13 February 2015
Gleaming and polished and new, the common house here boasts an enormous industrial-sized kitchen for preparing communal meals. Set up as two mirror-image fully equipped kitchens, both left and right halves of the room contain a trio of enormous ovens, each topped with twelve gas-powered stove burners. There is a wealth of cabinet and drawer space ringing the walls, and separate side-by-side fridge and freezer to each side of the space as well. Both halves of the room contain their own large central islands, black granite countertops providing a large expanse of space for food prep; beneath the center islands are stored a well-stocked supply of pans and pots and cutting boards and kitchen gear. The pantry is shared, a large walk-in room along the back wall, its shelves all carefully labelled and organized. The opposite wall has sinks, deep three-compartment ones for each side of the room.
There are very clearly labeled signs in the kitchen, denoting the left half of the room strictly for preparation only of foods both vegan and Kosher; there are no restrictions on the foods prepared in the right half. Equipment from each side is color-coded and should be kept separate. Instructions request that any prepared foods served or stored in communal space keep /strict/ lists of the ingredients used for those with dietary concerns and that leftovers are marked clearly with dates before being stored.
The wind howls audibly outside, the already frigid temperature sinking lower as the night wears on. Inside, the music and chatter may have dwindled, but the light and warmth persist. The party has left a surprisingly small mess in terms of dirty dishes, only a few cups and icing-smeared plates left to clean up. Isra has the dishwasher open--overkill, really--as she loads these last in neat, perfect rows. Rare for a Friday night, she looks pristine and undamaged. She wears a long, slinky wrap dress of shimmery ice blue to match the frost patterns on her purple-green skin, particularly apropos for the weather.
The wind howls a little louder for a moment as the door opens and all but slams back closed to admit a Micah. He's dressed in his usual evening-type attire, nothing special for the party, just layered Batsignal hoodie over Doctor Hooves tee, robin's egg blue henley, patchy lined jeans, and a pair of Wish Bear wristwarmers doing an inadequate job of keeping his hands warm. "Oh, that was a terrible idea," he admits with a shiver, rubbing at his arms with his hands as he works his way to the middle of the kitchen. "I mean, the trash cans are only /just/ outside. But apparently no amount of outside without a coat is on the menu for me just now." His tone is somehow surprised, amused, and a shade self-deprecating at the same time.
Isra's wings pull in closer around her bare shoulders when the door opens. "Even a coat may not avail you much against that wind." Shrugging, she settles her wings back into their relaxed position. "It feels almost as though Ithaca's weather has come to pay us a visit." She levels a critical eye at one plate, used by a particularly messy eater or possibly one who loathed sugar, and goes to scrape the excess icing off into the trash. "Have you and Jax any Valentine's Day plans? I don't know if that's the sort of thing one celebrates in the usual way if one has actual feelings on the eponymous saint."
With the wind and the snow and the terrible the growl of Ion's motorbike outside a couple minutes earlier was probably lost. There isn't much announcement, then, before he comes clomping in from the dining room, in jeans and knee-high boots, scarf and hat and motorcycle jacket, leather sling strapped around his chest with a blanket-wrapped Eridani bundled inside. His mouth twitches, lips starting to pull up and then slipping back to press in together. "/Isra/. Isra, hermana, I, uh, you, uh. You wasn't at the, fight, I went to look, shit. Hi."
“Any more layers 'tween me an' that's gotta be a good. I'm not made for it. Can't decide whether t'blow away or freeze solid first.” Micah leans against the counter, blowing into his hands and rubbing them together in an attempt to regain some semblance of warmth and circulation. “It's not the holiday we make the most fuss over ever, but--” But then there is a sudden Ion in the room. “You okay, hon?” His brow furrows in concern, looking over Ion and his bundle. “S'Eri okay?”
"Even I, child of the frozen wastes, could not withstand that for long." Isra deposits the last plate in the dishwasher and closes it. "The less anyone goes outside tonight the better--" Ion's well-timed entry earns a single lifted eyebrow ridge. She looks him over as though expecting injuries. "Good evening. I skipped it in favor of helping set up for a birthday party. You do realize I always have my mobile phone." Not a question, though. She crosses the room to him in two easy strides, her tail lashing quick behind. "What's wrong?"
"Phone, pff, /I/ don't got no damn phone." Ion doesn't seem particularly injured. A little twitchy, a little bouncy, the same restless jittery energy he /always/ has. If the cold is affecting him at all it doesn't show. He unwraps the sling, arms curling around the blanket to just hold Eri to himself instead. "I-ono. I feed the monster but he not eating. That ain't no good, right, fucking Frittata, he /always/ eating, all he ever do. Eat /every/-damn-thing. Today no. Nothing. Just stop."
"Frozen wastes?" Micah arches a brow at that. "S'Jim's birthday," he assists in explaining to Ion. "S'tellin' the truth. Pretty much hafta track 'im down in person whenever y'need t'talk." His eyes widen at Ion's announcement and he moves toward the man-and-infant pair. "S'there been any other symptoms? I can look 'em over if y'want. I ain't no doctor, though. Could call Io..."
Isra's ears press back at his dismissal of phone usage. She looks tempted to explain something along those lines until Ion actually divulges the news that brought him. "Not eating?" Her voice registers no particular alarm, but her eyes cease blinking and fix intently on Eridani's tiny, emaciated form. "That cannot bode well for /any/ infant, much less one normally so voracious. Could they have eaten something else, something poisonous?"
"Claro que no." Ion frowns deeply, head shaking and his hand rubbing against the back of the blanket, between Eridani's crumpled wings. "We only we give them the blood-packs. From the butcherys. Put in them hedgepigs. The Omelette he tooth on every-damn-thing but not no things he can --" He lifts a hand, tapping at his throat. "Swallows. -- Shit, Io. Io he not no, what's it. What's it called, baby-doctor. But they got them, right? Down the clinic. Kid-doctor. For the tiny-freak. I go. There." He nods, decisive, reaching to start wrapping the thick leather sling back up like he is going Right Now.
"Have they been breathin' funny? Or had a fever? Or been real sleepy? Anythin'?" Micah tries to peek over the bundle to get a better look at Eri. "No, Io's not...but the Clinic's closed right now. An' he'd know if they got an on-call peds. person or what. An' if not...s'better than /no/ doctor t'ask what t'look for. It ain't like we're gonna have a lotta luck walkin' into the ER." Chewing at his lip, Micah has produced his phone from his pocket. He can't seem to decide which thing to attend to first, however.
"I haven't the first notion what might be wrong." Isra speaks very softly, the alto part of her voice barely audible. "And honestly given their unique physiology I don't think anyone could know without running...tests, I suppose?" This suggestion carries an edge of helplessness. "Yes, we must find professional help, and right now any doctor is better than none." She curls a wing around Ion to detain him, as if she could actually stop him if he wanted gone. Then, hesitantly, "May I hold them--him?" It is hard to say whether her questioning tone pertains to the pronoun or the request itself.
"He been sleepy like a motherfucker. Cranky all-the-damn-time, I don't know." Ion is just finishing tying the sling back off, tucking Eri in close against his chest again. "Any doctor? /Any/ doctor, /right/." His eyes seem to light at this. "Right-right-right, that's a good, that's a -- right, yeah. I gotta -- yeah-right." Wing notwithstanding -- a moment later there is just a small cracklepop, a faint ozone tinge, and nothing left where Ion and Eri had been.
“Could be a number of things. I can check a few while we get Io on the line t'direct us?” Micah offers again, shifting his weight a little agitatedly from foot to foot. “Can y'describe 'xactly what's been goin'...” And then Ion is gone as quickly as he appeared...if not faster. “Where in the world would he've just gone?”
Isra wraps her wings tightly around her shoulders, the silver claws tipping their spars digging into her dress and skin. "To the first doctor who came to mind, I imagine--possibly even Io. Or to the clinic. Assuredly the overnight staff would not turn him away, especially since he is liable to let himself in." She stares blankly at the space Ion has recently vacated, her ears pressed so far down they almost seem to droop like Eri's are wont to do. "I'd go after him if I knew where he went, but..." Her wings shiver; she looks as close to miserable as ever most will likely see. "I should let Dusk know, and get in touch with Kay, too."
Micah reaches out an arm to circle around Isra's shoulders and squeeze in an attempt at reassurance...even though he is very little sure himself. "D'you want help? I...I'd like t'help however I can."
"I don't know. I don't even know how I ought to feel about this." Isra leans into Micah--gently, careful of both her stature and sharpness. "Maybe... Could you contact Doctor Saavedro anyway? In case Ion does not make it to him..." Then, dismally. "...or any actual medical personnel."
“I'm goin' with worried, but that might be a default settin'.” Micah wraps his other arm around Isra in a firmer hug. “I can call. Just to give 'im a heads up that...Ion might show up for him or anyone Clinic-related, if nothin' else. S'a good plan.”