2019-06-11 - Universal F'ckery

The weather is truly shitty tonight. One of those summer storms that occasionally blights the Pacific Northwest has rolled right in, and fucked with what was otherwise a lovely day. Gusting winds drive sheets of rain against every available surface, and the occasional rumble of thunder can be heard in the distance. It's generally not followed by lightning, though there've been a few flashes that lit up the churning sky, earlier in the evening.

The headlights of a car cut through the damp gloom as a vehicle swings onto Spruce. Black Charger, has the look of a squad car about it except it's unmarked. Bullbar mounted to the front, dark rims, wipers going full throttle to keep the windshield clear.

It pulls up in front of #23 and idles a minute or so before the engine's killed, and a darkly-dressed figure climbs out. Head ducked, as if it'll keep the worst of the rain off him, the bulky fellow dressed suspiciously like a cop heads up the front walk of the little house, keys dug for in his pocket as he goes. He fumbles a bit with them, rain in his eyes as he tries to pick out the one for the front door, and finally turns the lock and swings it open.

The weather is abysmal. And so it is that Luce is wedged against the house, roughly a foot from the door, zipped up into her dark brown leather jacket, skinny jeans, and perched on a pair of vintage, MJ style pumps, bright yellow ones, frowning at the storm blowing rain in almost sideways. She also has a very tightly rolled joint in her mouth, smoking it quietly, likely to take the edge off of the look on her face. RBF doesn't begin to cover it.

Luce holds a deep lung of smoke in, watches an unmarked vehicle roll to a stop out front of the house, and a man slip out. Her eyes narrow faintly. She blows out a sweet, slightly acrid lungful of high quality smoke. This just as Ruiz crests the porch. "That was over thirty. I'm immensely disappointed." Her voice is a little rough on the edges, with a faint lisp too. And her shoes are wet. "And my shoes are wet."

Hey, it's not Lex's fault that the others decided to spend their time out in the rain. Or that Ruiz keeps dressing like a cop. Such is the universe. Should that front door open -- for surely that's coming up soon? -- the pair would discover the tattooist draped across the sofa. The silver-haired youth is bare-foot in a pair of carebear leggings and a black tanktop that reads 'Fuck You First' in bright lettering.

The lights have been left off -- you know, lest there be an intruder -- and the tell-tale sounds of crunch and bra-swhing! betray her current addiction to Candy Crush.

Ruiz may not have been expecting someone hunkered down on his front porch, smoking a joint. No, he definitely wasn't expecting this. Though to be fair, it has been more than the thirty minutes he suggested. Suggested, not promised. "Do you not have a car?" The abruptness of their little text conversation translates into a somewhat gruff man with an accent that trends mostly Mexican Spanish, bastardised slightly by time spent Stateside. "You are going to need to put that out. Siento que estes decepcionado." His RBF game is fairly strong, too, though the rain pasting his dark hair to his skull and soaking slowly into his gear might be contributing to it.

He does, in point of fact, have the door partly open at this moment, and catches a glimpse of Lex's inert form on the couch, absorbed in candy crush and unwilling to put the lights on. Which makes him sigh, for some reason. "Come inside." That's to Lucinda. The door's pushed open wider.

"No." Says Luce to the question about having a car, "Nor do I drive." She reaches over to stub her joint out against the side of the house, just on the corner of the doorjamb. It leaves a smear of ash. She has about half left. She pinches it to be sure it's out, then reaches up to tuck it behind her ear. "Nor do I have a driver. The first and last to respond to my ad took a pass." Ruiz has texted with Luce. He may have some notion as to why.

"Italian, Russian, or French. My Spanish is worse than your timeliness."

When the door's pushed by Ruiz doesn't move through it first, Lucinda makes her way across the porch those few steps and past him, shoulder brushing his chest she steps so close, that is unless he steps back. She smells like old leather, pot, a mochachino, and something vaguely lemon-vanilla. She steps into the house, and of course her gaze goes right to Lex. "Sex worker or tattoo artist or both?"

Sighing? Lex pays about as much attention to Ruiz' reaction as... well, one would imagine. She doesn't. It's only as the older man is ushering someone else in that she bothers to swing herself around of the couch, ending up cross-legged, hands and phone idle in her lap, to turn a look toward the newcomer.

Lex's expression remains impressively blank as she looks the other over, and after /just/ enough time has passed to make it feel awkward, she's responding, "You know it's raining out there, right? Christ, people, umbrellas..." Her expression remains more-or-less impassive, other than an exaggerated roll of her eyes. And then said eyes are turning toward Ruiz, and a pierced 'brow arches slowly.

"New roommate or hooker?" == 'Sex worker' is too classy, -- 'cause amigo, we already went over the stripper thing..."

"It does not surprise me," points out the cop. Because he's obviously a cop. Unless he frisked a cop, knocked him out cold, and stole his shit. Which, to be fair, he rather has that look about him that suggests it's not an unlikely story. Sketchy Mexicans. He doesn't react to the brush of contact, but then he might be more focused on getting the fuck out of the rain; once Luce's inside, he follows along behind with a heavy report of boots on the scuffed tile, and tugs the door shut on the heels of a crack of thunder.

The yellow heels are eyed. And then he starts shrugging out of his damp jacket, a fleeting smile offered as he gives the place an upnod with his chin. "This is the living area. The kitchen is shared, so is the bathroom. I'll show you the room." He's clearly not in real estate.

"Para con la puta mierda," he tells Lex, a little sharply. "She is here to look at the third bedroom." And yes, they did go over the stripper thing. Not that he's keen on dredging that one up again. How does one confuse cops with strippers, anyway? His jacket's tossed over the back of a chair in lieu of being hung up, and the sound of buckles and metal being jostled ensues, as he unfastens his duty rig.

"Librarian." Luce says, "Among..." She finally seems to note Ruiz's clothing, her gaze flicking down his uniform. "... other things." That was the epitome of subtle, pauses and all. The blonde reaches up to ruffle her fingers through her hair, which doesn't so much tidy it as set the various layers to sticking out a bit more, including a long fringe cut a bit choppy. She squints pale blue eyes and says, "No umbrella. Yet. Too new here to realize it rains every bit as much as the stereotype."

"Spanish isn't all that different from Italian, when it comes to it," Luce observes, quietly, as she looks around. At the jingle of metal and straps sound, her attention returns to Ruiz. "Your price seems a bit steep for a single room, shared bath, and a cop in residence. That includes utilities?" She stands right where she is, in the entry. Perhaps her reluctance to move deeper into the home has something to do with the gun on display.

"He fails to mention there's a cop-in=residence until you've self-incriminated, smoked inside, or called him a stripper," Lex offers helpfully, and the oh-so-sweet smile that she offers Ruiz is made entirely unsweet by the piercings that induce faux dimples, perhaps the brief flash of annoyance in her gaze. But that was fleeting. Was it there at all?

Now, attention turning back to Lucinda. "Honey, stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason. Libraries come with dictionaries?" He probably also failed to mention the smart-ass-in-residence. "Oh, and I'm a sex-worker, if you were really interested." Eyes back on Ruiz, smile still-present. "Cops just /love/ 'em." Welcome to the cat house, Sheriff.

The gun is going the way of his room, momentarily. It's unholstered, and the clip ejected into his palm with a quick, smooth motion that suggests muscle memory. Probably could manage it with his eyes closed. Partially disassembled, he takes a brief detour to lay the firearm out on his dresser before he ambles off for the bedroom in question. After a long look sent Lex's way. No words, just that look, like he'd put her over his knee if it wasn't thoroughly and completely inappropriate.

"Are you going to keep fucking with me?" is what he asks over his shoulder of the librarian with the slight lisp. Which suggests, maybe, that he's been fucking with her on the price. The room itself seems decent enough. It's been recently repainted in a pale sky blue, and has original hardwood floors and an east-facing window.

"I am," Lucinda says to Lex. "Sex is interesting. Sex work is perhaps the most long-lived professions in the world, after all." She mmms. "I'd imagine the local library has a selection of dictionaries, though I haven't investigated the collection yet. I did step inside today and discovered the computers are in dire need of replacing." She brushes her sleeves off a bit, then reaches up to undo the zipper of her jacket. "It's hardly serviceable."

There's a pause when Ruiz asks his question. She licks her lips briefly, and finishes tugging the sides of her jacket apart, though she does not take it off.

"Police officers are among the top four most stressful jobs in the country. The suicide rate is high, and few of them live to see their sixties provided they survive to retirement. One study suggests they have as little as five years after that." Her blue eyes turn to Ruiz, then her gaze flicks back to Lex. "If you ask me, peacekeepers would do well to avail themselves of all the professional help they can buy." With that, she finally follows after the cop toward the bedroom in question. "This is hardly fucking."

Luce glances over her shoulder to Lex. "Where did you find him?"

The blonde steps into the doorway of the room. She glances up at the color of the walls, makes a small sound in the back of her throat, and makes note of the window, the flooring. She moves in and touches the wall, going all the way around slowly, reaching up as high as she can.

Lex blinks slowly as Lucinda begins to respond, and with already-large eyes widening slightly as the blonde continues, the second blink seems downright owlish. Whether at a loss for words -- sadly unlikely -- or simply allowing Lucinda's elaborate response to speak for itself, Lex makes no immediate comment. Oh, and that look from Ruiz? That didn't phase her smile, but /that/ doesn't earn a reply, either. Well, a staring Lex is better than a talking Lex... right?

Right. By the time Lucinda has finished her report on law enforcers, Lex is biting her lower lip in an all-too-obvious effort not to laugh. She's amused, and she wants at least one of them to /see/ that she's amused, eyes dancing between fact=giver and fact-receiver. This will be fun.

She looks almost startled when Luce looks back to her, releasing her lip and arching that 'brow again. "Online ad, true love, or universal fuckery." Choose one of the above. She doesn't speak further to the other woman as she steps into the bedroom, glancing instead at Ruiz. She is lifting her fingers to rub together in the universal sign for 'money', even as she mouths, 'How much?' at the man. Lucky bastard.

Ruiz leans his shoulder against the doorframe, and proceeds to sort of loom there. Dark hair, askew with dampness that he hasn't bothered to towel dry; beads of water slip down his weathered cheek and into his scruffy beard, and occasionally he swipes at it with the heel of his palm. His brows furrow as the blonde starts to lecture him on his life expectancy and job stress, and his dark eyes trail her for a moment or two before sliding away. He's silent for a while, and chooses to ignore the question posed to Lex like he isn't in the room.

"Three fifty, and the pot stays outside. Or in your room, door closed, window open." He thinks for a moment, then offers in a rough murmur, "I cook sometimes. You are welcome to eat what I make." Then the pierced and tattooed member of the peanut gallery is saying something about true love, and he scoffs quietly. And sends her a brief glance on the heels of it, as if to say 'zip it'. About the money.

There's a sound of consideration from Luce, which sounds roughly like: "Mm." She finishes a circuit of the room, fingers walking over the surface of the wall and that clean blue paint. "Universal fuckery." She selects one of the three and dusts her hands off, though they're not dirty. She moves across to the window to check out the Eastern view, then toggles the lock to check and see if the window sticks, and yes, she does open it in a storm if it opens.

Hopefully it also closes without getting stuck in the rain. That would definitely have a deleterious effect on the hardwood. "I'll think about $300. If your food is any good, maybe $350." She glances over her shoulder, putting her weight behind the window. "Do you cook with organic produce?" She's getting rained on struggling to close the damn thing. She doesn't respond to the smoking instructions.

"No shit? Pot if the window's open?" That's Lex's reply to Ruiz, and she gives the pair a slight nod of approval. Apparently /her/ pot privileges weren't so lenient. When she hears that window open -- primarily the sound of water droplets on wood -- a true grin finally breaks out on the youth's features.

"He cooks like a Mexican," she offers helpfully, raising her voice /just/ enough to be heard over the rain and Ruiz' glare. She's looking back to her phone then, even using a finger to swap something with another something, before snorting audibly at the question regarding 'organic'.

"Does it count that he /is/ Mexican?" Good thing he has this one on a two-week trial basis, huh?

The window sticks slightly, but opens with minimal effort. The mechanism could use replacing, and it's eyed for a moment by the swarthy cop, from his lean against the doorway. "My food is good." He seems certain of that. Though Lex might be able to confirm or deny on the basis of his cornbread, at least. Organic? "No. Is too expensive." And he doesn't look like he's swimming in money, if he's looking for roommates to share a house.

After watching Luce struggle with the window for a good twenty seconds, he prowls over to give her a hand. A good hard shove and it thumps shut, a slight frown on his face as he examines the mechanism for some sign of what the problem might be. "I will fix this for you. $300 for the room." After fiddling with it, his hands are a bit greasy, and are wiped off on the thighs of his pants. "If Alexandria agrees." Sure, probably exactly nobody calls her that. But then, she's referring to him as a Mexican like it's a dirty word. Tit for tat.

"Since he appears to be Mexican, this is absolutely in his favor." Lucinda calls out from inside the blue bedroom, speaking very obviously to Lex about the man who is, in fact, standing roughly between them. And then Ruiz is moving over, finally, to thump the window closed. "It or the frame probably swelled. Summer and moisture."

The blonde sounds fairly certain. "Simple mechanics. It shouldn't be too difficult." She thinks for a moment, then says, "I feel we should at least all have dinner together one more time before we decide. You and she have a balance." Oh, good, now she thinks Lex's preferred name is Alexandria. Though Lucinda has yet to give her own. "I have questions." She says this last thing a bit carefully, as if her questions may in fact make a difference to someone, perhaps one of them.

A Mexican /stripper/. Don't forget that last part. Lex scowls predictably as he violates her name, though with the man currently out of easy view, she doesn't bother maintaining the look for long. Instead, she's swinging herself around to lounge on the sofa once more, head on the armrest, and Candy Crush back in line-of-sight. She does pause in her battle of the Candy Bombs to bark a loud, "Ha!" in response to to the word 'balance'. Even if it does mean she may miss any words that may immediately follow. Priorities.

"What's this 'one more time' shit? I think somebody forgot to invite me to the /first/ dinner." Not even glancing away from her phone, whether they're looking at her or not. "But either way, don't worry. He's got all his papers, and I've had all my shots." A pause, a scowl at her phone as a move fails, then, "A few times over."

Dinner. Dinner together. With two women who seem to have no qualms whatsoever about finding and pushing the buttons of an officer of the law. And speaking about him like he isn't standing right fucking there. He lingers by the window for a moment, still eyeing it with vague reproach, even as Luce offers her perfectly reasonable explanation of what the problem might be.

"What questions?" he asks eventually, sending Lex a glance over his shoulder for her little victorious 'ha!', and letting it linger a second or two when she doesn't look up. Then back to the tiny blonde. And again, "What questions." The sleeve of his shirt is used to swipe some dampness out of his eyes; a glimpse of ink might be visible at the backs of his fingers. Black and grey linework. Letters and geometric symbols, what little can be caught of it before the hand is shoved into his pants pocket. "I do not understand what dinner has to do with the room."

There's something in Luce's eyes when Lex calls out the thing about Ruiz's papers. Her blue eyes turn to the cop and she smiles faintly, and there's a press of her lips, and she looks away, the better part of valor to keep whatever she thought off of her lips. "I meant gather once more, this time with food. Imprecise phrasing on my part. My apologies, Alexandria." She glances over at Ruiz. "However, if food is a part of this potential arrangement, a sampling is in order, and eating together is a friendly way to become acquainted."

What questions, Ruiz asks. Lucinda considers this for a moment, then says, "Very well." Dinner may be unnecessary. Questions then. "Do you smoke? Are there pets? Do you object to visitors who stay over? Are either of you loud when you come? I like sleep. I do not like waking up to three hours of banging against the wall." She gestures to the doors. "The locks. Who has keys? Is the room inviolate when locked? When was the wiring last inspected? Is there a working fireplace? Are either of you allergic to anything in particular? Rabbit-skin glue? Beeswax?" Lucinda and her Very Important, Mildly Strange Questions.

Lex hears the grocery lists of questions listed off, no doubt, but her only immediate response to it all is, "Woah, woah, waoh... when I call him Mexican, he calls me Alexandria. /You/ can call me Lex." Not that she's bothered to look up from that phone. She is, if nothing else, smirking again. Allergies? Banging walls? When her gaze finally does flicker away from shattered bits of candy, it's toward whatever she can see of the unfortunate man who has found himself with some /genuine/ 'universal fuckery' on his hands.

Ruiz might have let the comment about his papers slide right past. There's no reaction to it, and maybe he's heard that joke before. Sometimes it even plays to his advantage, not coming off immediately as a member of the police force. Sometimes it's advantageous to appear to be an immigrant of questionable citizenship. Though the look he catches on Lucinda's face causes him to ease away from the window and rove back to the door.

"Sometimes," he murmurs, putting his broad-shouldered, bulky frame to the blonde, one hand withdrawing from his pants pocket to briefly inspect some peeling paint on the doorframe. This place ain't the Hilton. Then, "No pets. Visitors are fine, if they follow the rules; no smoking, no drugs in common areas." Are either of them.. "I will try to keep the fucking to an acceptable level of noise." And then he wanders off completely, like he's just had enough of answering her questions. Some clanking about in the kitchen ensues. Probably, he hasn't eaten yet. "Do you want the room, or not? You can think on it. If you like." Because hey, maybe sketchy Mexicans and heavily tattooed women are not her bag. "Vete a la mierda," is muttered into a cupboard. Though almost certainly aimed at Lex.

Luce watches Ruiz retreat after he's answered as many questions as he cares to. She assumes the others are negatives. "This is all I can ask." She slides her hands into the pockets of her very expensive leather jacket, and steps out of the room, her heels telegraphing her progress through the household from empty bedroom through to the main area. "Lex. Pleasure. You can call me Luce."

"I'll think. Perhaps text more. You'll have my decision by Thursday evening." Lucinda smiles, though it's a small one, and with Ruiz's back to her, Lex might see it, or not, as Candy Crush rules the night. "My number. Please text if you have any questions for me." She drops a bone-colored linen card on the table, with a number, no name, foiled in small metallic gold numerals. "Either of you. Goodnight." With that, the blonde walks out into the storm. She closes the door snugly behind her.