2019-06-13 - Dinner for Two

Lucinda shows up at the agreed time. That is to say she's just walking down the sidewalk when the clock turns to seven, and a soft chime from her back pocket tells her so. She continues along on her way, unhurried, and moves up the walk to the little porch, well lit as it is by the light above, to number 23 Spruce Street. The rain patters off the lather of her jacket, dampening her hair in the halo of that warm-tinged light. Bu the time she's stood under the shelter of the porch, she's a bit damp but none the worse for wear. She raises a hand to knock.

The blonde glances over her shoulder at the parked cars, making note of both. She wears an outfit much the same as yesterday — same jacket, same yellow shoes, but today it's a simple white tee with a v-neck under the jacket, and another dark pair of skinny jeans. She carries in her left hand a bottle of white wine.

"Un momento," might be dimly heard from somewhere within. Followed by the sound, a few seconds later, of footfalls approaching the door, then the deadbolt disengaged and the door swung open. The man who greets Lucinda is in jeans and a very faded grey tee shirt with 'Seattle PD' scrawled across the back. Which, of course, is not currently visible. Barefoot, dark hair slightly damp and askew like he'd recently showered. He watches the blonde's face, and then the bottle of wine in her hand for just a moment, then steps to one side to let her in. "Still no car," is observed rather than asked, his expression thoughtful.

"Sit. Please." At the table, or at the couch. He doesn't specify; both are available. "Alexandria is running late. She has a.. difficult client." It smells like tamales, beans and rice, and some sort of soup appears to be simmering on the stove with steam curling gently from the surface. The furniture is slightly older, but clean and comfy looking. The couch is heaped with cushions and a thick throw, and there's a touch of greenery here and there; a fern perched atop a windowsill, a lemon tree occupying one corner of the living room, beside a bookshelf filled with tomes on a variety of subjects. He holds his hand out, either for her jacket or the bottle of wine. Or both.

Luce stands there for the moment, though since the rain is not coming in sideways tonight, she shrugs out of her jacket. Her tee is just tucked in in the front, pooling a bit in the back where it falls across her hips. No belt. Just the tee and skinny jeans. She shakes her out her jacket and, once she steps inside after Ruiz, she flicks a hand through her damp hair. "Still no car." She echoes this, though it's quite obvious. Her shoes are wet again.

She wanders in, and when Ruiz holds out a hand, she looks at it for but a beat then hands off her jacket and the wine bottle. She flicks her hair up and off of her collar, just where it's damp and sticking. Her attention wanders the kitchen, and she looks over what's visible, taking a deep breath. "Your food smells good." It's a careful statement. Very middle of the road.

"You can take off your shoes, too." The urge to make that an order is palpable, but he refrains. Barely. You can. Then a flickered smile as he accepts the jacket and wine, and he eases away from Lucinda while checking the label. "Sit. Please." It's repeated once more, in case she didn't hear him the first time, and the swarthy cop ambles off to hang up her jacket, and put the wine in the fridge. The tamales are done, but left in the pan in the oven, wrapped in foil to keep them warm. The soup is stirred and turned down slightly, and he moves about the kitchen fetching bowls and cutlery, and glasses for the wine. Three of them hooked on his fingers, and set on the counter upside-down. "The soup is spicy. The rice and beans are not. In case you have lost your nerve." There's a grin in his voice, even if his broad back is to the blonde.

The white wine is an expensive bottle, lightly sweet. The bottle's chilled, like it was purchased recently cold or pulled from a fridge. It's a pricey Italian moscato d'asti, refreshing and bubbly without the bitter after-note. The bottle is larger than usual, and probably holds at least six reasonably sized glasses.

The blonde considers for a moment, and then she reaches down to unto the little button strap across the top of her left shoe, removing it carefully before she balances on a bare foot to repeat the gesture with the other hand. Her toenails are painted a vibrant yellow to match the shoes. She tucks the footwear into a corner and out of the way, then returns to the table to pull out a chair and take a seat, perched on the edge. Maybe she didn't hear the first time.

"Don't be silly," is all she says of the nerve comment. She watches Ruiz move around the kitchen, and doesn't offer to help.

The wine was contemplated for a short while before being tucked into the fridge. Maybe he's familiar with the label, the vineyard or the variety of grape. He doesn't comment on it. "I will give you a ride home tonight. You should not be walking in this weather. Yes?" A brief glance over his shoulder isn't quite enough for him to meet her gaze; it's his profile that's put to the blonde, dark and foreign-featured, scruffy beard mostly obscuring the dregs of his smile. He glances down at her toes, and then resumes his bustling about the kitchen. With Lex still missing in action, he ladles out soup into two bowls, and withdraws a plate from the cupboard to stack the tamales atop. Food is brought over to the table a bit at a time, and set down with a soft scrape, followed by cutlery. Followed by his slightly bulky frame, slid into the chair opposite. "So you have.. more questions?"

Lucinda watches Ruiz putter around the kitchen, collecting, stirring, depositing, sorting, adjusting things. She is fairly quiet back there at the table, her hands under it in her lap. There's a mutter that sounds a lot like, "As long as it's not in the Charger."

And then he's returning to the table with food, with soup that certainly smells like it has some chilis in it. She scoots her chair in, then slides back in it, and pulls her legs up to sit with them crossed on the seat of the chair itself. Her hands don't go to the dishes yet. "Do you have questions?" She asked a litany last night, and perhaps half were answered. There's a moment of silence as she surveys the food choices, and then her gaze finally returns to Ruiz. Her hair's windblown half damp, a little frizzed and blunt cut with slightly choppy fringe. It's a look that's equally careless and precise, and must take some work to get right.

He might have caught the tail end of her little mutter, as his lashes lift and his eyes briefly find Lucinda's, and a little crease forms between his brows. Then he resumes cracking the bottle of wine open, and pouring a small quantity into two glasses. One is nudged toward Luce, the other kept for himself. "I drive it only for work. Not to worry." He flashes her a smile, and takes a sip of the wine. "What is your employment situation? Do you have noisy friends? What are your hours like?" The blonde is watched for a moment more, like he's contemplating whether her hairstyle is intentional, and if so, how much product it took. Then he digs into his soup, shoulders hunched as he eats. It's definitely spicy, if she gives it a try. The rest of the food, as promised, is milder.

The blonde reaches over to take the wine glass, sliding it closer before she touches any of the food. She brings it to her lips, touches it there and sips the bright, bubbly wine. Luce hms and it's a sound on the more approving end of the spectrum. "I work for myself, but I have heard the library is looking for part-time help." She puts the glass down, sliding it aside a tiny but. "I make my own hours, make a lot of calls, sometimes late, because I have clients overseas. I don't have friends here."

Eventually, she picks up a spoon. "I might take a studio elsewhere to make room for my tools." She scoops up a small bite of soup, and lets the steam roll off of it for a moment before she brings it to her lips. "I get a lot of packages." She takes a bite then, and lets the heat of the chilis roll. Her expression doesn't change, though she does look up with a flick of that blue-eyed gaze to Ruiz. "Lex was right. You do cook like a Mexican." It's hard to tell if there's a subtext there, because her tone is so very neutral.

Ruiz's spoon is dipped into the soup again while Luce talks in very vague terms about her work, and sips her wine. He doesn't look affected at all by the heat in the food, though watches her carefully when she tastes it. Curious, perhaps, as to whether it'll send her running for the hills. And when it doesn't, there's a soft noise in his throat that might be approval. Dark eyes on blue, his expression doesn't shift with her last words; maybe he spots some subtext, or maybe he doesn't. "You work for yourself, doing what? What sorts of clients." He doesn't address the issue of friends, though surely he heard her say she doesn't have any in town.

"Clients with a lot of disposable income." Lucinda says, "And some with none." That clears that up not at all.

"For the first set, I acquire rare books. I deal in rare books. I restore rare books and manuscripts, and the occasional artwork, but that gets boring and between you and me, I hate doing it. Scrape, scrape, scraping old varnish all day long is the worst." Lucinda can do more than sent flat texts of a moderately suggestive nature depending on the tone of the reading. She reaches over for the plate stacked with tamales, and pulls one off, setting about unwrapping the husk to expose the tender interior. "What's in these?" She holds it in the palm of her hand, husk wrapping providing a plate, and uses her spoon to scoop up a bite. "For the second, I help them with their paperwork."

"My skills are varied and niche."

Lucinda is watched carefully when she makes her first, non-clarifying statement. Though perhaps it says more than she realises; there's a slight tilt of his head, as if it did in fact illuminate something for him. Then he resumes eating, soft tink of his spoon against the bowl and the distant patter of rain on the windows and gutters. "Green chiles and pork. It is not too spicy." His mouth curves in a brief smile, which slips away a moment later as he resumes eating. "You advise in legal matters, then? Immigration, perhaps?" There's a follow up to that question on the tip of his tongue, but he seems to change his mind about asking it. Instead, he snags one of the tamales and unwraps it just enough that he can do likewise with his spoon.

Lucinda takes a bite of the tamale. If Ruiz is any good at reading between the lines, he probably has figured out what she's getting at, at least a whiff of it. "Comfort food." She mms. "There's a little smoke in this." She says that like it's a good thing. "I don't give legal advice, but I take care of my friends." She doesn't explicitly answer the immigration question, but she does say, "It can be hard, these days, to feel safe in this country when you aren't..." She takes another bite, and looks across the table at Ruiz as she chews. "Wealthy."

She takes another bite, then another, eating in silence for a while. She must like the food, because she makes no sketchy comments about it. There's also a chance she's a little bit high, though she doesn't smell like pot today, not even a hint. No cigarettes either, not that he's gotten all that close to the blonde. It probably would have lingered on the jacket that he took from her earlier. Luce finally asks, "None of this is going to be a problem for you." It's a question, but it doesn't sound like a question when she says it.

He almost certainly has. Lucinda seems to say more with the silence between her words, and the things she neither confirms nor denies, than with the words themselves. The woman is a minefield of subtext and innuendo, and he chews slowly as he cogitates upon this. A problem for him? "I am sure you take care to go through the proper channels. I am sure that you do good, diligent work, and I can appreciate a labour of love." He doesn't watch her eyes as he says this. But he does corroborate her words, quietly, and with a conviction that perhaps runs deeper than his mild tone suggests: "It can be hard to feel safe in this country. When you are not.. wealthy." It almost seems he wanted to use a different word there. Then, apropos of seemingly nothing, "Chipotle en adobo."

Luce takes another bite when he mentions the adobo, and then she nods. "Mmm." She mmhms. "Yes, now I can taste it." Sometimes all it takes is having it pointed out for you to catch the origin of the flavor of a thing. "It can be hard to feel safe in this country when you're anything." That comment is made lowly, but again, her tone is fairly light. There is certainly subtext, but nothing concrete is laid bare. This is a quiet dinner with simple, good food.

She reaches for the wine. "Why is it you aren't married with a bunch of kids?" And out of nowhere, Luce just asks that question. The alternative version might be why is a man of your age willing to shack up with two ladies young enough to be your daughters as roommates. She takes a different tack.

"Only a little. Too much, and it is overpowering." He says this over the rim of his wineglass, and takes a sip before setting it aside, and spooning up more tamale filling. "What you do is none of my business. Unless you make it my business. And I feel that you will not, and that we understand each other on this. Si?" He gestures with a spoonful of corn dough, which shortly disappears into his mouth. And then in the midst of his chewing, the rather personal question, out of the blue. Why is it you aren't married with a bunch of kids? After a pause, and a flicker of something across his face, he resumes chewing, lifts his eyes to Luce's bright blues for a moment. His are murky; not quite brown, not quite green. Closer to grey in this light, ringed in amber. "My work. Keeps me very busy." In other words, his work is more important than his nonexistent sex life. "And I do not think I would make a good husband. It is probably just as well." That he isn't married, one presumes.

"Isn't that the way with so many things?" Too much and that's all you taste. Lucinda is quiet for as long as it takes her to finish that tamale. She folds the corn husk and sets it aside, returning to the soup once it's stopped steaming so much. She gives it a stir then spoons up and takes a bite.

She's watching Ruiz's face when she asks him the family question, and when something slides through his eyes. Something she doesn't chase, and yet she says, "That's not true." That's plainly spoken; she sounds certain. Her gaze remains on his, however long he's looking at her with those dark eyes. After the silence lingers, she relieves the pressure by turning away from the subject of kids and wives, to say, "You made the time to make this meal, to acquiesce to my request for more time to make my decision." She glances at the empty chair, presumably where Lex would be could she have made it tonight. "You can say you don't want to talk about it if you don't want to talk about it."

"I only asked about your sex life yesterday because I can't sleep through aggressive furniture banging, and you and Lex both look like wall-bangers."

He commiserates with a low chuckle, and the warmth of it changes his whole face. Eases some of the exhaustion away, where it sits in those dark shadows beneath his eyes, and the taut line of his jaw. Some of the wariness, too; he meets her gaze and holds it for a time, then looks to the empty chair. Then sets his spoon down and pushes to his feet. "I was going to cook regardless. So I was not going out of my way for you." However, she did ask for spicy, and he did go to some trouble to fulfill that request, while providing other options in case it didn't pan out. So his contradiction of her words does not hold much water.

"I do not wish to talk about it," he murmurs as he puts his back to the blonde, and prowls off to the kitchen to hunt for something in one of he cupboards. "And as I said, I will try to keep the wall banging to a minimum." His tone is deadpan, though she probably isn't too far off the mark with her guess. By the looks of him. "Do you like hot chocolate?"

"Very well," Lucinda nods. "We will move on." She gives him a bit of that blue-eyed scrutiny at his suggestion he didn't go out of his way, considering the spread, and the fact that all of it's handmade. She's too polite to point this out explicitly, or, and more likely, she knows he knows she knows and that's enough.

"I do like hot chocolate, even with a little cayenne in it, but not too much. And cinnamon, but not too much." Luce is vaguely specific about that, letting Ruiz make of it what he might. "I'm very glad it's not winter. I imagine that cold cuts through to the bone with the moisture in the air here." She clearly makes her way doing a lot of walking, and that would not be ideal. "Thank you." The thanks could be for the cocoa, the self-restraint, or both. "I saw the bookshelf. Are they your books or Lex's books?"

The scrutiny, of course, lands on deaf ears. Or, well. The back of his head. Either way, he's blissfully unaware as he goes about heating up milk and mixing in cocoa powder, cane sugar and a dusting of cayenne and cinnamon. "You do not speak Spanish, but you are familiar with chocolate caliente." He shoots her a glance over his shoulder, then rummages for a wire whisk in one of the drawers. "Lo siento. You are welcome." He even remembers his manners, and translates for her. "The books are mine." They span a wide range of subjects, from psychology to vehicle repair to poetry and art history and gardening. Most of them dusty, like they haven't been pulled out in a while. "Where are you staying now?"

"I had an apartment in Brooklyn for six months," Lucinda replies. She finishes off about half of her soup before she puts down the spoon. "I had several private collections to sort through, and I lived over a bodega that served spicy hot chocolate every morning when the temperature fell below 40." She probably understands at least a little Spanish, but she will never admit it. She did say she likes spicy things, and this seems to bear that out. "I was very busy, and I never got to see the rest of the city."

"I did acquire a taste for these things in my chocolate." One gets the impression Luce makes a habit of acquiring things.

"I'm at some motel with questionable bedsheets." Luce's tone shifts when she says that. If he happens to glance her way when she says it, the look on her face says something too. She might be a little bit phobic about germs, or, you know, cleanliness in general. "I made the mistake of black-lighting the upholstery."

"Poetry and art history. Interesting."

'Brooklyn' seems to pique his interest, and he glances over his shoulder again, gaze assessing. Drinking her in slowly, from her head down to her yellow-painted toes. Mention of the little bodega makes him smile slightly, then clack, clack, clack as he whisks the chocolate over the heat, until it's steaming. The element is switched off, and a pair of cups procured, handles hooked on his index and middle fingers respectively. "I hope your motel does not have.. chinches." He doesn't provide a translation, probably because he doesn't know how to say the word in English. But she may be able to guess at it. This house, fortunately, seems quite clean; the upholstery and rug look recently vacuumed, and the kitchen countertops smell faintly of citrus. Judging by some of the clutter, he's far from a neat freak, but seems to take hygiene seriously.

"Tell me about some of your other acquisitions." The hot chocolate is poured into cups, brought over to the table and set down with a soft scrape. Luce's is slid closer slowly, and the handle turned toward her before he settles back with his own.

It's a good thing he doesn't know how to say that in English, because Lucinda does not need to have that thought any more than she's already had it. "Why would you say that." She doesn't inflect those words, but she does say them, and she runs a hand up her arm and scratches her shoulder briefly too. She has, to this point, kept her hands off the clutter, but she has noticed it. And the fact that the books are loosely organized, though she hasn't touched those either (yet), despite the fact that they're dusty. She watches Ruiz prepare the drink, pour it, and carry it over. She watches his hands as he pushes the mug over, then turns it for her. She looks up from the mug to his face.

She finishes her wine in one go before she puts that glass down so she can reach for the sweeter, warm drink.

She does not thank him until she's picked it up, and taken the smallest of sips of the hot liquid. She holds it by the handle, two fingertips of her other hand supporting the base at the bottom edge. "It's funny what strange little things book collectors want and what they're willing to pay. I found a 1925 Great Gatsby with dust jacket for 190 thousand dollars. The design isn't even that interesting." She sounds like she doesn't think much of the book itself, either. "The Hobbit can go for up to 210 thousand. Usually these go into cases and are never held again until they hit the auction block."

It's clear what she thinks about books that go untouched.

Well, if she's already had the thought, then she won't mind him putting it into words. That she can't understand, but can grasp the gist of just fine. It's a talent of his, saying things that shouldn't be said. "Because you are thinking about moving in. And I do not want chinches in my house." His reply is flat, and followed up with a sip of chocolate. His left hand has a slight but noticeable narrowing around the ring finger, like he'd worn one there for some time, and only removed it fairly recently.

"I think people desire.. an idea. It is not about the book. The book is an object. Paper and bindings. But the hands that made it, the dreams that created it." He lifts a big shoulder. "I think that is what people desire. I think that is what they will go to the ends of the earth for." He sets his mug down, but keeps his fingertips on the rim; steam curls around his fingers and wrist, and twists into the cooler air before dissipating. His dark eyes rest on her blue ones steadily. "I used to read.. much more than I do now." There are, notably, a few children's books in there too. Classics like Le petit prince and more mainstream, pedestrian stuff. Also dusty.

"My work.." His eyes shift away, to the window, and he scrapes his fingertips through his beard. "Maybe I will read again, when I retire." He smiles a little.

Those bright blue eyes come up from looking into her mug of cocoa with a look that says clearly stop saying fucking chinches, asshole. She drums the nails of her other hand once on the table's edge. She sits back a little in her seat, lips parting, but no words escaping. She narrows then relaxes her eyes.

"That's a pretty thought, and for some people that may even be true, or a treasured story they want to own a piece of, but often times it's for display and excess. Some people buy old books by the lot to fill libraries in homes where the libraries are never used for reading. I did it once for a CEO in Manhattan and then never again."

Lucinda watches Ruiz for a moment as he mentions that he used to read. "You should read now, even if it's for fifteen minutes before you sleep. If you lose the stories, you will forget what you risk your life for. " She regards that little smile for a moment, her gaze on his mouth. "Don't wait." She rises, putting the cocoa down before she turns her back and makes her way across to the shelves. "These should be dusted." She crouches in front of the shelving, her arms tucked in close against the top of her knees.

She does not touch, though her fingers spider along above the spines, and hesitate by Le Petit Prince. "This one is good." And then she moves on to the poetry. Something bite sized. She pulls a volume and rises, pulling it in against her body to dust it off on the thigh of her dark jeans, leaving a streak of pale grey across the fabric. She blows lightly on the head to dispel the fine layer of dust there. She turns it to him, so he can see the cover, her pale hands on the head and foot of the hardcover book.

Those bright blue eyes might find a hint of amusement in his far darker ones, when she gives him that look. He sips his hot chocolate, gaze traveling to her mouth as her lips part, and her eyes narrow slightly. "Por que no ambos?" He watches Lucinda rise and head toward the bookcase, and his jaw tightens a little - unseen by her, of course - when her hand pauses at the spine of Le Petit Prince. He sips again. "We all wish for meaning in our lives. Even men with more money than they know what to do with. Perhaps especially those men."

The book she pulls out is an anthology of work by a variety of Spanish poets. A few have been marked with bits of ribbon; the first is by Juan Ramon Jimenez. I shall not return. Pablo Neruda and Jorge Luis Borges, amongst others, fill the pages with their prose. The older man sits quietly, shoulders a little tense. Like she's scratched at an old wound of some sort. "Will you take the room?" is what he asks, despite the fact that something else entirely is on his mind.

Of course she opens the book to the first marking ribbon, careful of the spine, like a book-lover should be. She swallows when she sees the first poem. She's read this poem before. Lucinda stands there reading it now, in silence. Her gaze trails over the page, eyes moving to the ends of the lines, then down to the beginning of each new one. When she finishes, and only when she finishes, does she glance up to look at Ruiz.

While she's watching him, her left hand slides over the front cover to tip it closed, and she smoothes her fingers over the edges of the book. "Maybe not this one to start." She holds it against her belly, and says, "I still haven't decided." She returns to the table, the book in hand. And she moves to sit. She puts the book aside, well aside and out of risk of being harmed should there be a spill of some kind. She puts it aside and leaves it where he'll have to touch it to put it away at least.

"Dinner was delicious." She reaches for the mug of cocoa again, and lifts it. "Do you think I should?"

He's aware, perhaps, of the intentionality behind her placing the book where he'll have to retrieve it. Return it to the bookcase. He'll cross that bridge when he comes to it, though. "You have not decided," he repeats. Annoyed? Possibly. His drink is sipped and the mug set down, and he watches her from across the table; his eyes give away little. "I think you have a better offer." A beat. "Or you do not like me." The latter is offered without a shift in his tone. He's probably accustomed to it. Though his job requires him to direct people in very dangerous situations; being charming is not generally a requirement. "Es lo que es." He smiles slightly, and it fades a moment later. "I think you should give me your answer."

"Is that what you think?" It may as well be a statement from the intonation Lucinda gives him there.

She tastes the cooling cocoa and rests the mug against her thigh now that she's taken a seat again. "Neither of those things is wholly true." She regards Ruiz before she says, "Yes, you're wound a you wear a uniform, which is..." She lifts a hand, gives it a wiggle. What does that mean? "Your place is clean, and I haven't caught you lying. Your other lodger seems friendly enough." She glances around, gaze lingering on the eaves. "The location isn't bad even if the construction is questionable."

"We can try it for two weeks and see how we feel about each other then. I don't have much with me, but I do need to buy a bed. Moving in is a suitcase." That all sounds very easy. She still hasn't said everything she's thinking. It might be that she never does. She watches Ruiz again with those bright blue eyes, studying the find muscles of his face like what he's thinking will be revealed if she just watches him closely enough. "I don't know how long I'll be here, in truth. Sometimes..." She puts down her mug on the table. "Sometimes I find myself moved."

The question, is that what you think?, is left to sit there between them. Unanswered. He watches her steadily over the rim of his cup, then blows and sips as the rain gently batters the roof; the silence isn't quite, as a result.

"Your business is your own. The uniform comes off when I am home, and I have been many things, senora, besides a cop." There is, as always, more he'd like to say there. But he settles on that. His food is picked at absently while the blonde continues talking, and his face is difficult to read; he seems cautious. Reserved, of course. Not so much hiding something, as worn down by something and on the edge of conceding defeat to it. A spoonful of tamale filling winds up in his mouth, and his dark eyes alight on the younger woman for a moment, then away again as he chews; they rest upon the book she brought over.

"If you need to leave, I would like some warning. You will owe me the rent for the month." He smiles a little. "You can take my bed, if you like. Until you have one. I will sleep on the couch."

A person might almost get the impression that Lucinda is not the trusting type, despite Ruiz's multiple assurances that he has few fucks to give once he's off duty. She watches him like she knows he's considering saying more, or she's leaving that silence there to see if he'll fill it. When he takes a bite of his food instead, she takes a drink of the spiced hot chocolate. She pulls her feet up to tuck her heels onto the edge of the chair, watching the darker man to see if he'll speak first.

When he does, she says, "I'll pay you for any time I spend here." Despite all of the haggling, she doesn't seem overly concerned with coming up with a few hundred for rent. When he offers his bed until she acquires one of her own, she doesn't even twitch. Nor does she hesitate. "Done."

"Do you cook breakfast or just dinner?"

The lack of trust, he expects, perhaps. Few people trust cops. Fewer still would stomach the idea of rooming with one. He might be watching her for some sign that she's the type to put a knife between his ribs in the middle of the night. Or he might just be lost for a moment in those blue, blue eyes. "Bueno," he murmurs eventually, and settles back into his chair as a minute amount of tension eases out of him. "I cook breakfast sometimes. Pan dulce or huaraches. Porridge. When I have the time." He finishes off his hot chocolate, hooks the handle of his cup with his fingers, and snags his plate in his other hand.

Over his shoulder as he prowls off to the kitchen, "Will you need help to move your things? You can borrow the truck if you like."

"I don't drive." Lucinda doesn't elaborate, but that sounds like refusal of the kind offer of a lender. Her blue-eyed gaze remains steady. She watches every move he makes. She might be thinking about shivving, him, it's true, but... really how likely is that so long as he keeps handing her food and drinks and pillows? Luce reaches up to slide her hand into her hair dragging her fingers down the pale strands. "I didn't bring much with me. I'll have most of what I need shipped."

She finishes her hot chocolate, briefly licks the rim of the cup where she tipped it last, then unfurls her body to rise, bare feet finding the floor. She passes close by the edge of the table, and then the chair as well, making her way over to the counter near the sink. She quietly wander right up next to him, very close, without announcing herself. And reaches past him to put her mug into the sink.

He looks, to be fair, like he knows how to handle himself physically. Either he hasn't been a Captain long enough to be properly softened up on donuts and desk work yet, or he's kept his skills sharp out of necessity, with mandatory time in a squad car. Or, that predatory aspect is nothing to do with his training and everything to do with his nature.

"I can drive you." His mug is set in the sink, and what's left on his plate is scraped into a compost bin before the plate, too, is put away. "If you need anything brought over, you let me know." He speaks quietly as he works, then switches on the faucet to begin washing out the dishes. It nearly obscures the sound of Luce slipping up behind him. Nearly, but not quite. He stills when she reaches past him, soapy cup in hand, and then resumes scrubbing it out. In the tee shirt, of course, a good deal more ink is on display than could be glimpsed in his uniform. Intricate black and grey linework; a sugar skull encompassing his upper right arm, and a fishing trawler being overcome by immense waves darkens most of the rest of the arm. His left is more lightly decorated, and the edges of the word 'fi' are visible at his collarbone, under the shirt.

"Where are your things being shipped from?" he asks quietly as he works.

The blonde lingers there for longer than necessary to stow her cup in the basin. She glances down to the tattoos along his left arm, the side she's currently closest too. What there is visible of her arms in the white tee puts nothing on display but pale flesh, and perhaps the edge of a healing bruise just down her upper arm, the edge barely showing at the hem of her sleeve. There's no visible jewelry, either, and very little in the way of cosmetics. She smells mainly like the combination of lemon and vanilla, now with a little chocolate mixed in. "You could drive me." That agreement is made easily enough.

Luce turns from the counter and her gaze turns to what little of the ink is visible at his collar. Now that she's standing close, she takes her own sweet time perusing his ink. His hands are busy with something else, and this seems an ideal time to do some looking. She is careful not to touch him, though she stands close enough to do so easily. "Most recently Georgia. I'm closing a property there and have some books to re-home."

He's aware of her continued presence there, inches away from his left arm. He can feel the heat of her against him, and there's a slight flare of his nostrils to take in the scent of her. Like he can't quite help himself, wondering what a tiny platinum blonde with blue eyes and yellow mary janes must smell like. "Tu me dejas saber," he murmurs without quite looking up. The dishes are almost done, and the ink sprawled along his left arm is delicate linework for the most part: leafy ferns and sloping script that describes something in Spanish. The tattoo at his collarbone likely can't be made out in full without looking under his shirt.

"Whereabouts in Georgia?" A brief look in askance that happens to catch the edges of that bruise. His hands pause with her cup in the midst of being rinsed, and the faucet continues to run as he watches her. "What happened?" he ventures, voice low and edged with something sharp.

Short blondes in cartoonishly yellow pumps smell like vanilla lemon cookies. At least this one does today. Luce eyes the higher tattoo's script, then takes one step back, her hands sliding along the counter. She glances up at the cabinets then, and reaches up to peer inside the closest one. "Savannah, on the river near the coast." She closes the cabinet and then decides, "When you're finished there, you could give me a ride to the motel. Just park out front and it'll take a minute. " She slides her hands into the pockets of her jeans, tucking them in to the second knuckle. "I can drop the key in the office slot and call it a day on the weird smell in that place."

"It'll take twenty minutes at most from here, round trip." Quick and easy on a stormy, dismal night. At least it's not cold as well. She glances past Ruiz, pale eyes inspecting the kitchen.

"What -- oh." She glances down at her arm, reaching up to tug the sleeve of her tee, not that it covers the bruise. "I walk everywhere." She runs her fingers up the sleeve of her tee, arm across her body. "I don't always watch where I put my feet. Nobody saw it, at least." She turns her arm and peers over her shoulder, like she's checking it out, assessing the damage. "Didn't realize it got that big." It could be from a fall, sure.

Foodstuffs. In the cupboard. Tins of chiles and jars of seasoning, likely the best he could do without a bodega in town. The faucet continues to run for a few moments before he realises his mind's been elsewhere, and the cup's long been rinsed, and reaches over to turn it off. The cup is set aside, and his hands dried off on his jeans, leaving some dampness behind. "I remember riding the Belles ferry across the river, and exploring the market at sundown." He watches Luce futz around in the cupboards. Watches her profile, mostly.

"It is a beautiful city." A breath. "Si. I can give you a ride to the motel." Hard to say whether he believes her or not, in regards to the origin of her bruise. But he doesn't seem inclined to press the issue right at this moment. His gaze slides down her shoulder to her arm, then back up to her face, and his warms with a slight smile. "Let me get my shoes and jacket." He brushes past and pads off to his bedroom without further ado.

Luce either doesn't notice the watching, or isn't bothered by it, because she only glances over at him once while he's doing it, and then her gaze skims around the rest of the kitchen again. "It's tourist season in Savannah. It took some consideration to decide on leaving it, but I won't return until the heat of August fades, if at all." She doesn't seem bothered by this prospect, if her expression is any indication. It remains placid, despite what she may be thinking. "Might as well make a tidy profit from the real estate." Her hands slip down into her pockets again, tucking just in to the second knuckle.

Finally, her pale eyes turn back to Ruiz, just in time to catch that little bit of a smile. "I'll meet you at the door." Lucinda regards the dark-haired man for a moment, then turns to retrieve her own jacket from where he put it earlier. She slides her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans, unlocks it, and makes a few notes in an app. She wanders over and takes a lean against the door, typing with her thumbs. This goes on for some time, until Ruiz re-enters the room, at least. "Do you have any thoughts on cut flowers?"

"You have nothing that keeps you there?" is asked from the bedroom, amidst the sound of him rustling about in there. Boots are slid on and laced up, and he throws a battered looking leather jacket over his shoulders. A brief stop by the bathroom that involves some more rifling about and then the sound of the faucet running, and he eventually emerges. "Friends? Family?" The line of questioning is casual, though his gaze is intent as he studies the little blonde in her lean against the door.

He reaches past her, at some point, to unlock it and tug it open. "Macabro," seems to sum it up. His thoughts on cut flowers, that is. He flickers her a grin in passing, then ducks out into the rain with a jangle of keys coming out of his pocket. "Come on."

"Friends can text and email." Which isn't really an answer. She absently pulls a foot up to re-button the strap which slipped undone again, now that she's slid back into her heels. "I work and travel more than anything else, though something tells me I'll be staying put a bit more... here." Luce is a little mysterious there. Mainly every time she tries to leave town, something comes up. She doesn't say this, but it's there in a vague twitch of a frown that's gone soon after. Perhaps she has few friends. She doesn't respond at all to the question of family. Nor does she make eye contact through most of that. Eventually, she looks up, blue eyes finding Ruiz's, before she straightens up off of the door frame when he pulls the door open.

"Hm." This is in regards to his thoughts on cut flowers. The grin is met with a slight shake of her head. She watches him move out, then follows after, despite his prompting. She stands on the porch for a moment, pulling her jacket closed and zipped. She glances down at her feet, then to the rain, and sighs softly. "It had to be Washington," she murmurs under her breath. And then she's headed out and down the steps, hands in her pockets as she makes her way into the rain, headed for Ruiz's truck without another comment on it.