2019-08-08 - This is All Very Awkward

The captain's been assigned, finally, his own room to recuperate in, after spending the previous day in and out of surgery and the ICU. Of all those unlucky enough to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time (or maybe the right place at the wrong time, given how he feels about drinking), he seems to have taken the brunt of the damage from the gunfight. Goodness knows, maybe those cops from another time and place had some sort of bone to pick with the man. Or maybe they just don't like Mexicans. Either way, he's had more than a few of the nurses giving him sideeye for the fact that he didn't die, after the number of rounds they pulled out of him.

He's sitting up in bed, sheets pulled up to his waist, and suffering the indignity of wearing one of those ridiculous hospital gowns that probably doesn't tie properly in the back. There's an IV, of course, in his good arm, while the other - along with his chest and right shoulder - is bandaged up pretty heavily. His head's turned toward the sole window in here, out of which he's either gazing.. or has fallen asleep.

Finally, Alexander's pestering (and a fair amount of playing heavily on the sympathies and affection some of the nursing staff still have for his mother) have paid off, and he's allowed to visit, although not without some stern words and narrow-eyed looks about not making life hard for the patient. So, he appears at the door frame, overdressed for the weather in an open, long-sleeved shirt over one of his worn band tees, and carrying what appears to be a small bamboo garden inside a fishbowl in his hands. The hospital gift shop doesn't have a lot of non-cutesy options for gifts. He does what he can. There's a clearing of his throat, to see if the Captain is awake enough to be bothered, while he stares openly, and with a visible frown, at the extent of the man's wounds. Or at least what he can see of them.

There's a grunt from Ruiz's direction, and he stirs at the sound of someone clearing their throat. If he'd been sleeping, it must have been very lightly. His head shifts against the pillow, lashes lifting sluggishly, and he pauses at who he sees standing there. Not precisely who he expected. He speaks after a long, long while of considering the guy, overdressed for the season, carrying something he's undoubtedly going to want to leave behind when he goes.

"If you came to make good on punching me in the face. I think it would be both brilliantly opportunistic and disappointingly unsporting, Clayton." His voice is low, as always, and slightly scratchy.

"Definitely unsporting," Alexander says. "I'll at least give you time to get some of that blood back so you don't keel over like an old man or something." He enters the room, tentatively at first, eyes darting around to find the dimensions of it, before he slips in. The bamboo garden is absolutely placed on the bedside table with the air of something that is meant to stay with Ruiz, but instead of finding a seat, he wanders to the foot of the bed and shamelessly picks up Ruiz's chart, flipping through it idly. "You know, if you wanted to get out of giving me cooking lessons, there are easier ways." A glance up, the faintest hint of a smile - and of worry - on his lean, intense features.

"Muchísimas gracias," murmurs the cop in deadpan reply. The faintest twitch at the corners of his dark eyes suggests amusement. It lingers a moment, then the not-so-fine lines smooth away again gradually. "Miss Reede is next door, by the way. Though I am sure you already know this." He, of course, isn't in any shape to protest the retrieval of the chart, probably forgotten by some overworked nurse. It details his vitals, his age (he's turning 46 soon, no spring chicken), the drugs he's currently on (a cocktail of painkillers and a mild sedative), various banal details about his insurance through the GHPD and next of kin, listed as 'H. Everly Sutton' in a pen colour different from the rest. The medical history section is extensive; though perhaps unsurprisingly so, for someone who's served in both the military and as a police officer.

"Believe it or not," he offers at length, not quite meeting that glance, "I was looking forward to it." Must be those drugs they have him on, stripping away some of his usual caginess.

"I visited her just now," Alexander admits. "And Isolde down the hall." Despite his best efforts, there's a grimness to that admission, of three people he knows and likes all ending up in the hospital at the same time during the same incident. His lips press together in a flat line, and he glares at the poor chart, as if that would do anything to help. Details are noted, filed away, and then he drops it back into place, gently, before pacing around to take a seat near the bed. The admission brings back a hint of lightness. "So was I, Captain. We'll reschedule. No rush."

He lets out a breath, expression going blank as he stares at the other man. "The others filled me in on various details of the incident. Hell of a thing. It's polite to ask how you are, but I'm not going to. If you feel like you look, that sounds like an annoying question. But. I'm glad you're alive."

The grimness is noted, perhaps. The effort, too, to appear otherwise. He's not much of a talker at the best of times, but never let it be said that Ruiz does not keenly observe. "Mm," is all he says to that. We'll reschedule. No rush.

After another long moment of watching the man who settles in nearby, the captain lifts his hand to scratch at an itch on his nose that's been dogging him for the better part of a minute. It's his non-dominant hand, which is going to make things all kinds of interesting while he's recovering. "You know, I think you have his eyes," is what he says eventually. And, mumbled a bit more quietly, "I've had worse." A beat. "I broke my back once in Daeseong-dong." That, too, was noted in his medical history. He's probably got more rods and screws than bone, in some segments.

Alexander sits, and waits. A keen observer may get the idea that he hasn't exactly visited many people in the hospital, and is feeling his way out for the proper protocols and expectations as much as for anything else. But he's good at sitting and being silent, so that's what he does, that flat stare fixed on the man in the bed. Until that remark. It causes a startled flinch; he clearly doesn't have to be told WHOSE eyes he has, and he averts them, hastily. A frown. "Do I. Unfortunate."

Still, his attention is brought back at the more quiet words. A low, thoughtful sound. Then, "How?" Because nosy Clayton is always nosy.

The observation is given, and de la Vega is watching him steadily, still, to see how he takes it. A slight narrowing of his eyes, and a breath that sounds vaguely painful. And probably is, given how many rounds he took to the chest. Maybe he's still thinking about the resemblance, or maybe he isn't, by the time Alexander asks his follow up question. "How what?" He's good at playing dumb, the captain is. He seems to revel in it.

Alexander gives him a look, that suggests he is well aware of the playing dumb. And is not amused. Except he sort of is, going by the gleam deep in his eyes. "Your back. How did you break it?" Each word enunciated precisely, and slowly, as if to an old, deaf and possibly senile man.

The teasing, if that's what it is, only lasts for a moment, before he adds a more serious, and certainly quieter, follow-up question. "Was he one of the people who hurt you?"

That look is not one Ruiz is unaccustomed to. Neither is that tone of voice. Alexander's possibly not the only one who's figured out how to sass him.

His lashes slip low over his eyes and he's quiet for a while. So long that it may appear he's either decided not to answer the question, or has simply gone back to sleep. Then, "I jumped out of a perfectly good airplane." You know, as marines are wont to do. "And my chute didn't deploy properly." He breathes, a deliberate in and out that's as audible as it is obviously measured. "Was who.." His eyes reopen, and he regards Alexander curiously from across the handful of feet that separate them.

Alexander waits. He's not a patient soul, in general, and it can't be said he waits in stillness; his hands flicker and fidget with things - the seams of his pants, the arms of the chair, even the edge of the bedclothes, but he does wait, with the air of a man who is prepared to do so all day. And then there's an answer, and a wince. Silence, for a long moment. Then, "You are ridiculously hard to kill, Captain." A pause. "It's not a bad trait. In a friend."

But the question gains a moment of exasperation, in turn. Dark eyes narrow. "William Gohl. Or whatever figment of him you faced in the bar. From what Isabella said, it sounded like the posse was doing most of the shooting. But did he hurt you? Shoot you. Or...whatever."

Ruiz might just take some perverse pleasure in watching the other man squirm. Because he's occasionally (often) an asshole like that.

"So I'm a friend, now." That seems to amuse him; he cracks the slightest of smiles and makes a noise in his throat that could be a chortle, if chortling didn't hurt. It's cut short with a grunt of discomfort. "Or was that purely hypothetical?"

He addresses, a moment later, the question about Gohl, with a creasing of his brows and glance toward the window, as if the sun-drenched sycamore rustling its leaves in the slight, unheard breeze holds the answer to that question. "No," he murmurs finally. "Why?"

Alexander seems to actually think about that. His head bends, and he stares at his hands, fiddling with the long sleeves of his shirt. One arm is bandaged under them, and he tugs the sleeve down absently to cover it. "I would like to be," he says, slowly, not looking up. "I can't decide that unilaterally, Captain. I think that's called stalking. And I've been trying to be better about not doing that. If I don't have to."

A breath out, relief, at the answer to his last question. "Good." The why, though? That gets an awkward sort of shrug. His brow furrows, his mouth working a bit as he tries out different ways to explain it. Finally, it's just a sharp exclamation of, "It would bother me. It wouldn't make me want his spirit destroyed any more, because that particular needle is already all the way in the red. But it would bother me. That's all."

I would like to be, says the guy that had his door kicked in by said captain, and has been the recipient of more than his fair share of harsh words and outright bossiness from the older man.

"No. Of course you can't." Decide that unilaterally. And, because he really is an unrepentant asshole, he simply leaves that there, dangling between them.

His attention is slow to shift from the window, back to the fidgety man seated beside his bed. Everything about him is sluggish, with all those drugs coursing through his system; a far cry from his usual sharp mind, housed in a body built for hunting and violence. He misses entirely the still-bandaged arm, though does observe Alexander carefully while he tries to formulate a reply. "What if I told you that I fully expect things to come to blows between us. Somewhere down the line." His voice is maddeningly even. "And that it won't change anything." Which may be his oblique answer to the earlier not-question about them being friends.

Alexander's expression doesn't crumple, but it does tighten at the not-answer to the not-question that he put out there. There's a blankness that settles in on him, like what meager walls he builds around his emotions have gone up. When Ruiz speaks again, he raises his eyes to stare at him. And thinks about the words, quite seriously. "Probably," he says, at last. There's a reconsideration of the facts, a calculation of the odds, and then he nods his head, once. "Yes, most likely." The other remark just gets a wary sort of stare, like he's not certain what conclusions to draw from that. He stands up with an ungraceful sort of jerk, and paces around to stare at the chart again, although he doesn't pick it up. "You should rest, Captain. If you need anything, please let me know. You have my number."

He doesn't say 'don't die', perhaps because in the shape Ruiz is in, it might be tempting fate. Or maybe he's just decided that Ruiz isn't capable of it. Either way, it's the only parting he offers, before turning and slouching his way out of the room.

Those tiny shifts in Alexander's expression are studied carefully, like the whorls and eddies of a stream trying to make it out into the ocean. Perhaps he regrets what he's said, when he sees the effect it has on the other man. Or perhaps one such as he is, with a life such as he's lived, holds no room in it for such childish things.

You should rest. Of course he should. It doesn't mean he wants to. He's watching the window again by the time Alexander pulls to his feet and heads for the door. He doesn't speak until the younger man is almost out of the room, but when he does, his voice is pitched just loud enough to be heard: "Javier. You can call me Javier."

Alexander pauses, just at the door. Then turns, and offers one of those rare, brilliant smiles he has, of completely uncomplicated pleasure. "Javier. Yes. And I'm Alexander." It's as brief as it is bright, already fading as he turns away and leaves Ruiz to his recovery.