2019-06-08 - Some Days I Don't Have the Strength

Forest nestles up against the edges of Gray Harbor, hugging close to the two-lane road headed out of town, a narrow, gravel-strewn shoulder all that separates blacktop from needle-strewn underbrush. Along this lonely stretch, thick stands of western hemlock are interspersed with an occasional cluster of Sitka spruce, confers presenting a united front along the boundaries of the town.

Though there are a few residences this far out, it’s mostly untouched by the industry of the settlers, and here is where some of the oldest trees in the region can be found, left like a bulwark to stand against everything outside of Gray Harbor. A few small walking paths, partially reclaimed by the forest, lead out from here, spaced quite far apart.

There's a hint of briskness in the air on this spring evening, growing chillier as the day darkens.

After a very short ride from Bayside out to the outskirts and one of the trailheads, they arrive at a small parking area, the small lot used primarily by hikers. Sutton glances around, eyes scanning the trees. Though rain is forecast later, it's clear and cool for now.

Sutton wears a pair of bluejeans, hiking boots, her metal-studded belt with silver buckle as usual. A red North Face jacket worn open over a yellow tee with a bee on it reading BUZZED underneath. The bee has cup of coffee on the end of each of his little legs. Sutton's long hair is pulled up and off her collar in a neat knot atop her head. A few short strands fall across her eyes. "Good thing about a town this small is it doesn't take long to get anywhere."

He made good, at least, on his promise of snacks. Tacos, to be precise. Unassembled, because otherwise they'd be left with nothing but a soggy mess by the time they got underway. The tortillas are rolled in a warm cheesecloth, while the meat and cheese and fresh, chopped vegetables are packed into little tupperware containers stacked into a bag on the back seat. The off duty cop is in a dark grey tee shirt with a logo that's faded past the point of recognition. Worn jeans and hiking boots, a hooded rain shell and a ballcap with the Red Sox' logo on it.

He swings the truck into a stall, parks and kills the ignition. And gazes out the window for a few seconds before speaking. "Have you been out this way before?" Sutton's comment isn't directly addressed; instead he chooses to ask a question. Pulling his eyes from the window eventually, he gives her tee shirt another look. "I do not understand it," he points out, unlocking and swinging his door open. He doesn't exactly qualify what 'it' is, though she may be able to guess based on the angle of his gaze.

"Nope. I haven't been hiking in this particular woods," Sutton glances over to the trailhead to be sure it's the only one in view of the lot. "I asked around and got some advice. Apparently the main trail visible from here is supposed to lead to a clearing with a stand of Sitkas." She slides her hand along the door, reaching for the handle after she undoes her seatbelt. She hms? And then notes his gaze. She glances down at her very yellow shirt. "What? What don't you understand?" Obviously she doesn't think he could possibly be saying he's stumped by her tee. She slides out of the truck, careful how hard she lands. Shouldering the door closed, she asks, "Do you hike much?"

Ruiz studies the tee a little longer while she pulls the lever that cranks the door open, and eventually hops out. And he still looks kind of stumped. Because bees. With teeny little coffee cups on their feet. It's kind of weird. "Bees do not drink coffee," is what he concludes, and seems to decide is the most salient piece of information to convey. Then the food is reached for, the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder, and he climbs out and slams his door. There are a few other cars parked in the lot, but it's by no means a party out here.

"Not.. not as often as I used to. Once in a while." He adjusts the rim of his cap, and briefly checks the gun holstered snugly beneath his jacket. Then zips it up and trudges over to meet the paramedic. "Looks like there are two ways we can go." Left, and up along a rocky outcropping that skirts a hill. Or right, and down to the stream's edge.

"You're fucking ridiculous," Sutton laughs, sliding her hands into the pockets of her jacket. She clearly thinks he's joking about the shirt. She makes her way around the truck, glances back across the road, then makes her way across the grassy area toward a break in the trees. The most well-traversed path is clearly visible once you're looking for it, though there could be a few others down the way. "As far as I know, there's only one venomous snake down here, and it's a rattlesnake. Don't step on one and you'll be fine." That's the entirety of her hiking advice.

"You did bring your gun." Sutton smiles a bit at that. "Thanks." She doesn't worry at all about snakes, but she worries about wolves. "Do you have a preference?" She thinks on that a moment, then says, "I haven't been to the gym since before I was put on restricted duty. Maybe the stream is the wiser choice."

The truck itself looks lightly modified. Slightly heavier duty tires to deal with the condition of some of the roads in this town, particularly during the rainy season. A roof rack with tie-down straps, and a performance kit with a digital display, affixed to the dashboard. It's a fairly far cry from the unmarked charger she's no doubt seen him at the helm of, on duty. "How am I fucking ridiculous?" he repeats, imitating her intonation as he trails along after her toward the break in the trees. "Your shirt is absurd." It takes him a moment to come up with the word, and he acquiesces to her choice in direction with a curt nod. And, "You seemed quite serious about this wolf phobia. Do you carry?" His, of course, isn't his service pistol. It's more than likely his personal firearm, though this might be difficult to discern from the brief glimpse she got of it.

"My shirt is hilarious." She seems quite sure. Sutton turns toward the stream-following trail, hands still in her pockets. The color is bright enough to stop anyone in their tracks, let along the ridiculous art. At the question about her carrying, he shakes her head, "No, I don't. I know how to use a gun, gun safety, but it's safer for everyone if I don't. I'm a really awful shot."

"I hope the wolf thing is temporary, but..." Sutton glances through the trees. The trunks are tall and the scent within the tree line is fresh and sharp. The various pines and conifers lend that scent to the air, and the soft burble of the stream is a pleasant background noise. "I know exactly what a bullet does when it enters the soft tissues of a human body. I'd have a hard time pulling the trigger."

A distinctly dubious look is leveled in Sutton's direction when she proclaims her shirt as hilarious. Falling into step beside her, the taller man trails his gaze over that bright little graphic again, like he's trying to figure out what he's missing. Nope. Still doesn't make any sense. It's not commented on any further though, and he pushes a heavy pine bough out of their way as they head deeper into the treeline. The recent rain has left the air fragrant, indeed, with greenery; he takes a deep inhale of it as the trailhead starts its gradual descent to the stream's edge.

"Wolves sense.. weakness in their potential prey," he murmurs as they walk. "If he does not think you will make an easy meal, he will look elsewhere." Dark eyes flick back to the EMT, then shift away again as they trudge along. "And I think that makes you normal. It should not be easy to end a life." Something in his voice there that twists, then dissipates.

Sutton may explain her shirt at some point, when it occurs to her that it might be a linguistic barrier preventing him from understanding the humor. She glances over a couple of times, watching him push the branch out of the way. She slows a little when the trail begins to angle down. She places her feet carefully. On uneven ground, the lower back does a lot of work just walking. "I wouldn't make an easy meal, but I'd rather not base my safety on a hungry animal's ability to suss what a pain in the ass I am."

"I don't think it's easy for anyone. I don't... I've heard too many teenagers and young people screaming in pain in my ambulance to -- it's really hard to hear." She pauses, doesn't elaborate further. "I don't think it's easy. You take a burden upon yourself because you have the strength to do it."

Ruiz drops back once the trail begins to narrow, and falls into step behind the younger woman. Like something ingrained in him from the military; cover your wounded buddy, and be in a position to catch them if they start to go down. He doesn't comment on whether he thinks it poor judgement to be going for a hike with her bad back. But he might just be thinking it. The pain in the ass remark gets a low chuckle out of him, and he trudges on for another minute or two before responding to her last. "I think it can start to become easy, when you have lost so much.. that what is left is not worth holding onto." He, too, has seen things. Not so much people bleeding out in the back of his rig, as men - it's usually men - at the end of their rope. A gun to their head, literally or figuratively, and nothing left to lose. "Hay dias que no tengo la fuerza," he murmurs a little while after, steps slowing as they cross a little wooden bridge that criss-crosses the trail lower down.

When the trails steps down with wide steps formed by a few roots, she turns her feet slightly sideways so she doesn't slip, but keeps the pace fairly regular. She's quiet for a while, just the sound of their feet on the trail, and that water flowing beside them. She doesn't comment immediately on the ease of killing, the consequence of losing. Finally: "I think..." She falls silent again, stepping over a higher root. "Watch here," she murmurs, warning him about it as the first one over a small obstacle.

"I've seen that too. More than once." Sutton moves along the trail to cross over that small bridge, her boots heavy on the planks, the thumping a little hollow as they cross. She pauses there, for a moment, to look down at the way the light glitters off the surface, clear water running over wide, smooth rocks. She takes a moment to lean there, arms against the wood rail. "The strength to...?" Her hazel-eyed gaze flicks over to Ruiz.

Ruiz has half an eye on his hiking partner, and half an eye on the trail itself, so that he doesn't slip and go tumbling down that rocky ledge. He slows his descent when she points out an obstacle in their path, but steps over it without incident. The ground is a little wetter here, deep in the canopy. The air a little damper, and the scurrying of fauna a little more proliferous. "I believe you," he replies simply to her assertion. And he pauses when she does; a pace or two back at first, and then with a glance back the way they came, he ambles in closer to take up a lean beside her. Arms on the railing, not quite touching. Though she can smell cigarette smoke on him, and cilantro and lime on his hands.

"Take that burden. Put a bullet in a man." He squints out at the water, watching it rush over the rocks like it has for years. Centuries, probably. Those same rocks, just a little smoother and more weathered than they were then. He adjusts the rim of his ballcap, and flicks his dark eyes to Sutton. "You tell me that you are difficult. Why. Your brother?"

Sutton picks a loose splinter of wood from the rail, reaches over, holding it pinched between two fingers, and drops it into the water. The splash is so tiny compared to the disturbance from the rocks, it doesn't even register. She flexes her hands, letting them drop relaxed there, forearms on the rail. To his first two statements, she simply nods. Of the last, and the question, she chuckles. "He never said that to me and meant it. He's only person to back me up one hundred percent of the time. Eli..." She rubs her hands together slowly. The sentence trails off as she raises her face to the sun. It's cool, not cold, but it won't be long before that starts to change. Maybe an hour before the light begins to change, then another half after that before it darkens. Bit of a late start, theirs, to capture much daylight. "People tend to find me difficult. Maybe it's because I was raised to do what I want and say what I think. For most of my life, I had rock solid backup in any situation. It gives you a certain sense of power and stability."

Sutton is quiet a moment more before she turns from the water, putting her back to the sun-warmed planks of the rail. She leans back a bit, stretching the line of her back. "Have you? Eli did. I stayed with him the whole time the inquiry progressed." She doesn't say it was hard, but it was, and that's implied in her last sentence.

Ruiz remains in his lean against the railing, broad shoulders slouched and his head slightly bowed, and his fingertips rifle through the close-cropped hair at the back of his head; under his cap. He watches that splinter of wood tumble into the water, quickly submerged and swept away. "You were very close to him," he offers, somewhat unnecessarily. He watches the pain of that recollection move through her. The curl of her fingers and face uplifted to the diminishing sun. His dark eyes track her carefully as she turns, facing into the trail where he faces out.

"Have I what? Put a bullet in a man?" His expression shifts to curiosity, then briefly melancholy, before that too is shuttered away. Barricaded behind the hard line of his eyes and jaw. "Yes. Too many. In the marines, it was.." Easier isn't the right word. "Mas simple." After a while, he touches her forearm with his fingertips. It's almost hesitant, almost out of place on a man with his bearing. "What happened?" To Eli, one presumes he means.

Sutton glances over, chin tipped up a bit. She mhms. "Yes. He's always with me. We're twins." She says it lightly, but the weight of that is evident in her voice. Her expression doesn't waver. She doesn't make eye contact, though. She looks off into the tree line for a moment, but she sees only a flutter of wings when a bird flits by.

"Yes." Sutton glances over when he mentions the marines. She nods. "Pop's a marine." She doesn't elaborate, but the simplicity of the statement suggests she's familiar with wartime stories, or has seen the effect of that, too, on a man's life at home, anyway.

Sutton glances down at the touch to her arm, then back up to Ruiz' face. She's looking at his mouth when he asks what happened. She straightens, her hand on the rail again. She turns, her back to the cop for a moment. She turns to the water one more time, pushed back off the rail, just her fingers hooked over the edge. She glances down at the toes of her boots, considering her words, streaked hair falling into her eyes. Finally, she says, "He died in the street with a bullet in his chest." It does and it doesn't say everything.

Ruiz doesn't push the eye contact, facing away from her as he is. He gazes up into the canopy as well, watching the foliage that's gradually beginning to return after wintering in bare branches and gray skies. The bird catches his attention as well, and he watches it wheel off into the distance, buffeted by the wind. By the time he looks back, Sutton's twisted around to face the bridge's railing again. A twitch at the corners of his mouth when she mentions that her father is a marine, though it fades with her next words. "Did they catch the perp? Espero que haya tenido justicia." Those last words are offered quietly, and there's something in his voice. Something ugly, like it slipped out despite his best efforts to keep it contained.

"Mhm." Sutton's response is short and sweet to start. She tips back with her fingers still hooked on the rail, shoulders rolling forward. "He didn't live long enough to need catching. He died in the street too." She's quiet for a moment more, looking at the water again, slipping across the flat, smooth tops of those rounded rocks littering the creek floor. "People talk about justice and closure, but it's just another death to me." She takes a two step start, then hops up to sit on the rail. It creaks a little when she does so, construction old enough that it may not be connected so well at both ends as it once was. Nothing shifts or pops free, though. "I do hope it brought his partner some peace."

Sutton shifts slightly, hands on the railing. She's pretty ginger about it, given parts of the rail are a little splintery. She glances over after a moment. Her gaze finds his for a couple of beats. There's something unspoken there, but maybe she doesn't even have the words for it. She shakes her head slightly, then asks, "Is that fresh cilantro I smell?"

Ruiz is quiet after that brief response, perhaps anticipating more. Perhaps simply content to sit with the silence, rich and warm and full of life as it is. Life all around them; the trees with boughs uplifted to the sun and rain; the dirt in which things move and grow; the water teeming with steelhead making their seasonal run. He might be contemplating these things, or he might be contemplating her words once she speaks again. Finally, he looks up at her, perched on the railing. The glance is slow, like it got lost somewhere between watching the stream, and finding her eyes.

Nothing's said. No more condolences. The look in his eyes says he understands; better than most. But one more apology isn't going to bring Eli back. "Si," he answers eventually, a beat before he smiles. To the question about cilantro, one presumes. He watches wisps of fair hair tangle on her lashes and lips, before being swept away by the slight breeze. "You like cilantro, yes?" It tastes like dishsoap to some people, allegedly.

There's a nod from Sutton. "Yeah, I love it. Little lime, cilantro, salt. Sometimes I make chimichurri with cilantro instead of parsley. My brother liked to cook and was always making me help." One might infer from that that she doesn't cook, and any knowledge about food things is incidental from kitchen assisting or being a person who likes to eat. She glances over at Ruiz. "I've heard a lot of rumors about you, and most of them are incredibly boring, which tells me you don't give people a lot to work with."

"The thing about small towns in Washington is, we don't have a lot to do besides enjoy the great outdoors, defend against rain, and gossip. Somehow the Fire and PD sharing a building has created some kind of gossip vortex." Sutton gestures with both hands, indicating a large field of nosiness, like a fisherman might indicate the size fo the fish that got away.

Ruiz continues to watch the younger woman's eyes as she speaks. And whatever he infers or does not infer is kept to himself; a little warmth, however, seeps into his tired mien when she starts talking shop. So to speak. "Cooking is always best with many hands," he concurs, agreeing with her brother it seems. "Mi madre taught me how." He leans one elbow against the railing, half watching Sutton perched atop it now, and half watching the stream slip softly over those rocks. Something about it seems to calm his nerves. "We would spend Sunday afternoons in the kitchen, all of us, grinding the chili peppers for the mole, cooking the stew. Gutting the fish for the huachinango. It is a special thing in Veracruz."

And then he seems to realise he's been talking too much about food, and his smile turns a little self-deprecating. A slight shift of his body to put more weight on his elbows, and the outline of his gun at the back of his hip is prominent against his jacket. "Boring rumours? I will have to work harder." He's known for having a bit of a temper, and liking his drink. But no horror stories that anyone's been willing to part with, most likely. "I am not accustomed to living in a small town. It has been.. an adjustment."

Sutton's back is to the sun, which is lower in the sky, filtering through the trees. She listens, going quiet when Ruiz speaks about learning to cook, and family tradition. "Veracruz." She mms. Seems she's been wondering where he's from that isn't Virginia. She nods slightly, just a minute drop of her chin. "All of that sounds like something." She slouches a little, hands over the edge of the rail. "I'm pretty good at gutting, scaling, and deboning fish. But i've only ever cooked them over a fire while camping. Nobody cares if you singe it a little that way. Mostly because you're so many beers in and it's been all day in the hot sun without food, because some asshole left the cooler of sandwiches at home, you're bloody starving."

"Yeah, boring rumors." Sutton confirms. "I mean besides the raging drunks. Every time Moretti calls off sick now, everyone assumes you finally strangled him and threw him into the ocean." She doesn't so much as twitch saying that, so either it's really a rumor that's going around, or she's decent at making shit up and saying it like it's true. "Come to think of it, there do seem to be a few about hiding bodies."

"Then maybe you will help me cook a fish, some time." His smile increases a notch, and he holds her gaze a few seconds before looking away. And eventually pushing off the railing slowly, cap tugged off so he can rifle his fingers through his hair while he considers the path up ahead. A brow goes up at mention of raging drunks, and he chuckles low when Moretti is mentioned. "No lo sonaria. He is a good man to have at your back in tense situations. If I need someone who can de-escalate a situation quickly, I bring him in." There's a warmth in his voice, and a clear respect for the big man.

After a breath, he tugs his cap back on and eases away from the railing entirely. Hand out for Sutton's. "We should keep moving. If we are going to have any light left to find a spot to sit, and eat."

"Maybe." There's a little smile when Sutton says that. She watches him fiddle with his cap, run his hand through his hair, and then she reaches over when he offers her a hand down. She lets him take some of her weight, using her other hand on the rail to ease down off of it rather than hopping. She risks a splinter in her ass this way, but it spares her back any jolts. The care is likely unnecessary. If she's healed up, she should be fine, but with a potentially career-ending injury, the paramedic is taking some care with herself. "I know. Moretti's fun to threaten to choke out, though." Her hand tightens briefly on Ruiz's and then she lets him go, once both feet are on the planks of the bridge again.

"Gracias." It's intoned lightly, excellent pronunciation, like she uses Spanish regularly and learned by hearing, rather than reading it from a book. "One day I'll grab his ass when he's in uniform, and watch him mildly panic." That could escalate quickly. She doesn't seem too worried about that potential. "You're right. I think we might have an hour of light left." She doesn't glance at her watch to check, just looks up at the angle of the light. "What's Veracruz like? It's a port city, yes?" This is how she exhausts all of her knowledge about that particular city. One pair of questions.

Ruiz knows, perhaps, more than he cares to about back injuries and the potentially catastrophic effect they can have on a paramedic's career. He isn't going to fuck around with it either, judging by the offer of a hand down. His grip is solid, and he's stronger than his unassuming appearance would seem to indicate; her weight is supported easily with his one arm, and the contact is maintained for a moment or two before she's released. "De nada," is murmured in kind, and then after watching her for a beat, he begins ambling off. Shoulders slightly slouched, pace unhurried. There's a laugh from him at the ass grab comment, and he turns to glance at Sutton briefly. "He likes you. You know. You should see his eyes when he talks about you." He lifts both hands to make a gesture with his thumbs and forefingers that's.. presumably meant to imply head over heels, complete with a half-lidded swoon. Then he flashes her a grin, and watches her while he waits for her to catch up.

"Si. It is.. north of Oaxaca. My family spent some time in Boca del Rio, before we moved to Tijuana." The twinge in his jaw suggests what he may feel about that move. "Have you been? To Mexico." He pronounces it meh-HEE-co.

Sutton makes her way along after him, catching up though her strides are a bit shorter. She settles into an amble, laughing a bit too when he mentions Moretti's affections. "He must have been raised by salty women." Her personality on the radio and around the district is certainly more caustic than anything else, though the affection shows through whenever she has to do a double or triple call when an officer has accidentally missed a radio call.

"Once, briefly. A weekend trip junior year of high school. We got really drunk and what was supposed to be a week was cut short." She doesn't say why or what they did besides drink that ended up having all the teens shipped home, but it was probably good (bad). "I don't remember much except really amazing tacos and warm beer... and yelling. So, no, not really." Not that she remembers well enough to have had any significant cultural experience. "One of my best friends in Seattle is from Mexico City. Her abuelita made the best tacos I've ever had. Her tortillas alone would be worth the drive."

More laughter from the captain, and he resumes his unhurried ambling once more, as the smaller blonde catches up to him. "I think he just appreciates a challenge." He hesitates, and doesn't quite look at her when he eventually adds, "As do I." There's a short scramble up ahead, that takes them perhaps ten or fifteen feet up a muddy bank, and he slows to let Sutton go first.

"It is true. There is a lot of yelling when you are talking to Mexicans." His humour is self-deprecating, though if pressed, there are a handful of cops who might admit to him reading one hell of a riot act. Maybe he's just unassuming around pretty girls. As to her best friend's abuelita's tacos, his only response is a low warning of, "Esas son palabras de lucha, Sutton."

Sutton glances over briefly at the mention of a challenge. She regards the darker man for a moment, perhaps harboring some thoughts on that. She glances away, thinking, then heads up the slope first, feet again turned slightly sideways to give her shoes more surface area to grip, rather than going up on her toes. She resists the urge to grab a few handholds on the young trees along either side of the trail. The warmth of summer encourages sticky sap to run, and nothing is harder to get off than that.

"You have an uphill climb," she replies, a tiny bit of exertion in her voice. "If you think you're going to beat abuelita's tacos. That woman taught me how to roll a tight joint and a tortilla." Sutton obviously ate a lot of tacos in Seattle. She makes her way to the very top of the slope, her foot slipping slightly only once. She catches herself without so much as a close call and crests the slight rise easily enough. "I've heard." She's probably referring to the yelling. Maybe she's heard him reading someone the riot act. She's been in the PD side often, usually sliding quietly past the staff offices to raid the donut stash.

Whatever those thoughts are, if he's curious, he doesn't request an explanation. Though he does seem rather focused on ensuring she makes it to the top of the incline without incident. After the paramedic has scrambled up, he follows suit. His form is good and his footing is fairly solid, and he looks roughly as winded as she does by the time he reaches the top. Which is to say, a little, but it's clear he has plenty left in him. Not too terribly bad for a man pushing fifty. "We should stop here," he tells her, hitching his chin to a fallen log that sits parallel to the path and overlooks a little drop in the nearby stream. Not quite a waterfall, but about as close as they're like to get without hiking well up the incline. "Eat. Before you waste away on me." It's a joke, probably.

"It's true. My constitution is very delicate." Sutton's reply is deadpan, without hesitation. She glances over to the log, then wanders over toward it, circling it briefly before she takes a seat. She might be checking for snakes. Her gaze is on the ground and she gives it a kick with one hiking boot, then throws a leg over to perch atop it. The wood seems sturdy enough, not rotted away, so it must be a fairly fresh fall, healthy when it went down.

She pulls her legs up and sits on the log with her legs crossed, balanced carefully, her forearms resting on her knees. "I'm sure you're not saying that because your arm's getting tired." Since he's the one carrying all of the food, she should probably be more courteous about it, but, well, no. "We'll see how good these tacos really are." Sutton's donut habit over the last few weeks has put a few pounds on her, but that just means her jeans are a little snug. She takes a moment to tip her head back and enjoy the oxygenated air so deep in the forest. It's cooler in here, and just smells so much better than the center of the town. A tiny waterfall lends a little hush of white noise in the background.

"Do you have many siblings?"

Ruiz scoffs quietly, at nothing in particular. Or maybe it was the delicate constitution comment. Because he clearly thinks that's bullshit. The younger woman is observed curiously with her little log-circling ritual, and he waits for her to be good and satisfied that it contains no snakes or booby traps, before he settles in to join her. Booted feet planted on the ground, knees apart, the bag containing the food is set down between his feet, and he starts pulling things out while he talks. "Does working out up your.. snark game?" It took him a moment to remember the word, but he supplies it after a pause. "Or is it the company?" That is, him. Seeing as she can't help herself around cops. The stack of flour tortillas is unrolled, and one is handed over. He nods toward the containers holding meat and toppings.

Ruiz scoffs quietly, at nothing in particular. Or maybe it was the delicate constitution comment. Because he clearly thinks that's bullshit. The younger woman is observed curiously with her little log-circling ritual, and he waits for her to be good and satisfied that it contains no snakes or booby traps, before he settles in to join her. Booted feet planted on the ground, knees apart, the bag containing the food is set down between his feet, and he starts pulling things out while he talks.

"Does working out up your.. snark game?" It took him a moment to remember the word, but he supplies it after a pause. "Or is it the company?" That is, him. Seeing as she can't help herself around cops. The stack of flour tortillas is unrolled, and one is handed over. He nods toward the containers holding meat and toppings, and speaks again after a long pause, "Si. Two brothers and a sister. And you?"

"Snark game." Sutton smirks a little at that, but it's a slight one. She nods. "Yeah, no. It's the company. I'm around a cop and suddenly it's open season." She shrugs. "I don't know if you give off vibes or if it's me." Though it could easily be the longstanding rivalry between Fire and Police that so easily brings the commentary. "Eli and I were both serial offenders, so really it could go either way." It could be she's like this with other people too. "Could be hunger."

She tips forward, taking the offered tortilla. Before she so much as looks at the toppings, she nibbles off the edge of it to taste the tortilla itself, and check to see whether it's homemade, and how good it is. She then goes right for the veg first, tipping the container to shake some into her tortilla-covered palm. A small sprinkle of meat goes next. She foregoes any cheese, rolling it closed. Her moves are deft and practiced. She's assembled food on logs before, and does it without spilling. "Just Elias."

Ruiz seems amused at that, and pauses to watch her for a few moments before doing likewise with the container of spiced meat. Then a sprinkle of cheese, and a few fingerfuls of lettuce before he rolls it up and takes a bite. Probably not as good as abuelita's, but don't tell him that. Or do. "I wonder if it is a little different, with a twin." He thinks for a moment as he chews. "I was not very close with my siblings. My sister, Maria, a little. But.." He doesn't finish that thought. He takes another bite of his food, and watches the water. Goodness knows what he's thinking.

"The thing about a twin..." Sutton says, then pauses to take a huge bite of her taco. She chews, leaving the sentence hanging there for exactly as long as it takes her to comfortably sample, chew, and swallow a large bite of the taco. "Is you are together from the beginning, and you share everything. We were best friends, we were partners in crime, and we put our parents through it." Two tiny terrors growing up into teenage terrors probably put a few miles on the faces of both elder Suttons. "Shared birthdays. Similar tolerances and taste."

"Do you talk them now? What keeps you apart, with Maria. Too similar? Too far apart?" She takes another bite of her taco, then says, around a mouthful of food. "Good." She forgot to say before, too busy eating. She covers her mouth at least.

Head down, eyes shielded from the setting sun by the brim of his cap, the older man focuses on his eating while he listens to Sutton talk about her brother. Some of the filling tries to escape when he takes a bite, and he tilts his head quickly to catch it, narrowly missing wearing it in his lap. "It must feel like missing a limb," he offers up quietly after he's finished the taco. His thumb is licked off, and he pauses a moment before going to make another. To her last, merely a shake of his head that seems to encompass all of it. No, he doesn't talk to her. No, he isn't going to elucidate upon it. There's a wound there, and it may have healed over and scabbed, but he doesn't seem keen on tearing it open again.

Sutton finishes off her taco before she replies. She raises her arm and licks a dribble of taco filling from her wrist, brushes her hands together, and then agrees. "It's ... nothing short of fucked up." She reaches for another tortilla. "I'm probably still in denial." She speaks of it quite matter-of-factly, really, considering. She loads up another taco with a little meat and veg, this time with a tiny sprinkle of cheese on top. "I feel like he's with me, even so. We're part of each other, and I see him every time I look in the mirror." She laughs suddenly. "But I miss the way he hugged me. We'd just run into each other and squeeze as hard as we could, you know? Talk about boob squishing hugs. Usually painful, but totally worth it."

"And the way he freaked out every time I cling filmed his toilet every time he passed out drunk on his own couch." Sutton laughs into her taco. "Lit phone calls at three in the morning with his feet covered in piss." She snorts and covers her eyes, laughing. "I did it it like six times in a row and he fell for it every fucking time." She takes a bite of her taco, eyes watering from the laughter. It's an iffy proposition. She's still kind of laughing and that could be a choking hazard. Living dangerously. "Fuck." Sutton swallows. She doesn't wipe her face, but does finish the second taco in a few large bites.

Ruiz splits his focus between the taco he's trying to put together, and the woman who's starting to come apart at the seams with laughter. Happy laughter, sad laughter, maybe a little of both. He's stilled by the time the 'fuck' spills out, food all but forgotten. Dark eyes on her profile, slight smile on his lips; it makes him look a touch less brutish. But nobody would call it a pretty face, regardless. He watches her, and he listens carefully to every word she speaks of her twin. And when she's finished, he sets his food down carefully atop the lid of one of those tupperware containers. It falls apart, but it can be put back together again.

Quiet words, after a minute or two has passed. His voice is smoke-roughened and the touch of his fingertips to her cheek is, perhaps, unexpected as he brushes away the dampness. "Yo no soy yo. Soy este que va a mi lado sin yo verlo, que, a veces, voy a ver, y que, a veces olvido." His hand drops away, elbow draped against his knee as he squints out at the water.

And then he continues, in the same low rumble of sound, "El que calla, sereno, cuando hablo, el que perdona, dulce, cuando odio, el que pasea por donde no estoy, el que quedará en pie cuando yo muera."

Sutton holds still when she's touched, though it does make her whole body twitch first, just slightly, like a slight shock going through her. She wasn't expecting that, nor was she looking at him when he did it. She reaches up to wipe her face only after his hand has dropped, to sweep away any other traces of moisture there. And she remains silent through the poetry. It's beautiful, of course, but something about it also makes her quite uneasy, though perhaps that was the unexpected touch from the captain. In any case, she moves to rise from the log, kicking her legs over one side, though she does so clear of the food, lest any be kicked over.

She takes a deep breath in through her nose, and when she breathes out, her shoulders drop and still. "We should..." She glances up and takes a shorter breath. "We should head back. The light's going to go fast, and..." Sutton reaches up to brush a hand over her hair, checking it though it's still mostly secure atop her head in a knot. She brushes her fingers through the shorter strands that were never caught up, the ones falling across her cheek. "It's easy to step off the path in the moonlight."

Ruiz doesn't speak again for a while after that. Doesn't move, either; aware, perhaps that he's done something that's made her uncomfortable. Maybe he makes a habit of reciting dark poetry to women he barely knows. Or maybe he doesn't. Either way, he gives a slight nod to her suggestion that they head back. And after a moment, bends to start packing up the food. Lids snapped on containers, containers shoved into the bag they came in. He murmurs with his head still down, "Lo siento. I did not think to ask if.." His hands pause, then resume their work, until everything is packed up. The bag is slung across his shoulder, and he pushes to his feet slowly. He does not meet her eyes as he starts toward the rapidly darkening trail that leads back down to the parking lot. "I will go first, and help you down."

Sutton takes a breath and presses her tongue-tip to the back of her teeth, lips parting as if she's going to say something, but ultimately she closes her eyes and turns her face toward the stream. Words back up behind that moment of something, and she doesn't follow through with any of the statements she could have made. By the time all of the containers are closed, she's reaching up with both hands to brush them over her cheeks, though there's nothing there to wipe away. She nods as he says he'll go first, and she turns only once he's started off. She watches the line of his back, set of his shoulders as she follows after him, still careful about where she puts her feet.

"It's ok." This she says at last, softly, words enunciated carefully. "Thank you for dinner." It may be a little awkward after her reaction to the touch or the poetry, to whatever the poem brought up, assuming she understood the entirety of it. She pulls the sides of her jacket closed over her bright yellow tee, pulling up the zipper before starting down that slope again. "I'm..." She trails off of that.

Perhaps they should have brought a bottle of wine to enjoy dinner.

Ruiz has a little more trouble getting back down the steep incline than he did coming up. Maybe his knees are going, or maybe he's just a little thrown off by Sutton's reaction to his touching her. Or that odd little bit of verse. Or whatever it was that spooked her. His boot skids in the wet dirt briefly, though he manages to catch himself before he goes down. "Watch your footing," he warns, low-voiced, hand held out to the younger woman once he's most of the way down.

"And you're what?" He didn't press for her to tell her what was on her mind during her earlier silence, but he seems unwilling to let this one go without a bit of a fight.

Sutton's booted feet don't slide where his did, but she does reach down to take his hand when she reaches the bottom, despite her earlier reaction. "Yes." She makes it down without incident, though there's a moment at the bottom, where they arrive nearly together, that her boots pause, squelching into a bit of a soggy spot. She steps out of it, and her arm's lifted as she moves away from him, her hand still in his. The paramedic lets him go, scraping her boot against a small fallen tree trunk.

"I'm having some feelings and I'm not sure what they are." Sutton finally replies, though it's not exactly a clarifying sentence. "Ever since I came here, things have been a little off, like... the floor's just slightly tilted, but not all the time, so I never know when to lean and when to forget it." She presses her lips together briefly. "That sounds really stupid when I say it out loud."

Ruiz doesn't seem to have any ulterior motives with the offered hand. Presumably, he's only trying to provide assistance in case it's needed. Once Sutton's on solid ground again at the bottom, he lets her go, shoulders the bag with their food, and briefly checks his firearm. And then off they go again, headed for that little bridge that can barely be made out in the gloom. At some point, his cell phone comes out; and after some fiddling, lights up quite brightly from what one can assume might be the camera flash. It'll last long enough, at least, to get them off the trail and to the parking lot.

"There is something about this place. Yes. It draws the restless spirits." He doesn't look up at her when he speaks, and trudges for a few more moments in silence. "I.. seem to owe you another apology, though." It's starting to become a theme, and his mouth curves in a brief, wry smile. "It will not happen again." Quieter still, and nearly swallowed up by the crunch of their boots in the mix of gravel and dirt, he repeats, "Lo siento."

To the mention of restless spirits, Sutton doesn't seem to know what to say. She lets that comment pass, hands slid into the pockets of her jeans now that they're on more level ground. She makes her way a little closer to Ruiz when the darkness begins to thicken a bit here, shadows pooling under the trees. It gets much darker here than it seems like it should, particularly given how tall some of these trees are, how thin and sparse the canopy with a veil of conifers.

"No, don't apologize." Sutton draws her shoulders up a bit. "I'm sorry." Now she's apologizing. Dueling apologies. She lets it go then, concentrating on following along without tripping over any tree roots. Going face down on the trail is the last thing she wants this evening. By the time they hit the bridge to cross it again, she's fallen silent again, content to pass the hike with Ruiz in silence. Walking together in the failing light is easier in the silence.

Ruiz says a lot of things that don't merit a response. Might be the language barrier responsible for it, or he might just be an odd fish like many in this town. There's no question though that there's soemthing a little bit off about him. Polite and quiet on the surface, yet it's a schism. A falsehood. "Que carajo? Why are you apologising." He half turns to watch her profile, limned in the hazy glow his phone provides. And then he looks away again, expression obscured under the shadow thrown by his cap's rim. Big shoulders hunched slightly, light glinting off his gun briefly when he sweeps the phone to the side to check the railing of the bridge as they cross, and that scruffy, silver-peppered beard; he looks himself half wolfish in the dark.

There's no further attempt to break the silence between them though, whether or not she answers his question. Up ahead, the trail begins to open out to gravel, and the dark hulk of his truck is visible where they left it.

Sutton makes her way along the trail, boots kicking up the occasional bit of loose gravel. She keeps up with him easily enough, though she's definitely more careful about her boot placement in the dark, eyes largely on the ground ahead of them, looking for any obstacles. When she's asked that question, she glances over and says, "I dunno... Mum's English?" She gestures to herself with a thumb. "Half English." As if that explains everything. In some ways, it does.

Just when the trail begins to widen, when the sun's dipped low enough that dusk has arrived, Sutton glances over her shoulder. Her arm bumps Ruiz as her path lists slightly, but she corrects, putting a little more distance between them. She really doesn't seem to like it out here after sunset. As they break through the trees, she turns full around to look at the stand of woods. It really does seem to have nestled up closer to the road out here. She turns her head at a flick of movement between the trees, though it could have been her imagination. She turns back around to face the truck, picking up the pace now that they're out.

Ruiz, for his part, seems a good deal less unsettled by the dark and whatever might be hiding in it. He prowls along steadily at her side, silent after the non-explanation. Introspective, perhaps. No reaction to the bump, or the distance put between them, save a brief flick of his eyes. The keys to his truck are dug out with a soft jangling, and the vehicle chirps when a button on the fob is tapped. A quick flash of headlights as the doors are unlocked with a soft thump. "Where can I drop you off?" he asks once they're both inside, his door tugged firmly shut. He still doesn't quite look at her when he speaks. The airwaves might be tense tomorrow, if she's running dispatch.

Sutton makes her way over to the truck and circles it, her hand dragging down the side. She pulls it open and hops inside, pulling the door shut before she goes for her seatbelt with one hand, her gaze returning again to the tree line, when really it might ought to turn to the man in the seat beside her. She reaches up to touch her neck, running her hand up the back of it before she continues the motion to pull her hair down, unwinding it slowly before she runs her fingers through, then secures it in a high tail instead, re-winding an elastic around it twice. With her hair coming down is a whiff of something coconutty. She answers him after a moment of hesitation with, "Bayside. At the gate is fine." She lives behind a gate and a doorman, apparently.

She did her best to kick the mud off of her boots, but there's a good chance his floor mat's going to be a bit crusted in dry mud tomorrow. She crosses her arm over the seatbelt locked across her chest, perhaps to keep from fidgeting over in the passenger seat. Sutton is indeed running dispatch tomorrow for day shift. All. Day. Long.

Yep. Gonna be awkward. Or maybe it won't; maybe it'll be old news to him by then, this whole strange night and their war of apologies, and he'll simply be that heavily-accented voice that tends to remain businesslike and curt regardless of the amount of joshing around that sometimes goes on. The food is shoved onto the back seat, and he tugs his seatbelt into place as he keys the ignition. The truck comes to life with a growl, and he reaches over to flip the radio on before pulling out of the lot. A quick flare of his nostrils when her hair comes down, and he repeats what she'd said in a low murmur of confirmation. And the rest of the way is traveled in silence, save for whatever folksy tune is playing on the radio. His cap comes off at some point, knuckles rifled through his mussed hair, and the thing is tossed in the back. When they reach the gate of her complex, he'll wait - like a gentleman - to make sure she's safely inside. Never mind the cautious look the doorman gives him; sketchy looking hispanic guy in a truck. Could be a murderer. Or just a dirty immigrant.

Sutton remains silent, as the current of something swirls between them in the truck interior. She watches the road slide by, thoughts heavy with a miasma of something she can't quite put her finger on. It has her frowning a bit more than once, but mostly that's in her eyes. She reaches up to gnaw the edge of her thumbnail the nearer they get to her apartment. When it comes to her attention that they're doing it, just as they pull up to the gate, she drags her thumb away from her lips.

After she's released her seatbelt, but before she gets out of the truck, one hand on the handle, Sutton reaches over to give Ruiz shoulder a squeeze with her left hand, but it's quite brief, and then she's slipping out the door, out of the truck, and keying in the code. She's barely halfway to the door before the doorman seems to recognize her, and moves to open the door for her. She murmurs something lowly as she passes, and then she's gone inside, headed for a bank of elevators or something else deeper inside the tall building.