2019-08-16 - Eggplant Emoji

It's a warm summer evening, neither punishingly hot nor rainy. So the windows are actually open to let a breeze through the house, although screens keep bugs out and a bird inside. Alexander is currently standing at the cage, feeding said bird a treat or two before tempting him back into his cage for the evening. The door is locked once Luigi is inside, which draws a disgruntled chirrup from the animal. "We will be cooking," Alexander tells him, solemnly, "and you don't want to get cooked along with whatever veggies become edible. So stay." He sticks a finger through the bars, which gains a petulant nip. Alexander winces, draws his finger back, then heads into the kitchen. There's a large stuffed frog, large enough to be a pillow, on the couch along with the neatly folded sleeping material.

A familiar (probably) mud-spattered, dark blue truck pulls up at the front of the house, some time after Luigi's safely ensconced in his cage. The door swings open a minute later and an equally familiar off duty cop climbs out, holding a bottle of some sort of liquor in one hand and his cell phone in the other. He idly checks his messages as he moseys up the path to the front door of #13, then knocks thrice without looking up from the screen, and waits.

Alexander also passes some time on his phone, sprawled on the couch. The frog gets a few absent pats, although whatever texts he's receiving and giving, they aren't improving his mood. When there's a knock on the door, though, Alexander looks up, and smiles. He puts the phone away and heads to the door, checking out the window before opening it. "Captain," he greets, as the door swings open. "You're looking alive. That's good." He's dressed...well, okay, he's dressed like Alexander is always dressed, with a t-shirt about to come apart at the seams, jeans close to likewise, and bare feet, because hey, he's home. And if nothing else, the carpet is always clean and tidy. "Please come in." A curious glance to the phone, then the bottle.

Ruiz's certainly not going to be one to pass judgement on Alexander's attire. He's clothed in a dark, threadbare tee shirt with some sort of slogan faded to illegibility, dark cargo pants shoved into combat boots that he only half bothered to lace up, and a ratty baseball cap. He looks up as the door swings open, and does eventually smile. But it looks, as is often the case, like something he has to remind himself to do, and try not to bare his teeth when he does so. "Gracias." He'll wait until the other man moves aside, then step inside in his usual slow, prowlish way. There's a bag of groceries looped over his elbow as well, and he shoves his phone away before asking, "Mind if I go put these down?"

Alexander returns the smile with one of his own, those little ghost smiles that are there and gone in a moment. He steps aside quickly. "Can I carry anything?" he asks, but if the answer's no, just stays out of Ruiz's way. Although gives him a hard once-over for signs of bandages, wounds, or favoring any particular limbs or movements. "Thank you. For coming over," he says, as he closes the door behind the cop. From his cage, Luigi whistles a few bars of a catchy little song, but otherwise looks unimpressed by the presence of a stranger in his home. Alexander trails Ruiz at a small distance, just outside arm's length. "How are you doing?"

No obvious signs of injury, though the man's definitely moving more slowly than normal. Seems to favour his right side slightly, but in the spirit of tough guys everywhere, is doing his damndest to make it look like it's NBD. Which, naturally, means he shakes his head at the offer of help. "De nada," he murmurs, sliding the bottle (of tequila, what else?) onto the counter, followed by the bag of groceries. "I'm happy to help." Well, happy is a stretch. "So, trivia night at the bar? That sounds fucking dreadful." He's smiling ever so slightly, so he can't be that annoyed.

Alexander doesn't ask further about the injuries, although he's not subtle about frowning at the way Ruiz moves. And even if a stretch, the comment about being happy to help draws a brighter smile. The other gets a noise, thoughtful. "Yes. I was tempted. Itzhak was going to drive myself and Isolde, but I decided it might be a little crowded. Trivia can be fun, though." He takes a stance at the end of the counter, considering the bag of groceries. He leaaans a little to peek towards it. "Is the tequila an ingredient, or just something necessary to the instructional process." It's light, teasing as he gives a sidelong look to Ruiz.

It's not terribly hard to intuit that he's got plenty of recovery left to do, after having seven rounds put in him after that shootup at Easton's place. Probably would've been more, too, if his attackers had better aim. "Itzhak. Oh, your friend from the other night. The one who was giving me the.. miradas sucias." He waves his hand like that helps to illustrate what he means, and sets about the task of extracting items from the bag of groceries. An onion, a bulb of garlic, a bottle of olive oil. "Qué piensas?" he teases back, sliding a glance over his shoulder to Alexander as he leans in.

"Yeah. Although they weren't really that dirty," Alexander protests. "And you were staring, too. Mutual dirt. He's a good guy, though. If your paths cross more, I hope you give each other a chance." He glances at the tattoos on Ruiz's arms and hands. Then he paces, restlessly. Not getting in Ruiz's way...exactly, but frowning at each ingredient as it's drawn out and placed on the counter. "My suspicion is that it's mostly column B, but perhaps a little bit of column A, as well. Alcohol can be used to flavor things, or so the recipes on the internet tell me. I haven't tried it, yet. Because alcohol can also set things on fire."

"I was staring because he fucking started it," mutters the man. Because he's six years old, clearly. While he talks, he extracts a tub of ricotta, block of mozzarella, a jar of parmesan cheese and a carton of eggs from the bag. It's a wonder it all fit inside, really. "No, there's no tequila in this recipe. It's for us to drink. You like tequila, si?" He slants another look across to Alexander as he paces in close. It's a steady, direct look intended to pin him in place, like a flitting insect to flypaper.

Alexander gives Ruiz a Look. It's amused, and his mouth opens as if to say something. But he rethinks it and just smiles instead. His gaze transfers to the new ingredients, and he reaches out for the tub of ricotta, his gaze skittering over the other cheeses. "This is...something Italian, then? With a lot of cheese?" He sounds approving about the amount of cheese. He freezes at that look, shoulders immediately coming in defensively, and his hand slowly shrinking back from the tub. "Um. Tequila? I don't usually drink hard liquor. The lighter fluid was a, ah, rare incident. Just a beer now and then, usually. But it tastes good, sure. I could have some. Thanks." He looks like he's trying to figure out if that's the right answer, searching Ruiz's face with that flat stare he gets.

Ruiz has some idea, probably, that Alexander is thinking some things when he gives him that smile. He's not sure exactly what, mind. Rather than press for an answer though, he merely grunts. The stare is held for a beat longer, his dark eyes narrowing a fraction like he's trying to suss something out about the man. And then he turns, eventually, back to the ingredients arranged atop the counter. "Lasagna," he replies, mangling the word of course. "Eggplant lasagna. Where's your eggplant?" Which could be taken wrong, if he was talking to anyone but Alexander. Though given the smile that's threatening at the corners of his mouth, maybe he's teasing him a little. Shifting away slightly, he hunts for a knife. A proper paring knife, if the other man has one.

Alexander stays frozen under the stare, as quiet as a rabbit under the look of a wolf. He actually has a full butcher's block of knives, tucked in by the fridge. They're all decent quality, although not terribly expensive, and they're all kept very sharp. When Ruiz shifts away to go looking, Alexander slides in tentatively, like it's not his kitchen, and opens the fridge. He retrieves a canvas bag of vegetables and pulls out two large, purple eggplants. These are set on the counter, and the rest are returned to the fridge. "There are more in that drawer," he murmurs, pointing to the right one. "Knives. If you can't find the right one in the block." And there are, of various shapes, sizes, and styles.

"I'm not really sure I understand what led the first person to decide these things were edible," he says, after a moment, and pokes at one of the eggplants, making it roll a little. "Much less figure out how best to eat them. Eggplant lasagna seems like an improbable occurrence, overall. A conjunction of unlikely ingredients from vastly different origin points, requiring different levels of pre-processing and harvesting, and then who knows how many centuries of experimentation to properly bring it together." His expression lights up. "It's really very interesting."

The butcher's block studded with various shapes and sizes of razor-sharp knife is perhaps the first thing to genuinely impress Ruiz about Alexander's domestic setup. Or at least, the first thing he's openly admired. A couple of the knives are slid out halfway before he settles on a long-bladed paring knife. It's withdrawn the remainder of the way smoothly, and flipped from left hand to right with a quick little move that's less ostentatiousness and more muscle memory. Might be a thing from his time in the military; might just be he likes knives like he likes guns.

"It's a nightshade, so I'm doubly uncertain why people decided to start eating it," he murmurs, giving each eggplant a quick rinse and pat dry before taking the knife to one of them. "Pour us a drink?" almost comes out as an order, but he remembers to put a slight inflection on the end so as not to be completely rude. Someone must be trying to teach him manners.

Alexander watches the admiration with a tilt of his head. And if Ruiz admires the knives, Alexander admires the man's grip and move, albeit in a wary and calculating sort of way. Another fact added to the mental file. The not-quite-an-order makes him jerk a little, jumping into compliance. He slithers by the cop to open a cabinet and fetch two glasses. They're not really tequila sippers, but they'll do. He places them down and stares at the bottle for a moment or two before pouring. It's a modest serving in both glasses, although after a moment of thought, he adds another finger's worth to Ruiz's glass and puts it where he can see it. "When people started eating it, it was probably before classifications of flora got so well understood. It doesn't look like it's related to deadly nightshade, so most people wouldn't have suspected it. Then again - we eat a lot of things that would be poisonous if prepared incorrectly. I think a lot of people just like to live dangerously. Morte magis metuenda senectus." The Latin flows much more easily than his attempts at Spanish. He translates a moment later, "Old age should be feared rather than death."

Ruiz doesn't seem to mind the talking, so long as he's not the one doing it. The background noise is pleasant enough, and a stitch of his near-everpresent tension loosens, big shoulders slouching a fraction as he carves up the eggplant into thin slices. "You want to use a slight.. angle when you do this," he explains, holding the knife poised to demonstrate. Then resumes chopping up the vegetable with quick, practiced motions of his inked fingers. He's no professional in the kitchen, but seems to know well enough what he's doing. "So is there someone you're trying to impress? Or just decided it was time to learn a few things?" About cooking, presumably. The knife's set down for a moment so he can reach for his glass with a murmured, "Gracias," before downing a quick pull of the liquor.

Alexander turns his attention to the knife work, studying it with the same intensity he might give a crime scene photo. His hand moves to mimic the motion, his fingers setting themselves in a precise and delicate copy of it. He repeats the motion a few times, before reaching for his own glass. His own taste of the liquor is much smaller, just a taste, really. "Mm. Mostly the latter. I don't like eating alone. And at college, and when I was in the cults, there was usually group meals. I rarely pulled cafeteria duty. So no real reason to learn. But Isolde's staying with me now, so there's someone to eat with. And you know how to cook. And Itzhak knows how to cook. And that college kid knows how to cook. Even Thorne knows how to cook. It makes me feel bad, now, to not know. So, I'll learn." Then there's a bright, sunny grin. "Although if I can cook Isabella dinner one day and have it be edible, that wouldn't be terrible."

Ruiz has probably put two and two together by now where Alexander and Isabella are concerned. But having it pretty much spelled out for him, seems to cement the notion of their togetherness in his mind. He sips his drink again; a tip of his chin that's quick and indelicate, glass slid back onto the counter and knife offered up to Alexander hilt first. "You give it a try. With the other one." He nods toward aubergine number two. And assuming the knife is accepted, goes to hunt for a shaker of salt and some paper towels. "I'll be honest, I had.. another motive for agreeing to help you with this," he murmurs while he works. Salting the slices of eggplant, laying them on paper towel to dry. Some of the tension slides back into his bigger frame, and remains there.

Alexander takes the knife without hesitation with his right hand. His natural grip is a brutally effective one. Not for cooking, so much, but if you were going to stab something that was resisting, it'd be pretty perfect. He moves to the second aubergine and looks down at it, before shifting his grip to the one Ruiz demonstrated, then starting to cut. It's precise, well-controlled, and confident once he has a cut or two get a sense of the resistance the veggie gives him. There's a salt shaker and pepper shaker near the sink, for some reason, but at least they're both full. He smiles a bit at Ruiz's words. "Did you? I suppose I'm not surprised. The sheer pleasure of my company isn't usually that compelling. Go ahead. Whatever it is. I probably won't get angry."

"Para," interjects the captain sharply, cutting in when Alexanders starts on about not being surprised. "No es verdad. No es justo." He cuts a brief glance toward the younger man, and watches for a moment the way he handles the knife. Like he knows perfectly well what he's doing with it. Mental note made. Once he's done with the salting of the vegetable, both sides, he goes to preheat the oven and track down a pan for the garlic and oil. "I wanted to ask for your help with something." Which seems to take a tremendous effort just to get those words out. Him, de la Vega, needing help with something. Unheard of!

Alexander flinches at the sharp interjection, the knife coming up for a second, raised defensively before he averts it, brings it down with somewhat unnecessary force into the next. There's no argument with Ruiz's words, just a slight and crooked sort of smile. He finishes cutting in quick, focused movements, so that he can turn and watch what Ruiz is doing - noting temperature, how much salt. He points out the cabinet with the pans. "All right. What would you like help with?" In contrast to the cop, the offer comes easily and without much apparent thought. But he's watching the older man, now, more than the preparation of the food.

"You want to cook vegetarian dishes hotter, and for a shorter time than you would something with meat," Ruiz explains, tapping the gauge, which is set to four hundred. "Vegetables get soggy if you cook them for too long. Crisp is better." He pretends not to have spotted that brief flinch with the knife, though does, after a moment, offer quietly: "Lo siento. Por hablarte así." He does look contrite, though avoids the other man's eyes. Then a steadying breath, and his damned hat is finally tugged off and tossed onto the table behind him, fingers rifled through hair that looks to have been trimmed recently - along with his beard.

"You. Can touch minds. Like I can. Si?" His hands brace against the counter, muscle cording in his forearms and biceps as if in preparation to hit something. It's probably fairly obvious that this subject makes him deeply uncomfortable.

"Shorter, hotter. Look for crisp." It's toneless, filed away in Alexander's brain while most of his attention is fixed on Ruiz. There's a shake of his head at the apology. "It's fine. I'm...easily startled, is all. Sorry." It seems sincerely meant, although his expression doesn't much change as Ruiz goes on. He keeps his own body language deliberately loose and open, as if trying not to continue to react to the older man's rising discomfort and tension. His breathing deepens, slows.

After some moments of thought, he nods, slowly. "I think so. I haven't read you, and I don't think you've tried to read me, but I would say that we have related abilities, based on what little I've seen of your use of them." A pause, but eventually his curiosity compels him to ask, "How long have you had your abilities?"

"Right," Ruiz confirms, with a twitch of his lips that isn't quite a smile. But really, his rarely are. He remains there for a little while, palms against the counter, staring at the bulb of garlic he's yet to crush, and the oil he's yet to coat the pan with. "I don't.. read people. If I can help it." The admission's made quietly. For a man of his abilities and influence, he's suddenly awfully uncertain when discussing this. As if he's on uncertain footing. "Since I was a child. It was more, then. Stronger." He barely shines, though the echoes of what once was an inferno may be glimpsed; or they may not. Like an afterimage left on the retina, visible when one closes their eyes. Faded but not gone. "And you?" He looks over finally, runs his tongue along his lower lip as he studies Alexander and his body language.

"Reading people can be difficulty. Not just with doing it, but with dealing with what you find there." There's neither sympathy nor condemnation from Alexander for the failure to use a part of their abilities that would be terribly useful for a cop; just a neutral recitation of what he sees as fact. His eyes widen a little. "I've never known someone to lose their inherent power," he murmurs. "Especially not here. Away from here, it dims, it weakens, but usually." A pause, shake of the head. "Sorry. Not relevant. Although I'm curious if there was something that took it." His body language remains open, but deliberately so, as if not trying to spook someone he might think is skittish. "Like you, since I was a child. As early as I can remember, honestly." A shrug.

"So you've always been able to do these things?" Ruiz wants to know. Skittish, maybe. Janky, definitely. He looks the sort of man to hurt people when backed into a corner. Like an injured, feral animal. There's an odd, and completely uncharacteristic vulnerability in the way he asks that question, and in the way he tries to breathe out some of his own tension. When Alexander mentions someone taking it, though, he shifts away and begins crushing up the garlic with jagged, jerky movements. "You'll want to use the flat of the blade, like this. Don't bother peeling them first, the skin will come off easily. See?" Oil in the pan, heat turned up to medium.

Alexander winces. "Mm. No? And yes. I suppose I've had the potential for a very long time, but what kicked in first, what I remember from an early age, was being able to read people. At a pretty significant range. But without control. So," he hesitates, "just overwhelming waves of emotion I didn't always even understand. It controlled me more than I controlled it, for a while." He keeps his voice even despite the way his face changes with the unpleasant memories. "When the Shadows started making me get lost, I had to learn to do more with it, so I had weapons and tools. Um. Learning under fire, I guess you could say." He doesn't smile, even as his tone lilts up to try and make a joke out of it. He doesn't miss the evasion - it's hard to do that, but he goes along with it, leaning in a little bit to see the garlic. His nose twitches. "Why crush it? It seems inefficient." The question is sincere enough, but his attention is still mostly on the man's reactions to the other part of the conversation.

Ruiz listens attentively enough to Alexander's description of his childhood and his emergent abilities. It helps, perhaps, to have a task to keep his hands busy, as he's not much of a conversationalist otherwise. "Yes," he murmurs, when the other man gets to describing the overwhelming emotion, the lack of control. His dark eyes slide up to focus on Alexander's face for a moment, then back to the task of crushing the garlic. Which he explains with a shrug, "If you want to spend the time removing the skin, by all means. It is.. tedioso." The remaining cloves are nodded to, and he goes to prepare the sauce and shred the cheese. "You finish it. Then add it to the oil, and turn down the heat." His eyes are kept, then, on the task of putting the food together, and he's silent as he seems to retreat back into his thoughts.

"I can't say I'm a fan of tedium," Alexander says, meeting the shrug with a faint smile. "I'll do it your way." He moves to take over the smashing of the garlic. He's a bit distracted, but tends to excel at smashing things, so that part's going swimmingly, and he is able to easily pull away the smooshed skin after each movement. But his eyes are on Ruiz. "Javier," he says, after a moment, "you haven't mentioned what you'd like my help with. I don't mind talking about abilities, if that's what you want. It's nice to be able to." He tosses the garlic into the pan. "But unless I'm very wrong, and I'm not usually about this sort of thing, you're not really comfortable talking about it. So probably not the thing you wanted." He turns to study him more fully, his arms crossing over his chest.

Of course, what he's not done, while subjecting Ruiz to this scrutiny, is turn down the heat on the oil. The smell rising up is fragrant...at first.

The captain's not much of a teacher, truth be told. Knowing and imparting knowledge, of course, are two very different things. He watches Alexander smashing the garlic for a moment, but is distracted shortly after by his pressing on the issue of what precisely you'd like my help with. The usage of his name, in particular, makes the question doubly hard to avoid. And then that fragrant smell starts to turn a little less so, and he looks back in time to find the garlic rapidly turning black and smoky. He seems to bite back the first thing that nearly sprung to his mouth, and instead nudges the younger man out of the way with his shoulder, and snags the handle of the pan. It's hauled off the heat with a clatter, the element switched off, and he takes a second or two to breathe. Then tips his gaze back up to Alexander's.

"I want to know what it's like to touch someone else's mind." As in, he's never done so. Not intentionally. Never. The weight of that is conveyed silently in his stare. As is the discomfort with his request, which may be understandable when one considers how intimate a thing it is.

Alexander is nudged. He steps neatly out of the way by instinct when the captain approaches, turning to look at the pan. "Oh." He takes a moment to review the past few minutes in his head, and winces. "Left the heat on. That burns very quickly. So noted. Sorry." He leans in a bit to study the garlic in the oil, sniffing cautiously. "Interesting."

But the fascination with failure is forgotten when Ruiz speaks again. His head comes up, and he can't hide a flicker of surprise. Because he's not really good at hiding anything. "Never?" It slips out, an uplift on the last part that can't help but sound incredulous. "I see." He straightens up, eyes Ruiz with concern. "And you'd like to touch my mind?" A hesitation, although it seems less out of mistrust and more out of, "...my mind isn't all that normal, you know. If you're okay with that, then I don't mind. But if it scares you, or, uh, you hate it, just remember that most people aren't like me."

Now that he's had a minute to come down from his initial knee-jerk irritation, Ruiz doesn't seem particularly bothered by the burned garlic. "Never," he confirms. Despite the fact that he hadn't actually admitted this. "Look, if it's going to be a problem. I'll find someone else." Might be that incredulous tone he's caught a whiff of. The concern, the hesitation; a slew of clues that perhaps Alexander isn't comfortable with this at all. And it goes completely without saying that the cop is about as far from his comfort zone as he's likely to get, right now. As to the last, "Do you think I'm fucking oblivious? Or could you consider that maybe I've figured that out for myself, already, Alexander?"

"It's not a problem, Javier," Alexander says, hastily. He doesn't flinch away, at least, but he sways in place, like he'd be pacing if not in a narrow galley with a grumpy cop-friend standing right in front of him. "I really don't mind. Actually," a longer hesitation, "I enjoy that sort of contact. Just most people don't. And I don't want to cause you distress, or do anything, even by accident, that might harm you. So I try to be explicit about things. It's better than someone being surprised and unhappy. Especially a friend." Then he offers a smile, a cant of his head to one side. He lifts one hand, palm up. Says, after a moment, "I've always found it easier with skin contact. I don't know if that would help you. But, if you want."

Ruiz is silent for a good long while after Alexander's spoken, seeming to think on what's been said. The garlic's stopped burning, at least, though they've the rest of the recipe to put together still. None of it seems to overly concern him at the moment; he's watching the younger man with that look of intense scrutiny again. It's invasive and hungry and relentless. Until he jerks his head toward the table and breaks eye contact. "Should we.." A breath. "Sit. Sit down?" Awkwardness, thy name is Javier.

Alexander doesn't tease the cop about the awkwardness, although there's a flash of humor in his eyes at the question. But then he thinks about it. Studies the stove. "Yeah," he says, at last. "Probably should. Just in case." He drops the offered hand and slithers by Ruiz again, walking into the living room. Luigi is whistled to, just a brief snatch of tune that the bird returns, before he sits on one end of the couch. "Have you ever touched an animal's mind? They're simpler. Less intimate. Usually pretty pleasant, unless they're actively in pain." He waits for Ruiz to join him, watching the man.

"I have," Ruiz confides, lingering for a short while after Alexander's gone to take a seat at the couch. He fusses with the pan of burned garlic, scraping the mess into the garbage and assessing what's left to be done briefly. Then he pushes away from the counter and prowls on over to join the other man. He hesitates before settling in, and then his arms fold in what's probably unconscious defensiveness before unwinding again. "A few times. Yes. I imagine it's very different, though." He curls his fingers into a fist, then flexes them again, and shifts slightly to face Alexander. "Todo bien. Hagámoslo."

"Estará bien, Javier." Alexander's voice is, as always, inclined towards softness. But in this, at least, there's also a certain level of confidence. He extends his hand, palm up, offering the contact if Ruiz wants it. "It's more complex. But...since we share abilities, you should be able to moderate how deeply you go. And I'll keep you out of anything I don't want you to see." A flash of arrogance there, perhaps, that it never seems to occur to Alexander that he couldn't do so, if Ruiz pushes the matter. "Think of it as knocking on a door, to start. Or I like to use the idea of extending a bridge and raising the gates. Whatever works for you." Another flash of a smile.

The presumed arrogance gains a slight quirk of Ruiz's brows. Imperceptible, almost; he seems mildly amused. "Ya lo veremos," he murmurs, voice low and smoky and a little warm with that amusement. Then his shoulders are given a roll to shake them out, and he reaches over to take the offered hand.

His rough palm slides over Alexander's, and the contact presages a sudden intrusion of the other's mind, like a car hitting a brick wall at 60 miles per hour. There's no warning, just the whiplash of nothing and then something, hard and fast like a thermobaric bomb detonated in close quarters; like the air's been sucked from the room. For a few seconds, deafening silence, like all sound has been folded and folded and folded into a geometric construct of minimal gaussian curvature - then blown out again with a guttural sound that most assuredly belongs to the man seated beside Alexander. Then, not quite his voice so much as what his voice would feel like if it could be touched, <<I'm sorry for that. Are you all right?>>

There's a moment in which that contact could go very badly, with the abruptness and power of the contact slamming into Alexander's mind - even when he's not actively resisting, and in fact trying to welcome the touch, it's a bit much. He makes a grunt, like someone just punched him in the solar plexus, and his hand tightens on Ruiz's. There's a sense, even, of gathering power, of something that wants to strike and strike hard at the foreign intrusion. It rises, then dissipates, as Alexander deliberately makes himself pliable, absorbing the impact, the power, rather than fighting against it and potentially doing damage to them both.

His mind is strong, and what he allows Ruiz into is controlled, carefully managed not to cause the other man distress or overwhelm him with emotions. Although the dominant ones can still be felt; curiosity (what will he think) and wariness (what if he hates it what if he hates me) mingled with a sense of pleasure at the way the contact bypasses all the useless fleshy barriers, and a pulse of desire to reach out and touch the other man's mind in turn. And behind the emotions, the vaguest impression of the structure of Alexander's mind - sharp, bright and dark, like glass stars in a void, reflecting light from unseen stars in fitful starts and flares.

His voice is much like his physical voice, but stronger and more confident, without the habitual hesitations and tonelessness. <<Quite well. If I can't handle a friendly punch in the brain on occasion, then I have no business being a psychic.>> The smile is felt, not seen, warmth and teasing and enjoyment. <<Just tiptoe instead of lunge, next time. Are you okay?>>

It could. It could have gone very badly. But this, perhaps, is the method behind Javier's madness; the reason he chose Alexander. Sought him out, for this precise purpose. Obfuscated as it was in an agreement to teach him how to cook something.

Ruiz's mind lacks much of Alexander's strength and control, but there are echoes of similar fragmented patterns; it is wild and feral, raw and dark and bright, brilliantly, blindingly bright with unquenched grief. But even this seems walled off and seen only as a reflection of intense light, as if looking into it for too long could sear the retinas and render the watcher blind.

<<I hadn't meant for it to be quite so forceful. Tiptoe instead of lunge. I'll try.>> The shape of his voice is unfettered, like a rumpled bit of fabric smoothed out. No stumbling over the words in English, or getting the emphasis wrong, or switching to Spanish when the effort starts to irritate him. His emotions, too, can be felt; less restrained than Alexander's, as if this is what perpetually sits beneath his standoffishness and vague irritation: curiosity, intense and probably long-standing. Fear. Want. <<I'm fine. Why are you hiding things from me?>> Because he's like a bull in a china shop?

Alexander's obsessions are many and intense, but perhaps above them all - or below them all, at the root of them all - is something terribly simple: curiosity. A disinclination to leave any question that interests him unanswered. That blinding grief is as attractive to that curiosity as a bugzapper is to a fluttering moth, and it's clearly taking effort to restrain himself from simply prodding at those parts of Ruiz's mind until they give up their secrets. It's also clear that restraining himself in such a way is a long-practiced art, and although the wistfulness lingers, he doesn't violate the man's mind.

Instead, there's a hum of pleasure as Ruiz speaks. <<Practice. It comes with practice.>> The feel of a laugh rather than its sound, deep and warm and more free than almost any of Alexander's physical expressions. <<Don't kick down the doors in here, please, Javier. It would hurt. And the barriers are there to protect you. And me. I don't think you could take anything I wasn't willing to give, but I can be overly willing, sometimes. You don't need a flood.>>

In that, perhaps, they are similar. Though detective work is no longer technically in his job description, there's an inclination toward finding and understanding the truth that has doggedly pursued the man regardless. The grief is like a visceral thing all its own; it twists and coils and tries to ruin everything in its sight with a gnash of fangs and curl of claws like smoke trapped behind glass. The rest of his mind is like a verdant, living forest teeming with wild things and dark things and an iridescence that is as much a taste as anything else.

<<Then I'll have to practice. I'm afraid you're all I've got for that, right now.>> The laughter is touched, caressed, then allowed to melt into his own, warm and equally unfettered. <<I'm not sure why you think that is a discouragement. Stop trying to protect me. Stop telling me what I need.>> Amusement shifts to something sharper, there, and more directed. Not quite an order, but terribly close.

<<You have a fascinating mind.>> It's an observation that was, perhaps, not meant to be voiced through their mental connection. Then again, Alexander's never had a lot of restraint when it comes to sharing his opinions, so perhaps it was. Either way, with it out there, he doesn't seem to be ashamed of the way his focus turns to that landscape, viewing the grief and the forest with the same sense of appreciation.

The not quite an order sets off a splintered effect in Alexander's mental landscape, like stars crashing into each other, shattering into flashes of light and patches of cold darkness. A flash of desire to...submit, and simply let someone else, even someone he doesn't necessarily feel he can trust, completely, decide what he does and how his world is defined - that's an old and strong desire, one perhaps indulged in enough times that the immediate counterpoint, the desire to snap back, push back, push away is the mental equivalent of scar tissue. Both emotions are layered in his response. <<I want to protect my friends. But I also have the right to my own mind. My own privacy.>> A sensation of focus, a hint of challenge. <<Unless you're proposing a mutual disclosure?>>

Alexander's mind is both stronger and more delicate than his counterpart's; bright, perfectly formed stars, where Ruiz is all teeth and claws and blind fury; and if there's anything behind it, he keeps it purposefully obscured. <<I want to understand you better. I want to know you. But you don't trust me.>> The feel of his mind brushing at the outer edges of Alexander's is palpable, like a wolf stalking the den of its prey. A sniff here, a low growl of warning there. The skitter of claws on glass, bending light into darkness with with each harried movement. The scent of the hunt and desire for blood.

Don't kick down the doors in here, please, Javier. It would hurt. As if that isn't what he wants. To make it hurt.

<<Tell me what you want.>>

<<Should I trust you?>> It's a genuine question, layered with desire-to-trust, a still stinging hurt and sense of betrayal, fear and awareness of the power the Captain has in comparison to him in so many ways - not least of which having seen his 'research room', as well as pleasure in the man's company and actual affection/worry/protectiveness. The question itself so densely layered with emotion that it's almost three-dimensional along their connection.

Alexander's mind draws away, instinctively, from the hunting hunger that is Ruiz's mind. Black abyss to protect himself, stars rising up out of reach and the cold void holding everything that might hurt him at bay. The connection thins with the withdrawal, and with the intensity of Alexander's thought and study of the other man. Stars throw off cold radiance from afar, reflecting each other as he bounces scenarios and options and what ifs off one another.

Finally, his voice comes back, a bit hollow with the distance he's imposed between them. <<A question for a question. Fair trade, truth shown. One question from each. I'll even let you go first.>> A pause, although even the pause has words running very deep in the darkness ((and if you don't hate me after that), <<If you need to practice, we can always try new questions later. But too much too quickly is more likely to cause unpleasant consequences.>>

The stalking thing that is Ruiz's mind, shifts and reforms itself almost at will. Sometimes a visceral-seeming creature with teeth and claws; sometimes a gnawing hunger that creeps like moss along that glittering abyss. But Alexander's mind, ultimately, is stronger and more experienced at this; and when he pulls away to regroup, it leaves his counterpart restlessly pacing. Waiting, out of reach.

<<A question for a question. Fine. You just asked me one. The answer is no.>> And that, at least, seems sincere. <<Now my turn.>> Because he calls the shots. He calls the shots. <<Tell me about the cults.>> It isn't strictly speaking a question. But the gnawing curiosity is the same; a glint of bright eyes in that endless, formless dark; the scent of chlorophyll and thoughts taking root and growing and wasting away like brilliant fractals.

<<Asshole.>> That's for the answer to his 'question', and it's exasperated and fond - and at the same time, entirely serious. Message received, Captain.

Which may be why Alexander hesitates with that question in turn. But he set the boundaries, made the rules. While nothing in Alexander's mind suggests he's a follower of rules, he is a follower of people, and reluctant to betray that tremendous and sometimes unwise loyalty which he places in them. In the real world, his eyes close. <<There were three. I could play games, and just give you their general details, and not what I suspect you want. But I won't. I joined the Enlightened Circle of the New Revelation when I was seventeen. Yes, I know it's a stupid name, but I was lonely and lost, and they were...they didn't care that I was crazy, as long as I could be their sort of crazy.>> Flashes here and there, bits of that loneliness, that desperate need to get OUT of Gray Harbor, that yearning for belonging. <<Baby's first training cult. It fell apart within six months. Mostly harmless.>> Flashes of arguments between leadership, power struggles, backbiting, financial troubles. Sorrow and relief all at the same time.

<<The second was the Brethren. College. Mostly an excuse for a couple of the Classics professors to screw co-eds and pretend to ancient wisdom.>> Despite the somewhat cynical and acerbic observation, Alexander's mental voice brims with affection, wistfulness, longing - he misses what he felt there still, and keenly. There's a flash of Isolde's face, much younger, as they pore over old books. Flashes of sex, the way only high college students can explore it, blissfully unaware of greater consequences. Sorrow and sadness and loss. <<After I graduated, things had gotten bad, with me, so I wasn't really welcome any more. I left.>>

<<The third was the Church of the Radiant Light.>> And every 'word' of that is difficult to get out. There's a flood of emotion trapped behind it: rage, hatred, self-hatred, fear, sorrow, guilt. Bucketloads of guilt. <<I was there for a few years. It wasn't good.> Flashes that he's clearly trying to separate out until they're only fragments: the smell of blood, the sight of skin opening up to reveal slick muscle underneath, a murmured man's voice, ...test of Faith, Alexander. Hold him still..., and fire and sirens and running. <<It was very not good. The leader was like us. But a healer. The strongest I've known. He didn't always heal. The world had to be changed. People had to be tested.>>

And then the connection is severed with a brutal efficiency. Alexander stands, immediately, and walks away, back into the kitchen. He stares at the stove. Says nothing, his back to the cop.

He is an asshole. Indubitably. But unlike others who wrap their ill will in deception, Javier's does not pretend to be anything it isn't.

The hesitation is filled with a palpable longing; that hunger circling the edges of Alexander's guarded mind, skittering against it, tentative, like it's looking for a way in. He listens, and he feels, and he knows, at the last, the horror that was inflicted. And if there is one thing to be said for him: he doesn't recoil from it. Nor does he revel in it. The brutality is simply accepted. The shape of it is felt, the taste of it, the sound of it- a skreeek like nails on chalkboard as the connection is severed, and throws Ruiz back against the couch cushions as if he was hit. His head tips back, and he pants heavily, lashes sitting so low that his eyes are dark, dark slivers.

He watches Alexander's back, silently, not even bothering to wipe away the trickle of blood that seeps from his nose.

Alexander continues to stare at the stove. Then he reaches out for the pan, eyes what was managed to be saved of the garlic. "Sorry. For burning it." It's only barely loud enough to carry to the living room, and he turns to find the last few cloves on the bulb, turning the element back on. Putting the pan to heat. Smash garlic. Remove skin. Wait for pan to heat. He doesn't turn around, so doesn't see the trickle of blood from the other man's nose. Not yet, at least. There's a sort grim determination to redo this step correctly, as if it might somehow make up for everything else. In goes the garlic. Down goes the heat.

"You'll teach me the rest?" he asks, at last. Still without turning around. "You don't have to. If you would prefer not. There are recipes on the internet."

There's no movement, and no response from the Mexican slumped across Alexander's couch. Not for a good minute or two, and by then the garlic's smashed and the pan is smoking unless he's turned it down. The back of his hand, finally, is dragged slow across his nose, and the blood on his knuckles briefly examined before it's wiped off on his pants. There's more, of course; his eyes are a little reddened as well. Capillaries shot, pupils blown. Someone who didn't know him better might think he'd been getting high on something fairly potent.

"If you want." He wipes more blood off his nose, sniffs. "I can, if you want." The couch protests as he eases his larger weight off it, and ambles toward the sink, near where Alexander is working with the garlic and pan of oil. The faucet's switched on, and the blood rinsed off his hand, and he swipes at his nose again. Rinses some more.

"I want." It's brief, curt. Alexander's shoulders drawn in and defensive even as he says it. He doesn't look around until Ruiz is nearly to the sink.

Of course, when he does, he nearly burns the damned garlic again. "You're bleeding. Why the fuck are you bleeding, Javier?" This time, at least, he remembers to turn the eye off, and move the pan to a cool one, before turning his full attention to Ruiz. Noting the nosebleed, it's extent, and the bloodshot eyes. "You shouldn't be bleeding. Tilt your head back." He moves to grab paper towels. "I'll make you a cold compress, but tilt your head back. I didn't do that to you. I'd have known if I did." And yet, it's still worried. Defensive. And then back to worried.

The garlic is doomed. The whole damned eggplant lasagna is doomed. It's not even an actual lasagna. Lies, lies, and more lies.

The older man looks over briefly at those first two words, curt though they may be. The faucet runs, dumping water into the basin, tinged red with his blood. His dark eyes tick up and down Alexander like he's taking his measure or checking him for sharp edges, then slide away again by the time he gets around to noticing the bloody nose. "Calm the fuck down. No, you didn't do this to me. It's nothing to do with you, and.." He rolls his jaw, agitated. Reaches for the bottle of dish soap and squirts some into his palm, and lathers up his hands. His nose keeps dripping, so he swipes at it again with his forearm; blood streaks his dark skin, smears against the roiling waves inked into his skin.

"I'm fine. I don't need a cold compress. It'll.. it'll stop eventually." Scrub, scrub, scrub. "Saute the fucking garlic, already. Then add the tomato sauce to the pot."

"I realize that this may come as something of a shock with your propensity towards massive self-trauma, Captain, but generally blood is supposed to stay inside the body." Oh, hey, Alexander does know how to use sarcasm, whatever his personal dislike for it. "Does this happen every time you use your abilities, then? It sounds like you're familiar with the phenomenon." It's easier to be angry at Ruiz's tough guy act than to deal with anything else that's just happened, so Alexander's scowl and the snap in his voice is quick. Whether Ruiz likes it or not, he takes up a wash cloth, wets it, then adds a couple of ice cubes for good measure before putting on the counter next to the sink. "Take that. Use it. No one is going to think you're less of a badass because you're not bleeding all over your goddamned hands."

Then he turns back to...saute the garlic and add the tomato sauce. GRUMPILY.

Alexander is the recipient of a somewhat dark look for his attempt at sarcasm. Chances are, Ruiz has some idea already that blood belongs on the inside rather than the outside. He keeps his forearm held to his nose for a few moments, then soaps up his arms again and washes them off. "Si." He switches the faucet off, and stares at the makeshift ice pack for a little while before gathering it up in his hand and pressing it to his face gingerly. See? He can do what he's told. Occasionally. Grudgingly.

"Crack the egg into a bowl next. You'll need a whisk, but don't beat it too hard. Thirty seconds, perhaps, then add the parmesan, and the ricotta cheese." He nods toward the tub nearby, and takes a lean against the counter, shoulders slumping slightly as he keeps the cold cloth against his nose. He doesn't say a word, yet, about what happened. But he's not unaware of the emotion soup they're both simmering in; Alexander, by now, is likely aware of the level of his power. Which is considerably more potent than even he probably realises.

Alexander is better at doing what he's told to - for better or for worse. In this case, doubly so, because it's nice to have something else to concentrate on. So, once he looks around to make sure that Ruiz is, in fact, following directions, he turns back to the prep work and follows each step with meticulous fidelity. From his furrowed brow, he's clearly memorizing the instructions and the feel of doing them so that he can do it again at some point. He's nowhere near as comfortable or competent with a whisk as he is with a knife, but he counts the seconds and gets the job done.

Once the bowl has had all ingredients added, he glances back at Ruiz. "Has it always? Or did whatever took your power do that to you, too?"

It doesn't take long, in truth, for the man's nose to stop bleeding. By the time the sauce is heated up, and he's given a few more instructions - a pinch of oregano, some salt and pepper - the cold pack is removed. He dumps the ice in the sink and rinses out the cloth, sniffling a couple of times to clear his nose. It's a minute before he speaks again. "The latter, I think. I don't.." A shake of his head. "We don't need to discuss this. Querías que te enseñara a cocinar. I'm sorry for mentioning it." The mind link, he probably means.

Alexander sighs. "Stop that." He sniffs the bottle of oregano and makes a pleased sound. "I think I grow some of this." A nod to his little indoor garden - and, indeed, there are a couple of small grocery store herb pots that contain oregano. "You are teaching me to cook. Even if it was just a way to get at other things you wanted." There's no condemnation in the observation. Then there's a long pause. "Or. Do you mean that you're sorry for touching my mind?"

He doesn't look at Ruiz as he asks the last question, instead busying himself with stirring the sauce that probably does not require any more stirring at all. He does add, after a moment, "You're not the only one, you know. Who wants to know things about someone. Or understand them. I want to understand you, too."

The oregano he picked up is fresh. Or reasonably so, anyway. The leaves are fragrant and slightly grassy smelling, and require mincing before adding to the casserole; he demonstrates how, with a large knife and what approximates a rocking motion with his hand. That done, he reaches for his forgotten glass of tequila, perhaps for some liquid courage when the other man persists in trying to discuss what just happened.

"No." He smiles, fleetingly; fine lines spider out from the corners of his eyes, and are slow to melt away again. "I'm not sorry for that." Another sip, and he watches Alexander stir the pot that doesn't need stirring. "Let it rest a few minutes," he instructs, sliding his tongue along his lower lip to catch a little liquor that tried to escape into his beard. No comment on what he wants to know, what he wants to understand. What he wants. He tips his glass back until it's empty, then leans over to snag the bottle and pour himself some more.

Alexander minces. Perhaps with a little more force than - no, definitely with more force than necessary. All of his agitation has not worked itself out yet, and the thock-thock-thock of the knife hitting the cheap cutting board is what fills the kitchen for a while. A bit of the tension leaves the hunch of his shoulders at Ruiz's answer, but he doesn't pursue it for the moment. He sets the tools aside when Ruiz directs him to do so. Instead of reaching for his own, barely touched, glass, he moves towards his garden, frowning at the oregano plants. The very tip of one leaf is pinched off, and he brings it up to his nose, then his mouth. Just confirming for himself what he suspected.

That done, he roams in the area, pretending to check the plants for mysterious plant needs, but clearly just using it to cover up his nervous pacing. Ruiz gets frequent, fleeting looks. Finally, he asks, in his halting, difficult Spanish, "Si te pidiera que me dijeras lo que perdiste, lo harías?"

The cop has half an eye on dinner, but seems more interested in his glass of tequila if truth be told. Appearances, of course, can deceive; Alexander himself is the recipient of a long look when he wanders off to putter around his little indoor garden. The agitation is noted, and either disregarded or simply set aside for the time being. He hunts down a casserole dish, or whatever most closely approximates one, while his erstwhile host is sniffing oregano leaves.

"Why does it matter to you?" A question for a question. As if, like some creature from beyond the looking glass, he's incapable of providing straight answers. And then, "I'll answer your question, if you tell me why you broke the connection. Algo te asustó, Alejandro." Perhaps he's unaware he used the Spanish form of the man's name; invoking it at all is rare enough for him.

"You're so frustrating," Alexander exclaims, his hands fluttering up in a quick gesture of agitation. "And Alejandro is Miss Whitehouse's doctor. Even if he goes by Alex, which is not his proper name, and it is part of my name, which since I'm older and local to the town, I had first. But I am Alexander, so he can keep the nickname. Nicknames are stupid." He seems to realize then that he is ranting, and not even about anything important. He runs one hand through his hair, messing it up further.

A casserole dish...or, well, a pyrex dish that will serve the purpose...is found in a lower cabinet fairly easily. It's about the only dish down there, after all, sitting next to a dusty cookie sheet and dented pizza dish. Alexander comes to stand in the kitchen again, frowning at Ruiz, his arms crossing over his chest. "Because we're f-- because I enjoy your company, and it's hurting you, and you shouldn't have to hurt alone." And it looks like, for a moment, that's the only answer Ruiz will get. Until his head comes down, and he stares fixedly at the cracked linoleum of the kitchen. "Of course I was scared, Javier. There are things I don't like to talk about. And things I like even less sharing, like that. Or in any way. I know that I'm not a good person, because a good person wouldn't do the things I've done. But not even I'm quite self-hating enough to want to dwell on it, or enjoy dredging it up for people."

Alexander's probably not the first person to note this. Is Ruiz amused? Maybe just a little. He tips his glass up, downing most of what remains while the other man gets pedantic about names, and prattles on about people he knows only passingly. And that, only by virtue of something scrawled in a file somewhere back at the precinct, and his affinity for details.

He waits for Alexander to finish ranting and rejoin him in the kitchen, then gestures to the casserole dish. "Sauce, then eggplant, then ricotta, then shredded cheese." The instruction is given obtusely as ever, dark eyes on the younger man while he watches the floor. "You can't seem to decide whether you did what you did, out of some misguided attempt to make things easier for me. Or whether you did it because you can't face what you have done." His glass is set down on the counter, empty, and nudged away with inked fingers. "A good person wouldn't do the things I've done, either." His brows furrow as his expression turns speculative, then smooth again.

"My wife, and my son. It was a long time ago." His voice is quiet, as if he's not entirely certain he wants to be heard.

"People can feel more than one thing at once, you know. Emotional complexity is not a crime." It's just this side of sullen, remaining exasperated by the skin of Alexander's teeth. He stalks back in, and starts pulling things together. It's not tidy, and he's still chewing on some of the more emotional aspects of this lesson, so he gets the layers mixed up, and now the lasagna has a bottom layer of cheese rather than sauce. He frowns at it, then just sighs, adds sauce, then eggplant planks, apparently deciding to try and lattice those rather than just lay them out like a sensible person.

It's something for his hands to do (badly), while he stares at Ruiz. A dozen emotions flit across his features, brief but each one fully expressed: an instinctive urge to reassure Ruiz, then doubt (possibly remembering the willingness to hurt from the man's mind), then surprise, then deep sorrow. That last one lingers. "I'm sorry," he says, equally quiet. "It doesn't matter how long ago it was. You still feel it and it still tears at everything inside of you. I'm sorry."

Distracted as he is with watching Alexander mis-assemble the dish, Ruiz perhaps misses some of that sullenness and exasperation written across the other man's face. Not that he doesn't feel it and taste it like it's a tangible thing. It's the boon and the curse of their ability; never to be alone with their emotions. Never any true peace, never complete silence. "You're doing it wrong," he decides to point out, like that's going to help matters.

"Stop apologising. I told you so you'd get off my back about it. Not because I need your sympathy." There's a twinge of something in his jaw when he says that. Hardened defenses, built up and fortified over the years. Impenetrable, though Alexander knows the truth of it now. The grief that consumes him from the inside out. "Put the dish in the oven when you're done. Thirty minutes."

Alexander stares at the assembled lasagna. "...you could have said that a few minutes ago, Javier." There's a snort, then, amusement and laughter at his own expense bubbling up through all the other emotions. "Well. It'll be edible."

The amusement flips in the next moment to a frustrated frown. "I'm not on your back about it. And I don't give a shit if you need my sympathy; you're my friend, it's fucking awful to lose people you love, and it doesn't make me like or respect you any less that it hurts you for that to happen. You don't have to be--" he just makes an agitated gesture, which seems to encompass all of Ruiz, "that. All the time." He puts the lasagna in the oven with a bang of pyrex on rack, then steps away.

Maybe Javier just gets some sort of twisted pleasure out of irritating Alexander. Winding him up, throwing him off his game. Whatever game that is. "What? I don't have to be what, Alexander?" He works to pronounce his name properly, even though his tongue doesn't want to cooperate fully. With the 'lasagna' in the oven, and the lesson ostensibly complete, he reaches for his ballcap and tugs it back on, making a small adjustment of the brim. He didn't bring a jacket, and it's started to rain; thankfully, it's not a long walk to his truck. "It was a mistake. To try this. It will not happen again. You can manage the rest, si?"

"You don't have to have all your defenses up all the time," Alexander mutters, back. He steps back, out of the way, when the man reaches for his ballcap, but his expression twists, utterly stricken, when Ruiz speaks further. "But why." His body bunches, like he might physically try to stop the other man from leaving until that question is answered, but he manages to rein it in. His jaw works a little. "I can manage the rest. Si. Whatever I did wrong, I can do better. If I'm given a chance." He's definitely not talking about the lasagna.

Ruiz is bigger, stronger, and almost certainly better trained; his physicality is like a finely honed blade just waiting for an excuse to cause harm. The tension in Alexander's frame is matched in his own, but instead of moving in to make the first move, he withdraws. Muscle coiled, shoulders hunched slightly like a stalking animal. "Thirty minutes," he repeats. "Don't let it burn. Te veré más tarde." He watches the other man for a few beats; the way his jaw works and his expression twists. There's something else he almost says, but what follows is merely a huff of breath through his nose. He turns and prowls for the door, and Luigi's given a wary look as he passes, and shoulders his way out.