2019-06-05 - What Makes You Think I Have A Good Heart?

The bar isn't exactly hopping on a dreary Thursday night, though there are a handful of people seeking respite from the rain in the bottom of a beer bottle. Or shot glass, as the case may be. There's a group of mostly men, with a token woman or two in their midst, seated at one of the booths nearest the bar. One is immediately recognisable as Waffles, from the diner the other afternoon. A few other beat cops from the precinct, all of them out of uniform tonight and most of them fairly rowdy. They've just done a round of shots, and Waffles is doubled over in uproarious laughter as another familiar face - the captain who doesn't get enough sleep - shoulders his way out of the booth and gains his feet a little unsteadily. They've all had plenty to drink, that much is clear. "No es broma, te digo lo que vi." He raps the table with his knuckles to emphasise, then flashes one of the other guys a grin before weaving his way to the bar.

Sutton wanders back into the bar proper from down the hall, presumably the ladies restroom. She rubs her hands up and down her arms briefly, like she's chilled. Perhaps she stepped out back to grab a smoke? It's hard to say, but while she was dressed for the weather earlier, the sinking of the sun below the horizon has brought with it a plunge in temperature that makes a short skirt and short sleeves ill-advised attire.

The paramedic-temp-dispatcher wears a simple pale grey dress, soft knit fitted to her frame from shoulders, with a high neckline, to hem at mid-upper thigh. The sleeves are short. With it, she wears a pair of round-tow, lace up zip-up ankle boots with a stiletto heel. They're modest, no more than three inches. Her long hair is down in loose waves, and she looks far too sober, which is the perfect time to run afoul of a gaggle of off duty cops. She maintains her distance, headed to the bar. "That explains some things." This to a certain captain as she, too, makes her way to the bar.

Ruiz doesn't, perhaps, have the greatest situational awareness at this precise moment in time. He's several bottles of beer, at least one round of shots (probably more) and a couple of shitty mixed drinks into his cups. And it shows, as he nearly veers into the paramedic who cuts across his path, and manages to catch himself before he bowls her right over into the lap of a girl at the bar texting her boyfriend. It takes him a minute for his brain to catch up with the whole recognition thing, and he favours Sutton with a slight smile after a notable pause to take in her attire. "Good evening." He hitches his chin to the 'tender without quite taking his eyes off the blonde. "What are you drinking? I will buy for you." Waffles happens to spot the leggy girl in that little grey dress, and hollers something about his lap being free, much to the amusement of one of the other cops - and the softly snorted derision of one of the women seated with him.

Ruiz is dressed, himself, in a dark tee shirt and jeans. If he brought a jacket, it's been left behind at his booth. Both arms are inked, though the left much more elaborately, down to the backs of his fingers. Black and grey line art, for the most part. Much of it older and somewhat faded.

Sutton gives Ruiz a once over, probably judging how wasted he is by the near miss and the pause before he speaks, though it could be the scent of alcohol. "I may have to assault Moretti." She doesn't so much as look in Waffles' direction. "So you're going to have to pretend you saw nothing." There's little chance she really means that, judging by the casual delivery, but...

She glances down the older man's arms while she speaks, leaning against the bar between two stools, yet to choose one to sit down. There's a moment of consideration that goes on for a while as she continues to peruse his tattoos on display, without so much as addressing the question. "They probably won't make a Bee's Knees here, so I'll settle for Makers on the rocks."

Verdict: pretty damn wasted. And even so, he's doing pretty well considering. The guy can handle his booze, that much seems clear. "That would make me an accessory." He stumbles over that word a little, dark eyes hazy and having some trouble focusing on Sutton's. "So you had better have something good to bribe me with." One of his buddies hollers at him to hurry it up with the next round of shots, but he seems perfectly content to wait until the paramedic has figured out what she wants.

"Una mujer despues de mi proprio corazon," he murmurs as he sidles in beside her to lean against the bar on his elbows. Close enough for his arm to brush hers, though likely not by design. Among his visible ink is a stylized fishing trawler, and several fish leaping through choppy waves. He delivers a quick rap of knuckles on the counter to get the 'tender's attention. "Makers on the rocks, por favor. And another round of tequila shots for my friends over there."

"I have a feeling you can hack it." Sutton's delivery of that response is level and a little throaty. She moves to sit on the edge of the stool behind her, resting one arm on the bar's ledge. She glances from the dark-eyed man to the table, then back. "Everyone else more unsteady? I'm surprised they let you carry the shots." The precious, precious alcohol. She glances over at the bartender as the order's taken, and then back to Ruiz, her gaze amused now.

"So, bribery is it?" A slow smile answers that. "Not out of the goodness of your heart? Not for a pretty smile from a reasonably pretty girl?" Sutton does touch his arm, a finger sliding up and under the sleeve of the tee closest to her to drag it up and check out the rest of the ink that might be there on his shoulder. The sleeve bunches between her fingers, manicured and varnished with a truly blindingly pink fuchsia polish.

Her suggestion that he can 'hack it' seems to amuse him greatly. He drags his gaze back to the younger woman, pauses, then chuckles with a soft crinkling at the corners of his dark eyes. They're ringed in green, in this light, though it's subtle and might be missed entirely. "I can handle the shots." Besides, he's paying for them. If he drops them, it's no skin off anyone's back but his own. "You do not have much faith in me."

He watches her steadily with that slow smile. Watches how it changes her face slightly, creases her cheeks and warms her eyes. "Que te hace pensar que tengo un buen corazon?" A highly stylized sugar skull sits at the meat of his bicep, with a variety of flowers sprouting out of it, encompassing much of his shoulder. He doesn't move, doesn't flinch at the touch, though something in his regard seems to sharpen for a moment. "You come here to drink alone, querido?"

"I don't know you well enough to have faith in you, De La Vega." Sutton finally uses his surname, though when she says it, she says it with an accent. The way she pronounces the v in his last name leans toward Mexican Spanish. She peruses his ink visually while she speaks, in no apparent rush to finish. "Your heart is a mystery to me. But you do use endearment easily. Are you warm or are you overly familiar?" She may be asking if he's slutty. Americans with funny partial British accents and their strange syntax.

Sutton reaches up to sweep a few strands of her hair behind her ear, an ear pierced with tiny gold-and-diamond studs in lobe, conch, and a tiny gold hoop in the helix.

"I've been here a few times alone, yes." Sutton leans against the bar again, after she's swept her fingers out from under the sleeve of his tee, letting it fall back into place, more or less. She doesn't even say anything about it, quality, subject matter, or in fact making verbal reference to having moved his clothing to check his ink at all. "Why do you ask?"

Warm, overly familiar, or merely shitfaced. All likely explanations for his uncalled-for term of endearment. He continues to watch the younger woman as she peruses his ink and casts aspersions on his motives and sexual proclivities. Then her hand drifts away, and he doesn't bother smoothing the sleeve of his tee that she left slightly rumpled. Her question is left unanswered for a little while, as he considers the piercings in her ear. And, perhaps, something she's said. Then he hitches his chin to the booth where the rowdy cops are seated. "You could come and join us."

Amusement creases his eyes, and he leans in to tell her in a low, rough-edged voice, "You have a beautiful voice. I am sorry I missed it this morning." Because he didn't get held over. Maybe he finally caught that sleep she's been nagging him about. Or maybe not. "What part of England?" The Makers on the Rocks is set down in front of him, and he slides the glass slowly toward Sutton, but doesn't relinquish it yet.

Sutton glances over at the table full of cops. She considers that for a long moment after turning back to the bar. "I could join you." Her brows rise and she watches him for a moment. She could join them, but Waffles. She could join them, but she just might be the most sober of the bunch. She could join them, but cops drinking. All of those things are telegraphed with that one slight rise of her brows.

Her hand comes down, elbow on he bar, and her fingers rest lightly on the rim of the glass Ruiz has hold of, fingers steepled there. "London." Her answer is simple and at once quite vague, considering how much London encompasses. "The morning was quiet. You didn't miss much." She slips one fingertip over the glass, nail catching the edge with a soft tink. "Thank you."

"You don't look like you slept. You'll sleep tonight." Sutton may be saying that because of the tequila.

For what it's worth, he doesn't look like he's too certain about rejoining his buddies either. He's cut from a slightly different cloth; a little quieter, a little more withdrawn. A little sharper and more finely honed; a precision weapon where the others are blunt instruments for the most part. He notes that little browraise, and offers a slight smile in response. It lingers a beat and then melts away, disappeared into his scruffy beard and dark, intent eyes.

"I might. I might sleep tonight. You seem very sure about that." It could be a question, but it isn't. And his hand still hasn't been removed from her glass, even as Sutton's fingertips come to rest lightly atop it. Tink of her nail drawing his gaze down, then back up to her face. "What part of London? I hear the Queen's English, and something else." Never mind why he might be familiar with British accents.

There's a moment before Sutton answers that question with, "Hampstead." Her fingers remain resting lightly on the rim of the glass, slowly chilling as the ice in the bourbon melts very slowly. She is content to sit, hand there, watching Ruiz as he speaks, or as he watches back. She can be quite chatty or not. Without Waffles sitting next to her prodding her verbally, she seems to trend a little more quiet. "If you're not going to sleep tonight, you haven't had enough tequila." The last few words are enunciated clearly, a very slight emphasis on them.

"The something else is what happens when half of your parentage is native to Washington, half English. The American girl sounds like a Brit to the Americans and an American to the Brits." She turns her head a little and hms, like it means little, but perhaps it bothers her just a little.

Sutton's fingers slide down the side of her glass to settle over Ruiz' hand, still stubbornly holding the base of it. "Did you buy me this drink so I could drink it?" Her fingertips rest on his knuckles.

Hampstead. Maybe there's a glimmer of recognition in the placename. Maybe he's been there, or maybe he hasn't. Nothing about him screams well-traveled; he seems like an immigrant cop who's dragged himself out of the dregs of society only to land himself here. Keeping the peace amongst those dregs. "Two more shots of tequila," he tells the bartender after a pause to consider her words. Dark eyes on the blonde's, just a little hitch of his chin to indicate whom he's speaking to.

"It bothers you." She didn't say that. Not out loud. Her question garners a slow smile, and he lets her fingertips rest against his for just a moment before finally releasing the glass. A bead of condensation is licked off his thumb, and then he gestures to it with a turn of his palm. "Bebelo. Por favor. No dejes que te detenga." His smile shifts to a grin, and he nudges her shot closer once it arrives, with his knuckles, before reaching for his own.

Sutton's fingers slip low on the glass to pick it up by the heavier bottom. She brings it to her lips, but hesitates to inhale the aroma of the bourbon before she tastes it, a sip of amber liquid spilled across her tongue. She hms and says, "One day I'll find a bar in this town that can mix more than two cocktails." She hesitates a beat then says, "Or I'll stock my own bar and do it myself."

When he says it bothers her, she sips again, "Do you think so?" She swirls the glass, running the bourbon over the surface fo the ice, to chill it faster, in theory. She lets go of the rocks glass to reach for the shot. "Have I told you what happens when I drink tequila?" The question seems rhetorical. "There's no way I'm going to catch up to you." She lifts the agave a notch and says, "Salud," before she tips her head back, chin up, and shoots it.

He doesn't think so. He knows, and the glint in his dark eyes says as much. "Salud" is murmured in kind. Shot glass in hand, he waits until Sutton's ready with her own, and then knocks his back in time with hers. Down his throat quickly, adam's apple pulling with the effort to swallow it all in one go. The little glass is flipped over and slid atop the counter, fingertips resting on it for a moment before withdrawing to graze the backs of her knuckles. Just a brief touch, and then he eases out of his lean against the bar, dark eyes on her lighter hazel. "I must see to my men." Obligation rather than pleasure. Though by now, one of the bar staff has likely been by to drop off the shots. "It was good to talk to you again, querido." Definitely too much to drink. He might even feel duly chastised in the morning. But at the moment, he's rather enjoying the way that little grey dress fits on her body, and that too might be helping to loosen his tongue.

Sutton reaches over to drop her shot glass atop Ruiz' once his hand moves. She licks her lips briefly, then nods. She reaches for her bourbon and lifts that. "Enjoy." She smiles a bit at that, her gaze on her glass for a moment before she glances up to meet the man's gaze again. The graze of his fingers against her hand goes unremarked upon, but she does lean in a little, turning her head to say to him, "Take some vitamins and drink a full glass of water before you sleep." She gives him a beat to absorb that before she says, "No arguments."

She glances over to that table again, then smiles. Maybe because she write Moretti's name prominently on a stall door with his phone number just under it. Or she's just imagining the hangover half that table's going to have in the morning. "Goodnight, Captain." A smile lingers as she lifts her glass. She tips her glass back to drain it. The rocks glass thumps on the bar with a little shiver of the cubes left inside it. She turns her wrist to check her watch, then hops off the bar stool, raises a hand to wave to the table full of cops, and gives Ruiz arm a squeeze before he departs. Her fingers just over his elbow. "Be safe."

Ruiz is distracted, visibly, by the drag of her tongue across her lips. By the time he meets her gaze again, she's trying to give him orders, and something about it causes him to chuckle softly. Before she leans away, he replies in a low voice near her ear, "You talk to me like you think you are my mother." Which is amusing, because he's old enough (barely) to be her father. He doesn't follow her gaze to the table crawling with cops. He knows precisely what's going on, and what he's going to have to rein back in when he gets there.

What he does do, however, is attempt to snag her arm lightly, after she's released him. And before she can slip off for the door. "No estamos follando, asi que no trates de dame ordenes." He rolls his jaw slightly, then flickers a smile to the blonde. "Good night, Sutton." One of these days, he'll get her first name. Or give his own.

Sutton lets him catch her arm, eyes narrowing slightly at his particular phrasing there. She tips her head back and says, "If I was sleeping with everyone I bossed around in this town, I'd be a very busy girl." She tips her head a little, "Drink the water. Take the vitamin." No one can hear what she's saying to him, but the brief huddle surely looks intimate enough. "Please?" The question comes after she's bossed him again. It also comes easily.

Ruiz doesn't answer that. He studies her eyes a moment more, hand curled around her upper arm. Then he releases her, drifts a step backward with a slight sway of his shoulders, and then prowls off to rejoin his buddies. Moretti has him in a headlock the moment he's in reach, and someone's shoving a shot at him with calls of, "Drink the fuck up, cap! Quit holding out on us." Yes, the hangover is going to be legendary. But he might follow her advice, or he might not. It's kind of a toss up, and probably depends on how annoyed he is with her bossiness by the time he gets home.

There's a moment of silence, but when her arm's released, she doesn't move, not until she has a view of the Captain's back. When Sutton strides for the door, there's definitely a smirk on her lips. She leaves the chaos behind her, and what's surely going to be one helluva rowdy taxi service by some unlucky patrol guys later.