2019-08-24 - Drink Drank Drunk

Out on his balcony, directly visible from the door Easton is indeed shirtless, smoking a cigarette in just a pair of workout shorts. The shorts mean that his black carbon fiber and steel prosthesis is clearly visible for once. He's seated in one of the two new patio chairs that Bennie finally managed to convince him to just buy already. A glass of something that could be water, but obviously isn't sits on a small side table next to him. His phone is in his non-smoking hand as he texts back and forth with Geoff or someone else, probably a lot of someone else's considering how drunk he is right now.

True to his text from earlier a bottle of Patron sits out on the kitchen island, conveniently between the door and balcony. There even is a glass out for it, but no ice or anything else. He's too drunk to be that good of a host at this point.

Assuming that the front door is open, Ruiz rolls right on in after a cursory knock to inform Easton that it's him. The off duty cop is dressed in a dark tee shirt and cargo pants, boots nudged off once he's inside the door. Same baseball cap on his head from the night before, he spots the other man out on the balcony and prowls on over after a momentary pause. The bottle of Patron is fetched on the way, a few fingers poured into the glass. Ice? Ice is an abomination, anyway. He takes it neat, downs a sip and steps outside to join Easton at the railing, eschewing for now the second chair. "Evening," he greets, voice low.

Situational awareness still dictates that Easton have an eye on the door and so he sees Ruiz's entrance even if he misses the knock. He puts the phone down and pulls the cigarette out of his lips to call "Gunny! Fuck yea!" at the man's entrance. Far too chipper and loud like his usual self Easton is the male Marine equivalent of a woo-girl at this stage of drunkness. Which is not to say that he's incapacitated or incapable of serious thought, just a little easily excited is all.

His own drink is in fact iced. Yes it water it down, no he doesn't seem to care. "Sorry about the other night. I should of realized I wasn't going to want to show my ass in front of customers or coworkers at the bar." Not his actual ass. Easton's hardly ever been shy about doing that. His metaphorical one.

Ruiz is about the polar opposite of Easton's chipper self. Laconic and almost lazy-seeming to those who don't know him well, he moves slow and tends to appear irritated with life. The greeting gains a fleeting smile in response, and his eyes slide over the shirtless man without even a lick of shyness. But the military pretty much drummed that out of them. "Nothing to apologise for. I shouldn't have pushed." He downs a gulp of tequila, makes a contented sound in his throat, and gestures with his glass. "Where's your girl?"

Easton's torso is a mix of scars, muscles, hair and random small tattoos. A pineapple on his side, a stack of flying money above his hip and a big old zombie bear on his shoulder that is currently hidden with his back against the chair. He doesn't think twice about the look, and frankly wouldn't feel any more or less dressed fully naked. His already low sense of modesty completely stamped out by his time in the Corps. "You weren't wrong. I said I wanted to talk. And then didn't." He doesn't sound terribly broken up about it, but still it's clear he doesn't want to waste people's time. He pulls in a deep lungful of smoke and exhales before explaining, "Ah, at job number three I believe." He tries to keep the comment casual, it's easier to think of Bennie as industrious versus buried under the weight of familial debts. He gets less angry that way.

"You stopping off upstairs after this?" Subject change!

The older marine takes his time in perusing all those scars and ink. They each tell a story, after all, even the bad ink. Which Easton seems to have plenty of. Ruiz's is a mish mash of old and new; some of the stuff on the back of his hand is of lower quality, though the sleeves are intricate, and clearly cost a pretty penny. Then there's the edges of some kind of script on his collarbone that his tee shirt might just dip low enough to reveal: semper fi. Fairly obvious why he got that one.

"Stopping off?" His brows knit, and he tips his glass back again, and swallows. "I've been staying there, for a few days. Sort of in between places at the moment." Small talk is not his forte. Or maybe he just doesn't have many opportunities to talk to someone who isn't trying to shoot him in the back or run him off the road.

Easton also has a Marine corps tattoo, but that gets back to the whole showing his ass conversation. It's only a matter of time though before Ruiz and everyone else hanging around Easton has seen that and everything else about his body. Especially now that he's getting less tweaked about having his fake leg visible. But as far as noticing the ink work, Easton makes note of it. Tattoo restrictions have changed in the Corps, but back when Ruiz was in those would have been allowed, even if they look newer than his presumed time in the service.

"Ah. Wasn't sure what that was." Easton shrugs, he's not prying and if it was just a hookup he didn't want to assume more. "She's fuckin' great by the way." He means it, but catches himself wondering if he's trying to vindicate himself by saying it out loud. He knows they're a lot alike, down to the ghosts that haunt them and the drinking that is on the wrong side of healthy. "Glad she and Bennie are teamed up." He clarifies or tries to.

After stubbing out the cigarette though he gets down to it.

"So. How did you transition out? How ... " He wants to ask for advice from the Gunnery Sergeant, unwittingly looking for yet another source of strength he'd gotten accustom to. Then he had to at least try to maintain composure and correct behavior. Now, those boundaries and rules that hedged him in and gave him such clear direction are lifted.

"How the fuck do I do this?"

Of course he does. Ruiz would be shocked if he didn't have some ink from his time in the Corps. He keeps his lean against the railing, and looks out over the water with the air of someone who doesn't get to do this often. This apartment? Way out of his price range, even as a captain in the force. "She is." Fucking great. As to what that was, "I think it's called dating." A smile accompanies that admission, and he's lost in some memory or another for a few seconds. "Si. Miss Oakes seems to be good for her.

Then the change in subject, and Ruiz digs out his own pack of smokes and lights one up. "How did I transition out? Of the service? I don't know if I'm the best person for you to be talking to. I mustered out due to.. personal circumstances. It wasn't pretty."

"Yea, I'm apparently giving that a shot." The dating thing. After an extended period of doing things that might constitute dating if done with the same person more than once and there was any 'calling back' involved, there was not.

Easton gives a 'huh' at the unexpected revelation. It obviously takes him a moment to process that. Somehow he hadn't considered that most Gunny's are lifers. He assumed Ruiz had just been in long enough to retire and move on to the police to get double pensions. It's not terribly uncommon. "Okay. But after. Did you go from combat back to this? Did you do something else in between? Drill? Or admin?" Drugs? No, he doesn't ask that yet. He might get there though.

He's not as concerned about why Ruiz left the force as much as how he was able to do anything functional after. Granted he's making wild assumptions about the fact that Ruiz is a police captain meaning that he's functional.

"I could have stayed in. Rehabed. Rode a desk or shit some guys have even re-qualified for active duty." He shakes his head and says, "But I was sure I wanted out. I was done. I was just going to pack it in and do whatever the fuck middle America does. Too bad I can't convince my head I'm not in combat anymore."

Ruiz furrows his brows at the questions that start to come, rapid fire, on the heels of his admission about mustering out. He downs another sip of tequila, because hell, it calms his nerves a little. "No. I took a few years off." Drugs? Looking at the man? Probably. Faded track marks along the inside of his forearms, if one looks really carefully.

"You could've stayed. So why didn't you? Just seemed like time to move on, or?" Did something happen, is the subtext there.

After rattling off his question Easton apparently needs a cigarette to regroup. Picking up the pack from the side table, he glances at his phone but leaves it be for now. One eyebrow raises at took a few years off, a purposely vague phrase. It's dark enough outside on the balcony that he can't make out any scars lining the man's inner arms. But he certainly has ideas about what taking a few years off might mean.

"I couldn't." It really was that simple at the time. "When I got blown up and lost the leg, I also lost a buddy. He was driving. He died at the scene." Easton exhales a long plume of smoke over his shoulder and then adds some more details.

"But" he doesn't mean to pause dramatically, it's just the next part is a doozy and he's trying to get the words right.

"I saw him. When I woke up in the hospital room, there he was, looking perfectly fit. No burnt, melted face. Just Tom." Aw, that's great, right? " So when I found out he was actually dead, I thought I had lost it. Just cracked. And wasn't any use to the corps or much fucking else."

"You saw combat?" It's not something he specifically asked before, and generally doesn't, but it feels important to drunk Easton to know he's talking to the right person.

Ruiz isn't much of a talker, but he seems perfectly content to listen while Easton unpacks a few things around his buddy, and the IED that took him out along with his own leg. The older man's gaze flits over when it's mentioned, and lingers on the prosthetic for a few moments before tracing back out to the water. Cigarette touched to his lips, smoke sifted out his nose and mouth while he thinks on that. "So your dead buddy turned back up as a ghost," he summarises in a low murmur, without so much as batting an eyelash. There's something else he wants to say there, but he stows it for now as Easton goes on.

"Yes. I saw combat. That's one way of putting it." Saw combat. Like he was kind of standing off to the side, and hey, how about that. "I lost a lot of friends in Afghanistan. Do they have you seeing someone, to, uh. To help figure this out?" He means a counselor, probably.

"Yup. So at least I've figured out that ghosts are a thing, and so I'm not quite as fucked in the head as I thought." At least not quite, it's a start. He pulls on the cigarette and lets it curl out his nostrils.

Saw combat it is a weird phrase, but it's still how he talks about it, even after enduring it. He nods solemnly about losing a lot of friends.

"I checked myself out of the VA therapy program. It didn't agree with me." He tries not to sound bitter about just how little support or help he found there. "I tried seeing someone local. It was ... okay. Is that what you did? Or did you just get the fuck on with it?"

The ghosts are a thing comment gains some amusement from the captain, and he chuckles low as he ashes out his cigarette over the railing. "Si. So it seems." A beat. "Sutton has one, too." A ghost? He doesn't qualify it.

And, "I don't fucking blame you. For checking yourself out. I tried it, too, and it.." He makes a bit of a sound in his throat. Grumbly, irritated. Eventually he pushes off the railing and sinks into the chair beside Easton, knees splaying apart, shoulders slouched. "No. I decided I was done with that shit, after trying it once." He glances over at the characterisation of get the fuck on with it, and huffs softly. "I'm guessing that's not working out so well for you, though." And possibly not so much for himself, either. But the tough guy code kind of makes that a hard thing to say, so he doesn't.

Easton shakes his head at the chuckling, glad someone else also still can laugh at the ridiculousness of some of the things they say to one another in this town. "I know. She mentioned him." He doesn't elaborate either.

Soft laughter forces smoke out of his mouth in uneven waves as Ruiz growls about his time in VA therapy. "I made it twice. Right up until he said something dumb about focusing on the living and I lost it. Just lost my shit, didn't go back."

I'm guessing that's not working out so well for you

Easton turns to face Ruiz with a blank look. "Do you think I'd actually ask someone to talk if I thought I was going to be able to sort this out myself?" There's no bite in the challenge, just a rhetorical statement of the obvious.

"You got any tips? Any world weary wisdom to lay on me Old Man?" The nickname usually reserved for the oldest Marine in the unit is not exactly flattering, but usually affectionate, like most names amongst Marines.

Flattering? Marines don't flatter each other. Flattery, if anything, is something to be viewed with suspicion, at least where Ruiz is concerned. He actually gives a laugh at the nickname, and tips his glass back for another swallow of the tequila. "Focus on the living. What a fucking joke." Amusement, yes, but it's seared in grief. "No," he answers the question, rhetorical or not. "No, I guess not." He's quiet for a while though, cogitating on the last thing said. And what this conversation seems to keep looping back around to. He takes another sip of his drink. Then another, and rests the glass on his thigh as he thinks some more.

"Drinking. And fucking. An awful lot of fucking. No call backs was my rule. No names, if I could manage it. My point is, I don't suggest following my example." He doesn't say anything about Sutton getting him on the straight and narrow. If indeed she has. He finishes off his drink, chases it with a pull of his smoke, and nods toward the apartment proper. "I'm going to get a refresh. Fetch you anything?"

Easton raises his nearly empty glass toasts to the terrible advice with a mirthful shake of his head.

"Yea, see? I knew you knew what I was talking about." The 'advice' is met with a short bark of laughter. "I spent the last year, soon as my leg was good enough trying to fuck this away. I'm still drinking way the hell too much." He almost mentions losing count, but knows it would just sound like he's blacking out or terrible at math. He's not. "I mean I've replaced the anonymous one night stands with anything with two legs with just Bennie." It's not a particularly positive light to cast on the relationship and probably a little unfair to the progress he's made but he's drunk and wallowing.

"But yea. I've tried it. And a shit ton of pharmaceuticals." There's a side-eye there of how much he tells a police captain about that. He's not that drunk. "Didn't help."

"Yea, I'll take another if you don't mind." He hands Ruiz the glass and leans his head back on the chair to savor the last few drags of his cigarette.

It really is truly terrible advice. The laughter is met with a smile, and a chortle from the Mexican as he finishes off his smoke, and puts it out on the edge of the railing. "How are things with you and Bennie?" he wonders, reaching for Easton's glass as he turns. He doesn't wait around for the man's reply; the place isn't so big that he can't hear him from the kitchen, and Easton clearly knows how to raise his voice. The pharmaceuticals he simply does not comment on. The not being drunk enough probably goes both ways.

"It is the closest thing to a functional relationship I've ever had." Easton announces over his shoulder as Ruiz walks inside. The balcony doors are hardly ever shut in his apartment when he's home and the idea of needing air conditioning in what passes for 'heat' here is laughable to him still. "And that includes the time I was engaged." For a half second he's tempted to dangle the thread about her being blackmailed by her father's debt collectors, talk about it as a matter for the police. But that passes. In case he needs deniability later.

"What about you and Sutton? This just a casual thing? Or did you also get bored with using your filthy Mexican tongue to sweet talk the pants off of a new lady each night?"

The comment about functional relationships garners even more amusement from the cop. And perhaps a touch of envy, though it's subtle. He ambles back inside with both glasses, and bellies up to the kitchen counter to pour them each a fresh drink. His voice doesn't lend itself as well to being raised, on account of its scratchy, smoke-roughened quality, but he manages well enough.

"She's like a little ray of sunshine. Hot, too. I don't doubt she makes you happy. Being engaged didn't work out for you?" As for Sutton, "I don't know what the fuck we are."

"Yup!" Easton readily and loudly agrees to all of those statements about Bennie.

"That relationship was a dumpster fire of good initiative, bad judgement, and two naive as shit people." He shakes his head and says, "Though I probably could have broken it off in a more civil way than fucking a rehab nurse when I knew she was coming to visit. Though I did try to use my words first."

"Yea well, are you happy?"

Drinks obtained, Ruiz wanders back out while sipping his own. Easton's is handed over, and he'll wait for the man to snag it before he reclaims his seat beside him. "I've wound up with a dumpster fire or two," he murmurs, settling in gingerly like those bullet wounds are still bothering him. Which they obviously are.

A quick flash of amusement at the anecdote about the nurse. He sips, scratches at his beard absently, and kind of half studies the younger man. "I don't know if happy's the right word. She's.." Well, what is she? "My ex-partner's twin sister." The dead ex-partner's, that is. The one haunting her apartment. "Promised I'd keep an eye on her. He was pretty explicit about not fucking her. But if you've seen her, you can probably understand how that became a problem."

"Thank you." He accepts the drink and takes a swig of the straight booze and doesn't wince even the slightest.

"Oh." Easton's eyebrows raise a little at the first, and then even more at the second part. "Oh shit."

"He's gonna fuckin' haunt your ass." It is not in anyway the supportive thing to say but it cracks Easton up and he has to lean forward to set his drink down to stop from spilling it. He then forces himself to not laugh so hard and says, "Sorry, that's probably not funny." But he's laughing even when saying that so, the effect is probably diminished.

"I'd be so screwed if Bennie's brother had told me to stay away. I mean not that I knew the guy. But, it wouldn't have mattered."

Yeah. Oh shit. Ruiz grunts something at the entirely unhelpful commentary, and downs another slug of his drink. He's definitely not a sipper; the man can really plow through alcohol. "It's been weeks since he's said a word to me," he murmurs, eyes on the water rather than the man next to him, now. "I don't know if that means he's fucked off, or.." Or worse: ignoring him.

He looks bemused at how funny Easton finds this, but can't quite bring himself to laugh along. Maybe he's not quite drunk enough for that. "I hadn't planned on.. this. I mean, I've wanted her since the minute I met her. But this.. dating.. thing? She's fucking insufferable in all the right ways." Easton may or may not be eagle eyed enough to notice that his wrists look rubbed a bit raw tonight. Layer or two of skin scraped right off. He doesn't bring any attention to it, though. "I'm sorry I'm not much help," he admits after a long moment.

"Yea, well if it helps I'm pretty damn sure ghosts aren't the actual spirits of the dead." Easton's head rolls to the side on the back of the chair to face Ruiz, having managed to get over his giggles at the situation. "I don't think it works like that. I think they're our memories, poured into the shape of dead people." He nods at his own sage theory, based on a sample size of one and adds, "To fuck with us."

Easton cracks a smile as he calls Sutton the right kind of insufferable, "Yea well, you're probably a box full of sunshine." If Easton recognizes the handcuff marks he doesn't say anything about them, though he does find it interesting that they're on his wrists, not hers ... at least that he knows about.

"Nope!" Easton seems pretty chipper about Ruiz not being a help. "But now I have an excuse to call you in the middle of the night to talk about my feelings. You agreed to it. Awfully nice of you." He punctuates that with a gulp of his drink before going quiet for a moment.

"Honestly though, this does help."