends. But next time? Lead with the part where he asked you to help." He goes to the kitchen, his gait back to being its loose-limbed rolling half-saunter. Mostly. Mostly loose. "Have a drink. Then I'm kicking you out. I got a lot of Paganini to get way too invested in."

Alexander breathes out a sigh of relief. That sweet, sunny smile comes briefly to his features again, and he says, "Okay," agreeably enough, but not with any apparent understanding of why he should do that. He follows Itzhak into the kitchen, although stops at the threshold. "All right. I've enjoyed spending time with you." A pause. "Could you write down the symbols from the dead body?" Because, sure, bonding and deep emotional conversations are one thing, but there's a murder to solve, and Alexander has his priorities.

They're murder. Alexander's priority is always murder.

SIGH. But Itzhak sighs with a reasonable amount of tolerant affection. "Yes I'll write down the fershtunken symbols for you." But first he pours them both glasses of golden honey mead from a hand-labeled bottle. That Alexander has no real understanding of why it's important he tell Itzhak first that Ruiz wanted his help, Itzhak knows, and Itzhak doesn't care. He has those kinds of problems himself, even if his spring from a different root.

He pushes a glass towards Alexander, then, his own in hand, goes back to his music stand for paper and pencil.

Alexander takes the glass, and looks pleased. All is clearly right in his world again, at least for the moment. There's a thoughtful sip of the mead, and he makes a dubious face at first. Then tries it again, and makes a less dubious face. As always, he only barely sips the alcohol, but seems to enjoy it. "We should...do something. Someday. If you want. That friends do. Like...bowling? Or. Um." He looks momentarily blank. "I like board games. And video games. Nintendo was fun. Something like that."

Itzhak takes a long, steady drink like he needs it. He draws out the runes he remembers, triangles and lines, in the notebook he keeps on his music stand. Drawing with his left and drinking with his right, like a true violinist he can do two things at once. "You play pool?" he says, absently.

Riiip, he pulls the sheet out of the spiral-bound notebook, folds it in half and holds it up to Alexander between first and middle fingers. Not handing it over, yet, using it as a kind of bait. "Listen to me," he says, serious, searching for eye contact. Rare, that. "I always trusted you, and I always wanna trust you. Shit is ugly. Don't let it make you ugly too. I couldn't take it if that happened. I need you. We need you."

"I have played pool, once or twice," Alexander says. "But I don't know if I'd say I'm good at it." He watches the man draw with barely concealed curiosity. And then, when that sheet is held out, he reaches for it, a little scowl twisting his features when it's withheld. "Dirty pool," he accuses, but lightly. The humor fades away at Itzhak's tone, and he meets the violinist's serious gaze. He holds the gaze for a while, his fingers drooping downwards. "I want to be what my friends want me to be," he says, quietly. "I'm trying to be."

Itzhak totally learned that trick from Ruiz. He's even holding the paper like Ruiz does, scissored like that.

He studies Alexander's eyes, squinting with the strain of direct contact. For him it's like staring into the sun.

"That's all anybody can ever do, is try," he murmurs, and surrenders the paper. He looks away with an unconscious sigh of relief, since he stopped forcing himself to do eye contact. Even he closes his eyes for a moment, as if they ache. "Aight. Throwing you out. You wanna ride back to town?"

Alexander takes the paper with a pleased sound. "Thank you, Itzhak." He smiles, but shakes his head. "No. I'll walk. It's nice in the summer." He tucks the piece of paper in his sling, and gives a merry wave. "Take care. Don't die." And with that, the investigator kicks himself out, although he looks back, just once, something more concerned in his gaze before he shuffles on out.

Itzhak dutifully locks the door and re-arms the security system. Then he stands there leaning his forehead against the wood, glass held loosely in long fingers. He 'watches' Alexander walk away, with his Song, tasting the other man's mind and sensing the fabric of his clothes. Until Alexander is out of his mental reach, he stays there.

Then he returns to his violin and tosses away the book of Caprices he was working with. Fuck Paganini. It's time for Cajun.