2019-08-19 - May You Turn Into A Chandelier

The day was a hot one, as has been the trend lately. Blue skies chased with scattered clouds, and the kind of mugginess that carries with it the promise of rain. Which comes to fruition just as the sun starts to dip low on the horizon; pitter patter plink plink as the clouds orchestrate those first, scattered beginnings of what's surely going to be a downpour.

A customer rolls in right about then; ten minutes till closing. Black muscle car, Charger; bull bars mounted on the front, black rims, rough purr of the engine as it slides just under the lip of cover and parks, and the ignition's killed. The guy who climbs out is dressed casual; tee shirt and jeans and leather jacket, doesn't seem to give much of a shit that it's raining as he ambles about to hunt for some sign of an employee.

Ten minutes till closing, the bay doors are open, lights are on, only one car is visible, parked on the street instead of the somewhat muddy dirt parking lot. That car's a doozy, though, a Stingray in deep plum.

The lone employee/owner appears in one of the empty garage bays upon hearing the growl of the Charger. He's tall and lanky and got a hell of a nose on him. This is the guy from the night Alexander decided drinking lighter fluid was a good plan.

"Sweet ride," he says, attention split between Ruiz and the car., eyeing them both. "De la Vega, right?" Like he's ever going to forget.

The off duty cop is eyeing up that stingray when Itzhak materialises, tonguetip run along his lower lip while he appraises the thing like the chocolate fountain at a buffet. His attention's diverted by the voice behind him. And then the nose. And finally his eyes. What he offers was probably intended to be a smile; and it even begins pleasantly enough, but quickly turns wolfish. Dark eyes a little squinty, slanted at the corners as he sizes up the man like he sized up his car.

"Si. That's right." He drifts in closer, hands in the pockets of his jacket. Sliver of ink visible under the neckline of his tee shirt, though the rest is buried under layers of clothing today. "Itzhak Rosencrantz." It's not a question. He scratches at his nose, and nods to one of the rolled-up bay doors. "Your shop serviced a.." He extracts his hand, and digs in an inside pocket of his jacket before withdrawing a folded bit of paper. It's opened up, turned around, held out. "Red Mercedes. About a month ago. Loose fuel cap. Oxygen sensor. Spark plugs." His accent isn't from around here, but it's pretty clear he isn't, either.

"Too much to hope this was a friendly visit," Itzhak mutters, sour. He looks away from that wolfish expression, sniffs, shoulders going tight. His gray tank top reveals allllll kinds of ink, the most spectacular being the sleeve of pomegranates and olive branches twining around his left arm, shoulder to wrist. And of course, there's those knuckle tatts. STAY DOWN.

He takes the paper, although he's already grumbling, "Yeah. Whaddaboudit?" His accent's classic New York, up-and-down with Yiddish influence.

Seems de la Vega's having precisely the effect on Itzhak that he wanted, going by the amused look that darts through his dark eyes. They glint almost grey in this light, and owing to the sun they've been getting - and his naturally swarthy skin tone - he's likely a fair bit darker than the Jewish fellow. A few inches shorter, too, though with none of the other man's lanky leanness; his is all mean, corded bulk, a shithouse made of brick.

"I'm looking for the owner. Name, where they might have been headed. Where they came from. Any chit chat you remember. Anything at all." His eyes are on Itzhak's ink while he speaks, taking it in a piece at a time; the words on his knuckles, once he makes them out, cause him to smile slightly. The back of his right hand, and up to the first knuckle on each finger are inked as well. Symbols and letters: a fish, something geometric and intricate. 'K', 'E', 'W'. A couple that look like, and possibly are, gang related.

They're cut from the same cloth, these boys, but landed on opposite sides of the thin blue line.

Itzhak pulls a face, hands the paper back. He's giving Ruiz that side-eye again, looking him over without going face-on to him. Shifty as hell. "Old couple. Think they said they were visiting their kid at the college. I dunno, they were yakkin' at me but I wasn't listening."

Might be they'd have been buddies in another life, another town. Not this one. Not today.

The printout is accepted back, refolded and tucked into his pocket without Ruiz taking his eyes off the other man. Not even once. "Right," he offers, low. Prowls in a bit closer, right into Itzhak's personal space. Too close. "You're sure about that?" He's trying to catch his eye now, chin lifted to account for the height difference, and oh look; that's a gun holstered under his jacket. Sig Sauer P220. Nasty motherfucker.

There was, just for a moment there, a scent in the air like the moment before a thunderstorm; the air charged with static and thick with high pressure convection. Just for a split second, if Itzhak is sensitive to the workings of glimmer.

Itzhak's lip curls into a silent snarl. Otherwise, he holds still, letting Ruiz get up in his business, his entire long frame tensing like a wire. Now he locks eyes with him, and the snarl transforms into a nasty smirk. "You want a kiss, you could just ask. Hot guy like you, how could I refuse?"

He shivers, because yes indeed he caught that. "You got the song too."

The rain intensifies while they have their little standoff. Low thrum on the roof of the garage, the hot, thirsty asphalt.

"Si quisiera un beso, no lo pedirķa." His tonguetip touches his upper teeth. "Yo tomarķa." Then he cracks a dimpled grin when Itzhak meets his eyes. This close, he smells like cigarette smoke. Pall Malls. Leather and cordite, and something citrusy, faintly bitter. "Different from you. But yes." A beat. "You think of anything else. You let me know." He reaches inside his jacket like he's going to go for that gun, but it's just a business card. Scissored between index and middle finger: Captain J. R. de la Vega, GHPD.

Itzhak's eyebrows slowly elevate up his forehead. His hazel eyes, strongly striated with green and brown and gray, grow more intense. "Yeah?" he murmurs. "Then you're just my type." If Ruiz isn't backing off, he isn't backing off--but his left hand twitches, hard, when Ruiz reaches into his jacket. He manages to not do anything, anything, else, until the business card is produced. Then he takes it, delicately plucking it out from between Ruiz's fingers.

Playing with fire...but in this case, playing with electricity-infused cop.

His heartbeat is drumming briskly against his sternum, shaking his ribcage minutely. "I'll let you know," he promises in a whisper.

The Mexican is just asshole enough to hold that card where Itzhak will have to reeeeeach in to retrieve it, a few inches away from his face. And when he does? There's a rustle of movement, and his hand closes around the lanky guy's wrist. Quick as you please, rough grip slid along muscle and bone, inked fingers on inked skin. A little twist to try to jack his shoulder a little. "Am I now." He's still smiling, but there's nothing. Nothing pleasant about it. It's all canines and dark, slanted eyes; he's no townie, or anything remotely related to one. His ancestors are murdering conquistadors and Cuauhocelotl, and perhaps this apple doesn't fall so far from the tree.

He leans in, and pitches his voice near the other man's ear. Almost touching, but not quite. "Don't fuck with me, Rosencrantz. I know what you're doing here. I know who you're doing it for. And I don't fucking like him, either."

Itzhak grunts in pain, shoulder twisting up just the way Ruiz wants it. "Fuck!"

He's tougher than he looks, though, like a thin strip of rawhide. If Ruiz's ancestors are bloodthirsty conquerors, Itzhak's are the most durable of survivors. He doesn't fight it, although his mouth twists and his pupils dilate, easily visible in his light-colored eyes. He bares his teeth, grinning back without humor, allowing Ruiz to rough him up.

"You don't like him? That makes two of us, asshole."

It's probably a good thing he isn't on duty right now. Isn't here in any official capacity, much as the blunt-nosed, unmarked cruiser screams otherwise.

He might like the feeling of having Itzhak at his mercy. Or he might just be playing a little game, seeing how far he can push. Poking, prodding for where the man's boundaries are, because it's obvious he's allowing this. There's no denying, though, that the response gains a visceral reaction from him, like a dyed in the wool predator.

"I don't like him." He keeps his eyes on Itzhak's; the arm's released after a beat. "I don't know what I think about you, yet. Though Clayton seems to think you deserve a chance."

Itzhak hastily steps back once Ruiz lets him go, rotating his shoulder to make sure it's still in its socket. His eyes are on him, hard and furious and refusing to be baited.

Except for that part about not liking 'him' either. Mysterious, why he said that. Maybe he thought he still had plausible deniability. Maybe not.

When Ruiz mentions Alexander, Itzhak's expression changes subtly, too subtle to read. "He's a good guy." He jerks his chin in Ruiz's direction. "You're friends with him. Right?"

Too subtle to read visually, maybe, though the cop's a mentalist; and surely, he has some sense of what emotions that name brings up by now. "He is," is offered easily enough in agreement. A good guy. Friends? That doesn't quite gain a response. He isn't, though, going to be the first one to look away. Like two dogs circling each other; one lean and hungry, the other older, which might just have made him meaner.

"Next time. Maybe a friendly visit. Ya veremos." He jerks his chin toward the Charger, without taking his dark eyes off Itzhak's. "The repair shop we use at the precinct has not been doing good work lately. I might have you take a look at my cruiser. It's been idling badly."

Itzhak's emotions, what Ruiz can taste of them, are complex, ever-churning things. Like the ocean after a storm, with weird fish from the crushing depths and great gouts of kelp swirling around under the glassy-still surface. Alexander makes a little glissando ripple, a tiny singing thing.

He doesn't look away, either, although he's starting to squint funny, like Ruiz is a glaring bright light he's required to stare at. "Well. We wouldn't want ya wasting the taxpayers' money on poor fuel efficiency. You know where I am."

"I know where you are." Nothing particularly friendly about that, though at least the aggression's been dialed down a notch. He lingers a moment, perhaps curious where the other man's emotions are concerned. The shape of them, the taste; that tenuous, silvery ripple that slips through the churn like a filament of light. The cop's emotions, of course, are kept tight under lock and key. There's the prickliness, the way of moving and speaking that suggests a military background. But little else that hints at the man beneath the facade.

"You have a good night, Rosencrantz. Permanecer seco." He shoves his hands back into his jacket's pockets, sways two steps backward, then turns and prowls for his car. The rain hits him sideways as he climbs in, slams the door, and keys the ignition with a warm, throaty purr of the engine coming to life. All 8 cylinders of that HEMI monstrosity. He backs out with a brief skid of tires on wet pavement, then swerves to the right mid-reverse, kicks the car back into gear and guns it out of there.

Sharks are down there too. Big ones. Itzhak's baring gritted teeth again, like he wishes he had their jaws.

He struggles not to sigh audibly when Ruiz looks away from him, fucking finally. He doesn't bother replying, just claps a hand over his eyes and stands there, panting, in the long soft afternoon light. He's still like that as Ruiz's car roars away.

"And may you turn into a chandelier, so you can burn by night and hang by day." Itzhak lowers his hand, staring after the car without any friendliness himself.

He stalks back into the garage. It's a good thing he rigged up a heavy bag, because it's about to get the workout of its life, and every punch is going to be named de la Vega.