2021-01-28 - Bullet Holes

Addington Memorial Hospital is a small town hospital. Even with Gray Harbor's crime rate, it's unusual to have this many people in the hospital with gunshot wounds at one time, and the place is buzzing. Staff run too and fro, and there are more than usual the number of cops prowling around, and not just at the end of the ward where Reyes is unconscious. Alexander is avoiding that end, for the moment. Instead, he's made his way to Itzhak's room; he shouldn't be here. He's definitely not on any list. But being a Mentalist of his power means that sometimes, the rules don't apply to you. At the moment, they don't; so he pokes his head in without shame. He's got a paper bag in one hand, and a deep frown on his face.

A little Bluetooth speaker is playing sweet and dainty violin music--something Mozart, probably. Itzhak's lying in the hospital bed, his big frame unmoving in the half-doze of healing. He's hooked up to several machines, an IV, and an O2 cannula, his bare chest bandaged up. Pale, exhausted, he looks like a guy who took a hell of a beating.

He stirs a tiny bit, opening his eyes on instinct--that convict's instinct he's never lost for knowing when he's being watched. Then, licking his dry lips, he murmurs softly, "Hey. You."

"You got shot." It's somewhere between worried, and an accusation. Alexander sidles in when Itzhak opens his eyes, and closes the door behind him. "A lot of fucking people got shot. I disapprove." He doesn't ask if he can visit or anything, he just comes and takes one of the seats by the bed, sitting heavily before he reaches out to put the paper bag on the bedside table. It clicks and clinks. Only then does he say, grudgingly, "Hey."

"I got shot three times." Itzhak's voice is barely a rasp. One corner of his mouth quirks upwards, along with his eyebrows. "Made 'em give me the bullets. That shit's mine now." ...sometimes, Itzhak gets weirdly possessive of the oddest things. "Would rather not be shot, believe you me. Turns out it sucks kind of a lot. Glad you're okay." The clinking makes him turn his head to see the bag. Someone's already come and left a container of churros (guess who), books, and a couple magazines. One of which appears, from the corner peeking out, to be porn.

"If you're proud of that, I'm going to overcome my fucking phobia solely so I can reach out and knock you in the head. Which has not been shot. I assume. Too goddamned hard." Alexander doesn't bother to try and smile. The affection is in the worry and in the grump. His eyes twitch over to the other offerings, and without even asking, he starts picking things up and looking through them, paying the most attention to the books. The porn mag is given a snort, but otherwise ignored. "I'm okay because my invitation to the party apparently got lost. So a lot of people I like are in the hospital and I'm okay." Snarl, snarl, growl, growl.

Itzhak huffs softly, a breathing-is-hard version of his usual derisive snort. "Ya invitation. Like anybody wanted to be doing this." He's talking slower, too, not at his usual breakneck New York pace. "'sides. We were ambushed. Maybe if you asked Reyes nice he'da sent a hit squad along for you."

Alexander starts going through the things and Itzhak just lets that happen. A few books (a well-loved copy of The Last Unicorn, the new Neal Stephenson, and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas), the magazines, one of which is about cars, his phone, the Bluetooth speaker, the churros. While that goes on, Itzhak sighs, shallow and careful. "I wish Abildgaard and Joe and Roen and them didn't come in to help us. That's how they got shot. Shoulda stayed out of it."

"Looks like the Harbor's most popular winter party, to me," Alexander grumbles. "And I heard. I visited Miss Grey in the ICU, and between naps, she was able to explain a little of what happened." He breathes out a heavy breath, then carefully replaces all the stuff he pried about in, before taking out from his bag a CD (because Alexander still uses CDs), and a small collection of vintage-model Hot Wheels. He arranges them around the books. "You know that none of them would walk away from friends in trouble. Not even Ravn, who is no one's definition of a combatant."

Itzhak smiles almost all the way when Alexander takes out the CD and vintage Hot Wheels. "Oh man. I had that one when I was a kid." It's the Firebird 'funny car', with the body that can tilt off the engine and frame. "I liked that one best because I could look at the engine. Thank you. Yeah?" His eyebrows tip up, winsome. "What's the CD?"

He sighs again, though. "Yeah. None of 'em would. They proved it. Look. I know you're mad. I know," breath, "you'd a been there too. But I'm happy. Happy you're not in the hospital along with us. Or dead. Happy to see you in one piece."

"I'm not mad," Alexander snaps, which definitely sells the idea that he's not angry. He at least realizes that, because he runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. "I'm just worried. About you. About the rest. Most of the rest." He reaches out for the CD. "Mix tape. Made it. It's symphonic metal featuring strings. Violins, but not just violins. Because metal is good music," he grumbles. "And it has violins too." Grumble grumble.

"You made me a mix tape? Awwwww. That. Sounds. Amazing," Itzhak says, and he sure sounds like he means it, through that raspy murmur. "I'm sure I got something," breath, "that can play a CD. Or if I don't, just gotta visit you and listen to it." Problem solved! Can those eyebrows get any more pleased? "I know you're worried. I know. But we did it. We got him out of our fucking town."

"Why wouldn't you have something that can play a CD?" Alexander looks completely blank. Hell, he probably only moved on from cassette tapes in the last ten years or so. The man has a Nintendo. He sits back in the chair. "And I know you did. You all...you did good. And only a couple of deaths. That's good. It's better than I thought it was going to be." He takes another long look at Itzhak. "You want me to give you a little nudge?"

"You did too, bubbeleh." Itzhak's hand twitches where it lies on the covers--an impulse to take Alexander's hand that he squashed before it could get moving. "Everybody who could. We all did. We all worked for it. We fuckin' won."

Proud? Not exactly. Yes, there's a hint of pride there. Would he be himself if he wasn't a little proud of taking bullets in a cataclysmic brawl and living to tell the tale? But more, a soul-deep satisfaction for that core of Itzhak that is protector and defender. The enemy had stormed the gates, and he'd been there to turn them away. That this part of him also fuels why he thought it'd be a great idea to go into a gunfight armed with a set of brass knuckles, well, nobody's perfect.

In answer to the question, he shrugs with a hike of his eyebrows alone. "You wanna? You feel like you can risk it? I wouldn't...say no. Take some...burden off Roen. That bastard's determined to heal himself into an early grave."

Alexander just shakes his head at the first words Itzhak says, denying it without arguing about it. But his expression softens as Itzhak goes on. "You fuckin' won," he agrees, quietly. He can understand that pride, and for all his grump and worry, doesn't try to crush it. Although as soon as Roen healing people is mentioned, he starts scowling again. "Asshole," he mutters, but not like someone who means it. "I'm not him. I can't do as well as he can. But what I can do, I will." He reaches out, placing his hand over Itzhak's chest and traces some strange symbol in the air, muttering to himself. A cool power pulses from him; weak, especially compared to August or Finch, but it still soothes.

"He sure is an asshole." A rough, low laugh. Then Itzhak gets a look of muted delight as Alexander touches him. That's not something he gets a lot of. The healing soaks in and he pulls in a deeper breath, shivering minutely, eyelids hooding in an expression darn near sexual. "Ahhh fuck. That takes the edge off." Now he can talk at a more normal volume, even a more normal pace. "You're just bringing me present after present, huh?" The lopsided smile is almost himself.

Alexander hesitates, and instead of pulling his hand back after releasing that healing, he lets his hand drift up to gently push a lock of Itzhak's hair into another direction. Just the slightest brush of fingers against scalp, before he pulls back. "I'm glad it helps," he says, quietly. "And not that many presents. But hospitals suck. It's nice to have something that helps." A flicker of a smile. "You gonna take this as a lesson and try and stay out of trouble? You're getting old, you know. Can't just shrug off bullet holes." He smiles, teasing the mechanic.

Itzhak's eyes turn up to watch Alexander ever so delicately brush his hair aside. It makes him sigh yet again but this one is enjoyment. "I'm just about to be thirty-eight. Gettin' way too old for this mishegoss." He joins in the teasing, even though it's teasing himself. "Oy, I'm so glad you came to see me, Alexander." The way he pronounces Alexander's name has the same weight of affection he'd usually load into a Yiddish nickname. "Don't be mad about not getting shot. Even though I'd totally be mad about not getting shot if I was you."

"You are. Ancient. Decrepit. Banned from all firefights for the foreseeable future," Alexander mutters, playful about everything except that last bit. But he's smiling now, and he wasn't before, even as he rolls his eyes. "I'm not mad about not getting shot, Itzhak. No one wants to get shot. Except maybe you. I'm mad that you got shot. I would prefer no one got shot. I don't want to get shot instead." Harumph. His fingers tap out a rhythm on his thighs. "Is there anything you want me to do? I'm sure the Captain visits often, and everything. But if there's something..."

Itzhak lifts a hand to wobble it back and forth, like, okay, split hairs if you wanna. But he's smiling too. "Would you check on Lemondrop? She don't need to eat, she's in brumation. But just make sure she has water and the temperature of her enclosure's stable? I'd appreciate that like hell."

"Brumation?" Alexander's eyebrows go up. But he can easily nod. "I will. I like Lemondrop. She's very pleasant to check in on." He smiles. "But you can leave it to me." He stands up and starts to walk around the room, idly poking into various bits and pieces of the room. "Next time I come, I'll bring some real coffee, or something."