2020-11-10 - Beautiful Spirits

There's a gun range on land at the edge of a nearby state park....and there they all are. Hunting season is coming soon, and Joe's determined to use a rifle as well as his bow, this year. Apparently he fancies eating venison for a year or so, courtesy of someone else's deep freeze. Or maybe donating what he can't keep.

But he's got a shiny new Winchester that he's working with, as well as a pistol. Somehow he's either got past the period for involuntary commitments keeping him from owning a firearm, or he's got friends in high places. So the sailor is lining up careful shots on a distant target.

August has the rifle Easton once referred to as an antique, his shotgun (a far more modern Remington Express), and his sidearm (though that's still unloaded and packed away). The rifle, a Savage 99, is older than any of them there, and still in fantastic condition.

He's dressed like he would for hunting, minus the vest: dark gray knit cap, olive drab rain-proof coat, denim jeans, and heavy hikers. He's explaining how the guys he hunts with divvy up the catch. "So, Mike was drawn for elk, and I was drawn for black tail, which is good, because Mike prefers deer to elk so he and I can trade. I've already done really well on grouse and turkey. Goose, eh," he waggles a hand, lifts his rifle. "Not so much. Gonna have to find a new spot."

*Crack* The rifle shot is a sharp sound, dulled by the blanket of a gray Pacific Northwest fall. Dead center.

Itzhak has no firearm, a little conspicuously so. But he's never seemed to like them, preferring to rely on his fists and his Song, not to mention his temper. Still he's come along, bundled into woolen peacoat and knit cap and he looks not unlike he might have come from New York's docks a hundred years ago. He hasn't brought his violin--damp is the worst thing for a violin--but he's brought his mandolin. The instrument slung around him, he's propping up a big cedar and noodling with some winding, chipper bluegrassy melody. Kinda totally out of place in the misty temperate rainforest. "Ooooh nice shot!" he says to August.

De la Vega wouldn't have missed this for the life of him, even if it means listening to Roen prattle on about his hunting buddies for God knows how long. The cop's kept mostly to himself thus far, and his stockpile of weaponry; there's a P320 holstered at his hip, and a heavily modified AR-15 currently bracketed snug against his shoulder that might actually have been an M16 at one point, if one squints hard enough. He's warming up with a few easy shots on a mid-range target, and takes them with a thundercrack of explosive report before lowering his weapon and examining the damage.

The scruffy Mexican is attired this afternoon in a black hoodie, red and black ballcap and one of his usual pairs of snug black jeans shoved into scuffed hiking boots. With one new addition: a pair of prescription glasses he's tried not to draw too much attention to. Maybe nobody will have noticed. "Not bad," he concurs, as to Roen's shot.

Joe noticed....and managed to restrain his smile. Javier's pride can be a touchy thing, and he tries to spare it when he can. He doesn't have his on; presumably he has his contacts in. He's in flannel shirt, old army surplus parka, a black fleece watchcap with the Space Shuttle Door Gunner patch on it, and old boots.

He handles the black Winchester not with perfect ease, but there is a kind of comfort there. It's been years since he had to worry about keeping up his rifle qualifications. He sights down it, and fires, landing a round a little ways from the bullseye. "I saw a wild turkey just strollin' across the road the other day, comin' back into town," he notes. "Bold as brass, not a care in the world."

August dips his head graciously. "Thank you gentlemen." He is, it turns out, a little tight-lipped about the people he hunts with. He has however let slip that they're all former Forestry, and there's been an unspoken suggestion that they may be, like himself, queer, and so trying to stick to hunting with other queer guys. Safety in numbers, etc.

"They're all over Oregon and Washington. Tags are a bit too expensive for most people. So if you can afford them, you'll hit your bag limit no problem." He shrugs, because that's how it is in a state with no income tax: the money has to come from somewhere.

He shifts aside to watch Ruiz shoot. Has he noticed the glasses? Oh yes. He even gave Itzhak a Look about them which Itzhak no doubt missed.

Did Itzhak notice the glasses? You bet ya tuchis! And he was much more of an asshole about it than Joe's politely managing. (Of the "I'm not noticing anything, what, there's something to notice? I didn't notice, on account of nothing to notice!" variety. Itzhak can really be insufferable when he thinks he's won.) He'd caught the Look but just hiked his eyebrows in his wryest mode in return. De la Vega gonna de la Vega.

He's warming up too, playing through woolen gloves with the fingertips snipped off. No any particular song yet, just playing, finding chords that sound fun together and experimenting with them. Watching, though, avidly watching the other men (and particularly Ruiz, of course). The late summer and early autumn have been harsh on him, tugging him between difficult emotions and struggles, and he's been crabby in that way that means he's overtired, overstimulated. Right now, though, he's just here, mandolin in his arms, fingers working the strings.

No comment from Javier on the wild turkey, or the state's income tax, or sundry other bits of minutiae that inevitably get churned up once a group of queer men get together to shoot. He's happy enough to focus on burning through the stack of ammunition he brought, and putting in some quality time with the Remington 700 long gun that he brought along, still packed away in its big black case on the ground.

"You want me to give you something to shoot, Rosencrantz?" he murmurs, after hoisting the AR-15's stock up against his shoulder, and trying to line up a shot on his target. Maybe the music's distracting him, or maybe something else isn't quite right, because his shot goes wide, and cracks off into the underbrush. He growls something filthy in Spanish.

Joe's been a quieter creature than he was when he arrived. More inclined to stick to his apartment or the boat....and with the Pacific turning colder and rougher, more the former. Nominally working on his next book, though he's said little about it. Scruffier, too, as others have noted, with longer hair, that beard. But relaxed....and this afternoon, that smile's been making an appearance, now and again. Anticipating the season.

"I been meanin' to ask," he says, turning that blue gaze on first Javier then Itzhak, "If I can set up some archery targets at the edge of y'all's woods. Hangin' bags, maybe, or just a few hay bales on pallets. No one around here has a commercial one that I know of, and it's a ways to the state park's...."

Then he fires again, carefully. Hits the backing, but not anywhere in the colored rings. That tic where he rolls the scarred fraction of his lip under his tooth is back, though eloquent of concentration, rather than annoyance. He's even got his bow and quiver off to one side - intending to practice with that when they're done with the firearms.

August coughs a laugh and looks aside--not at the shooting, but at what Ruiz asks Itzhak. He clears his throat, focuses on his next shot. Like Joe, it ends up in the backing. He grunts in sympathy for the round of misses. "Well at least elk are huge as hell," he mutters under his breath.

He squints at Itzhak strumming on the mandolin. "Is damp weather not as bad for a mandolin as it is for the violin?"

"It ain't the best, but the wood's thicker, it's not so delicate an instrument. Gotta be tougher, eight strings and all." Itzhak strums quick-bright, then perks up at the offer of something to shoot. "Actually I wanna try out Cavanaugh's archery stuff. Now that looks fun. Hell I don't mind if you wanna set up targets, but it's up to the boss." And he's not thinking of how he could cheat with an arrow as opposed to a bullet, of course. Ignore that all-too-thoughtful tilt to his eyebrows. (He's also totally not cheating and keeping condensation from forming inside his mandolin. Absolutely not happening. Sometimes he doesn't realize when he does these things.)

August gets a look from the cop, as if to say, I know what you're thinking and I disapprove of it. Then he cocks his weapon again, finishes off the clip, and drops the safety before ambling over to set it down. Overall, he doesn't seem terribly pleased with his aim with the thing, and goes rifling about in his kit for cleaning supplies. Might be a gummed up assembly giving him trouble, with that many bad shots in a row.

"You mean out back of the cabin?" he replies to Joe, with a glance over his shoulder to the blond. Then a slanted, lingering look to Itzhak, when the fiddler refers to him as the boss. Then back to his work with the gun, magazine unloaded before he begins disassembling it, working on pure muscle memory. There's a time he probably was clocked on this sort of thing, and competitive little son of a bitch he is, he probably came out best in his unit more than a few times. "Don't see why not," is his eventual murmur. "Why don't you come by after, show me what you've got in mind."

There's that almost zen calm to him, as he brings the rifle to his shoulder, takes a breath, lands a round close to the gold. "We'll give that a try, see if you like it. It's fun even if you don't intend to bowhunt," he agrees, lazily. To August, "How does elk eat? I've never had it. Never had any of the western species of deer, either, neither mule nor black. An' I hear you 'bout the price of turkey tags but....hell, y'all want as many as the bag limit, I'll pay for 'em. Figure we can donate what we don't wanna eat ourselves. Can charities out here take hunted meat, d'you know?" Because of course Roen would know.

Then he nods at Ruiz. "Cool," he says. "I'd like that. And be happy to teach Rosencrantz, if he does wanna learn." Not like archery practice is noisy in the way they're being now.

August weathers Ruiz's disapproval with a sly smile. Ha, I win, he disapproves is the kind of look he gives Itzhak for a moment. Then he turns to thinking about how to describe elk as a meat. "It doesn't have the gamey taste most people talk about. That's one of the reasons it's so popular--you can get just about anyone to eat it, if they like cattle or bison. Leaner, like those are, so you have to bring a little fat from another source for certain recipes." He shrugs about that. "We have a guy process for us, he'll add in suet if we want. Speaking of which, yes, you can donate your hunt in Washington State if an approved processor handles it. I can get you a list, if you want." He falls quiet as Joe shoots, nods approvingly. His own shot's better than the prior miss, but not center-target. He sighs, doesn't put the rifle away just yet.

He considers Itzhak's bow arm, which under those layers of pea coat and shirt is scarred in pale filigree. "Might be good for your arm, too," he adds.

Itzhak swanned around flashing his ink and scarring all summer, wearing those clingy tank tops like he thinks he's a hot piece of rough trade ass. Now he's covered up, though, his decorations both purchased and earned hidden beneath long sleeves. Even his knuckle ink hides under the woolen gloves. It's this that gives him such a curiously timeless look, makes him seem like a hard-worn Jewish man from anytime in the past century.

He reddens at the glance Ruiz slides him, but he's half-grinning in his troublesome way. Then he snorts, laughing, at August, and waves him off, like yeah yeah. "Awesome, I really wanna try." Still tinted the delicate shade of a ripe tomato, he swings his mandolin around to rest on his hip and crouches to mess with Joe's archery stuff, curiosity lighting up his narrow, lined face.

He completely misses, therefore, the deer that steps through the mist, a double-dozen yards away. Any animals should be far off by now, given the racket of the guns, but this deer appears anyway, picking his silent way along. He's a good twelve-pointer, and he's white, shimmering in the fog.

There's no indication given as to whether Javier might like to learn to shoot with a bow and arrow. Doesn't quite seem like his bag, but then, who knows. The talk of hunting continues to go right over his head; this little slice of Americana that's never quite landed with him, the lone foreigner in the group. He offers no opinions on the matter, but simply sets his jaw and continues working on stripping his weapon. Down to the bolt carrier group, he finds what looks like a minor jam, and sets to clearing it. Oblivious, too, to the deer that's blundering past.

The bow is a take-down made of silver and black laminated wood, a recurve graceful in its simplicity. Not for Joe the arrangements of pulleys and multiple strings and sights. The arrows are just as simple - pale wood and blue feathers, with relatively blunt target shooting heads, stowed in a hip quiver of dark cloth.

Joe's got his rifle up for his next shot at the target. But when the image in the scope resolves, he lowers it with a deliberation that borders on reverence. A moment of gazing at it blankly, and then his expression changes to an odd mingling of wonder and good-humored recognition. Like the stag is an old friend he's shocked to find here of all places. "Look," he says, and his voice is very soft. "Don't move fast or make a sound, but look." Maybe he hopes this one will grant wishes without being caught.

August watches Itzhak turn all red, smiles at another victory. He can't help but be smug about it, too. "It helps to keep those scars exercised, not let 'em tighten up." He might be about to go on, accept, the deer.

He shoulders his rifle, the motion automatic and absent. He's equal parts wary and awed, because a leucistic or albino deer is so rare, yet here they are, not far from a place where rare and amazing go hand in hand with danger and suffering as often as not.

Still, he's struck, and stands utterly still. He's maybe harder to see than the others, wearing clothes meant to blend in with the trees and shadows of this time of year. "Mule deer," he says, voice low and even, "by the size."

The buck looks, unhurried, in the direction of the men intruding on his kingdom. One big cupped ear turns towards them; the other faces another way, monitoring what's still hidden in the mist. He must be leucistic, for he's freckled, dappled a little with darkness, and his eyes are dark.

Itzhak looks up, without being loud about it for once, and spots the deer. "Oh, wow, look at him," he whispers, instinctively keeping his voice to the same volume as Joe and August. "Hi there, gorgeous." He's got a hand on the bow, but he doesn't lift it, lets it stay where it is as if trying to tell the deer he's not going to hurt him.

It's Joe's shift in tone that keys the ex-Marine in to the fact that something's up. It's night and day, the difference in him; one minute, he's an off duty police officer out for some target practice with his buddies. And the next, he's back in Afghanistan, and all those old military instincts are kicking in like a switchboard that's been lit up. With his rifle in pieces in front of him, his hand goes to his holstered sidearm and has it drawn, the safety knocked off, and a round dropped into the chamber by the time Joe finishes his sentence. The Mexican may look lazy, but those reflexes are knife-sharp.

A dull pulse of electrostatic force races out from him in all directions, rapidly, then recedes. His thumb traces the barrel of his weapon, and he murmurs to the others, "Just a fucking deer."

Joe is smiling at him, welcomingly. It may be an ordinary deer, save for his color. Might well. But then....this is still Gray Harbor, and the odds are so often good that something is more than it seems. So he stands, rifle still lowered....then, carefully, he's letting it fall to its sling, and holding out a hand to the deer. Why...even he's not sure of that. He doesn't take a pace towards it, nor does he glance away at the others, for all he can sense the way they've all come to alert. They're a pack of their own, aren't they?

August feels that wave of electricity, shunts some of it around himself on instinct. He flicks a glance that's equal parts sympathy and wry amusement at Ruiz. He can't blame him for that sort of reaction; in many ways he and Ruiz have their opposites in the kind of place which means hell for them.

He looks askance at Joe, understanding the drive if not willing to do anything of the sort. He narrows his eyes, looking for anything out of the ordinary: too many eyes? Too-sharp teeth? Anything which might mark it a creature of Elsewhere, and so suggest more caution might be warranted than necessary.

"Is anything around here just anything?" he asks Ruiz, tone soft.

Aside from his coloration, the stag seems normal. Almost. There's something, the faintest glimmer as if underneath his white coat, as if he would shimmer with refraction if only the human eye could reach that far. And of course, he is fearless, as fearless as any creature who never knew mankind.

The buck regards the men, even Ruiz's pulse of electricity, calm and certain. Then other white shadows pass behind him: does, spike bucks just developing their first horns, all of them gleaming white, or white-and-brown piebald. They drift past, while the buck stands between them and the men. He watches until the last doe slips past. Then he goes, too, following her, until the mist swallows them all.

Itzhak stays there on his knees--a complicated position for a Jew, and perhaps for this Jew in particular, but here he stays, damp forest floor soaking patches on his jeans. Then he looks at August and Ruiz and Joe, eyebrows up, smiling. He signs something in a flick of his hand: beautiful.

Is anything around here just anything? Roen asks. And Javier's not sure what to say to that. Nor does he shove his weapon back into its holster; it's held loose in his hand, finger skimming the trigger, quivering line of muscle from wrist to forearm to elbow, disappearing under the ruched sleeve of his sweatshirt. And this ghostly procession of pale creatures, lit as if from within, which he watches with quiet, slivered eyes. Lost, in those moments. Like he doesn't deserve this. Like he doesn't deserve this. Just some dirty kid from the barrio who should've been another body hung from an overpass.

The buck turns to follow the last doe into the mist, and Javier snorts softly at whatever Itzhak signs, safeties and re-holsters his gun, and starts packing up his rifle. "Getting dark," he murmurs. "We ought to be moving."

His hand lowers, slowly. No disappointment on the sailor's features, only that smile, wondering, confident. It takes years off his face; Javier knows it of old, the look of the boy he was. Even his posture is reminiscent of that morning on the farm, calling the horses to his hand.

Nor does it die away as he turns to look back at them. Only warms, brightens. As if they were every bit as wonderful, in their way, as the deer. But aren't they? Magicians in their own right. He doesn't know the sign Itzhak makes, but he recognizes the sentiment, and nods once. Takes a breath, lets it out, "Good idea."

Then he's ambling over to retrieve his gear. "Almost time for dinner," he says, determinedly prosaic.

August's eyes tick here and there as he notes the rest of the herd; their markings, relative ages, and health. Probably to let Niall know, if nothing else so the Ranger can catch a look at them.

He signs back to Itzhak, Spirits. Oh, they seem real enough, but who knows. None of them laid a finger on one. Maybe they are not-deer, strange creatures, or the like. Or maybe they're just a roll of the genetic dice, and the four of them were right-place, right time, for once in their lives.

Once the deer are out of sight he checks his watch. "Yeah," he says in agreement, and sets to cleaning up the rifle so he can put it away. "Got some elk chili in the crock pot. Should be just about done."

Itzhak signs beautiful again, emphatically, long fingers fanning over his face. Then, spirits, making a theoretical out of it by shrugging, expression quizzical. Maybe the deer are spirits, maybe not. From the way Itzhak's beaming, he's just happy he got to see them. He rises, easy with the lack of metal in his bones or other hardware holding him together, with his youth relative to the others, old warhorses that they are. As he waits for them to pack up and head out, he swings the mandolin around front again and begins to play. And this time, he's composing something. What they've just seen must be named in the truest language he knows.

Ruiz is silent as the others commiserate on what they've seen, what they've witnessed. Sounds like they might be headed over to Roen's for dinner, whether he likes it or not. His rifle's packed up and hoisted up in its sling, and the case belonging to the bigger Remington shouldered as well. "You need a hand with anything?" he murmurs to Joe as he ambles on over to the sailor, glasses slid off, folded up, tucked away as he waits for his answer. A sidelong glance goes to Itzhak as he starts to play his mandolin, and some tension that wants to leave his shoulders, but is having a hard time convincing his stubborn mind, still contemplating things that have nothing to do with spiritwalking stags.

Those glasses. Joe grins into Javier's face, unable to help himself. He touches the cop's cheek and says, "Sure," before handing off the quiver. Then he's taking down the bow and casing it, before checking over his Winchester one last time. To August, "You offering? Because I will impose if you give me the slightest chance. Elk sounds damn good." He grins at Itz, as he passes, but doesn't touch him. No disrupting the muse.

Beautiful spirits, August signs back, in a compromise, or agreement, or maybe both. He chuckles as Itzhak gets up and begins describing what they've seen in his other voice, his true voice, and locks up the rifle in its case. "Should be enough for everyone, and we got a new dining table and chairs Hanne got us to go with the furniture Hyacinth made. Nice and comfy seating now. I made some blue corn bread to go with it, and I picked one of the berry bushes clean. I could throw together a cobbler or something maybe, toss it in the oven while we eat." He raises his eyebrows to see how that all sounds.

Itzhak nods at August, eyebrows up. Words are gone for a while, it seems. Only music for now. When he gets like this, which is rare for he composes his own material once a year or so, Itzhak falls into it and won't come out until he's starving and snappish and horny. He's heading that way now, spinning up melody and harmony in his overtuned mind--but he turns his head to follow Joe and then Ruiz. He goes to Ruiz, realizing he's having trouble shaking tension (Itzhak knows what it's like, after all), smiles radiantly at him, and if permitted, leans in to kiss him, light, sweet.

The touch to his face, Javier nearly shies away from. He's awkward occasionally about these things. Not bashful, bashful's the wrong word, but complicated. Like a man who's put together differently than every situation seems to warrant. He smiles slightly to Joe, darts him a glance. Crow's feet, and plenty of them. The quiver's accepted, the older man's shoulder clapped lightly, and he moves on. Then is accosted by a tall, radiant Jew with a kiss to bestow. Mwah. "Hey," he mumbles into the tail end of it, glancing August's way, then hitching his eyes toward his truck. Like, walk with me.

Half feral, only partially tamed....and Joe's at his ease. Shining, as if those deer were a visitation just for him. He heads along for the truck. This time, he didn't ride his bike. No reason to - there's room enough in the back for the gear and him, and he seems to take an absurd satisfaction in being chauffeured around. More often than not, he drops off on any ride where he's not being held in conversation.

August shoulders the shotgun in its case, picks up the rifle in his other hand, falls in next to Joe to follow Ruiz. He hums along with Itzhak's playing, gradually fits a poem to it; awkwardly, as he's no singer or musician, yet the words fit none the less. It'd take someone more tuneless than him to make a travesty of it. "Their eyes are pools in which one would be content, on any summer afternoon, to swim away through the door of the world."