2019-09-06 - Like A Fucking Onion

There's no telling how long Cristobal's been sitting on a bench in the park, but there is a growing amount of sunflower shells at his feet and a dwindling packet sitting on the seat next to him. It's a bench that's tucked between two trees, their outstretched branches filtering the light from a lamp post and casting odd shadows across his face that dance with the breeze. From here he can see the hospital and the building that houses both the PD and FD. All in all, it's not the best view the park has to offer, but this is the one he's chosen for some reason.

And so he cracks seeds. He chews. He spits. And he watches.

People come and go occasionally, either headed into the hospital or out. An elderly couple, a girl in a wheelchair. One of the ambulances peels out at some point with lights but no sirens, headed for parts unknown.

And a distracted-looking police captain, dressed in a very un-captain like fashion: a dark tee shirt whose lettering has faded to an illegible scrawl, left untucked over dark BDU-style pants and scuffed combat boots. He's pulling a ballcap over his head as he steps out into the fading daylight, head tipped down, expression agitated as he marks a path toward the blue Chevy truck parked halfway across the lot.

There is a sharp whistle from where Cristobal sits on the bench, his forefinger and thumb pressed between his lips to make the noise trill enough to carry. No, he can't be arsed to get up and go intercept Ruiz on his traipse to his truck, he'll just try to get his attention instead.

"Who ya visiting?" Comes the dispassionate voice, as if he actually doesn't care about the answer. Yet, why was it asked and why was Ruiz' attention attempted to be gained if Cristobal didn't have any interest?

Ruiz's steps slow as that shrill whistle cuts through his introspection and yanks his gaze upward. He spots the guy lounging on a park bench, sunflower seeds scattered on the ground in front of him, and irritation flickers across his face. It's probably safe to say he's not in the best of moods to begin with. His languid prowl concludes a few feet away from the younger man, hands still stuffed in his pants pockets, dark eyes squinted slightly under the brim of his cap as the diffuse sunlight hits him askew. "Sabes, eso no es asunto tuyo." His eyes flick to the hospital doors, then back to Cristobal. "You be careful you don't get picked up for loitering, mi amigo."

"Hey mister, just making polite conversation." Cristobal throws out both his arms to the side to drape across the back of the bench, his spine slinking down slightly to make looking up at Ruiz from his leisurely sprawl less of a neck-bender. "Isn't that what parks are for? Loitering? I mean, why else would they install a perfectly good bench here, if it wasn't meant to be sat on. "Sorry about your friend. Shame that." But it could just be a stab in the dark (no pun intended), a fishing expedition so to speak.

The cop's expression doesn't change at the assertion of polite conversation. "No, you're fucking not." He doesn't comment on the installation and positioning of park benches. If he wanted to pick Cris up for loitering, he very likely could. Wouldn't hold up in court, but it'd be annoying as fuck. "Nice try," he retorts to the 'condolences' offered. There's a nod toward the pile of sunflower seed shells. "Don't make me write you up for littering, too."

With a serpentine motion of his spine, Cris is popping himself off the bench. "Don't worry, Ossifer. I'll clean it up before I leave. Or maybe it was from the little old lady that was sitting here before me, feeding the pigeons and squirrels. You gonna write her up too? Or do you just like to pick on poor little Cristobal?" The question is asked as he ducks his head a little with a demure affect to his voice and a hand that extends to try and tick a finger off the bill of his hat.

Of course he's picking on poor little Cristobal. Because the guy is a thorn in his side that he can't seem to rid himself of. "Te aseguras de que lo haces," proffers the older man, completely ignoring the comment about some little old lady that may or may not exist. He's even about to turn and walk away, and wash his hands of the whole thing, when Cris leans in to flick at the brim of his cap. His retaliation is lightning fast, pure muscle memory and reflex; he tries to snag the guy's wrist and crank his arm up behind his back to force his shoulder into an unnatural position. His grip isn't too solid though, and he doesn't quite get Cris's joint locked, leaving him open for a counter.

Cris tenses the moment a hand snaps on to his wrist, his muscles flexing so that Ruiz doesn't get the purchase he wants and they end up in a stand still of strength straining against strength. He uses that moment to make sure he has complete eye contact with the Captain, "Eso no fue agradable." There is a cluck of his tongue as his leg juts between Ruiz', meaning to hook one of the officer's and draw it out from beneath him.

Ruiz is pretty strong, for a guy past his prime. His teeth grit as the muscle in his bicep and forearm coils under a slither of ink, fighting against the incipient attempt on Cris's part to unbalance him. The foot worked between his legs doesn't manage to take down the cop, perhaps on account of his size alone; he's probably bigger than the bouncer by ten or twenty odd pounds, and his hand fists in Cris's shirt with a scrape of blunted nails to try to shove him away. Ineffectually. "Ese era yo siendo amable. Ahora vete a la mierda."

"Tut tut. We'll have to work on your definition of nice." Cristobal remains locked with de la Vega, neither giving an inch nor being able to take one besides a minor jostling back and forth. His nostrils flare with slight irritation, breath coming out in a puff. "Mira ahora estamos bailando." And then he starts to hum some Tejano tune as he grabs a similar grasp of Ruiz' tee.

Turns out they're both stubborn sons of bitches, and no stranger to the fundamental rule of keep the upper hand at all times. The snarly Mexican, well, snarls at Cris at all the jostling, knuckles driving into the other man's clavicle while the other goes for his throat like the dirty street fighter he is. "Eres un lunático," he growls as the humming begins, then attempts once more to shove the bouncer off him and backwards across the bench.

"!La cordura es aburrida!" Cristobal laughs airily, and as Ruiz attempts to shove him off and backwards, he finally gains the smallest bit of an upper hand in the situation and with his leg still positioned between Ruiz', he uses the momentum of the shove to hip pivot, looking to do to Javier what Javier meant to do to Cristobal, that being fling him back towards the bench. Not that he'll leave a lot of space between them because he's following right after in the same trajectory. Apparently the dance isn't finished yet.

It's the second time in as many altercations with the man, that Ruiz has allowed him to gain the upper hand. Maybe he's just getting old and slow; whatever the case, it seems to only add fuel to his agitation as he goes crashing into the bench with a CLANG as the iron armrest collides with his ribs. "A la verga," he snarls, and instead of trying to push Cris off of him this time, he attempts to keep his hands bunched in the bouncer's shirt, and drive his knee up and into his junk when he follows him down.

A fighter protects his most delicate assets, which just happen to be the family jewels. Cristobal twists his hips at the last moment, absorbing the knee into the side of his thigh. It's enough to give him a bit of a Charlie horse, and he just ends up flopping down on the bench next to Ruiz with a little kick up of his heels with the weight heavily dropping. "Why must we always fight?" The puff of his breath filtered through the wide grin of his teeth.

Ruiz's foot drops back down heavily, knees splaying apart, and a low groan surfacing in his throat as the pain from that intrusion into his kidney starts to surface through the adrenaline. He laughs, short and sharp, at the question from Cris, and lets his head drop back against the bench as he pants a few times. "Because you don't fucking back down." His head turns slightly, dark eyes seeking bright blue. "What the fuck is your problem, anyway?"

An arm reaches out sideways to paddle back and slap Ruiz in the chest, but this time it's almost in a show of some twisted camaraderie instead of an attack. "Neither do you, amigo, neither do you." His gaze only latches onto to Ruiz' for a brief moment before it ticks back out across to the buildings in the distance. He leans forward, knees lulling apart, to rest his elbows on the meat of his thighs. "Maybe I have a crush on you. Or maybe, just maybe. I don't have a problem at all. It's a small fucking town, we're bound to keep bumping into each other."

The cop is built pretty sturdily. Like a brick shithouse has been suggested once or twice. Normally, the slap across the chest would barely register, but he's still got some residual soreness from playing meatshield at Easton's bar that one time, and stifles a grunt of discomfort at the contact. He continues to watch the younger man's profile after he's turned away, and then redirects his own gaze to the distance, and adjusts his cap slightly from where it was knocked askew. "No te puedo creer," he murmurs, to the Maybe I don't have a problem at all. "Normal people ask to go for a coffee," he points out after a minute, amusement flickered at the corners of his mouth.

"Coffee doesn't get the blood pumping in quite the same way, amIright?" Cristobal's smile has turned to something a little less sardonic and might even be angling towards genuine as he risks another glance aside to Ruiz. He leans back slightly, if only to dig the heel of his palm into the place on his thigh where he caught that knee. "That was a good one. If I was your age, that might've made me limp." The tease light instead of jagged.

It's not lost on the other man, that glimpse of something approaching authenticity. That hint that Cris might actually have some decency buried under his caustic exterior. Ruiz chuckles again, low, and a little of the tension in his shoulders slithers away. Just a little of it. "It wasn't bad. Glad you can admit it." His teeth dig into his lower lip, and are briefly bared before he glances over at his benchmate again. "You actually kill a cop, then?" His eyes travel over Cris, slow. Down, then up again. His expression says that he's not so sure about that.

"You think if I killed a cop, I would have admitted that. To a cop." There's a little shake of Cris' head and he drags a hand down the lower half of his face, perhaps weighing the virtues of supplying the truth for once. He drags the webbing between forefinger and thumb over his lips and off the goatee on his chin. "Metaphorically. It was a metaphorical death. My own. That retiree badge is mine. Deep, right? I have many layers. Like a fucking onion."

Ruiz makes a sound like, well, you know, maybe, but probably not, but otherwise sits tight and waits for Cris to decide whether he wants to elaborate or not. By the time he does, the cranky Mexican's got his pack of smokes out and tapped one free. He hesitates before withdrawing a second, and passes it over with a look askance to the other man. "Mmhm." His cigarette is lit and dragged from. "Like a fucking onion." He sniffs. "Well, if you ever want to grab a coffee, or a beer or something, you let me know. If you'd rather fight.. well, I'm not going to make it easy for you." That's accompanied by a quick, wolfish grin.

"Gee, mister. You mean we can't do both?" This little cease fire between them seems tenuous, and perhaps that's why Cristobal eyes the offer for the cigarette with a little suspicion, but he eventually reaches across his body to pluck it up with his outside hand. "I mean, let's not go defining our relationship so soon but next time, maybe yeah, a beer. I prefer ice on my mug instead of my nuts at the end of the night." The last mumbled around the smoke in his lips as he fishes out his own lighter.

There's a chuckle from Ruiz, and he leans over to clap Cris's shoulder with the hand not occupied with his cigarette. "See? I knew you were capable of being civilised." Then he pulls to his feet and adjusts his cap again. "Tengo que ir. Te veré más tarde." Unless he's stopped, he begins trudging off toward his truck, parked in the lot bordering this section of greenery. "Pórtate bien."

There is a little grunt of injury as if taking 'civilized' as an insult. Cristobal does not in fact stop the good Captain from departing, nor does he look as if he's in any hurry to do so himself as he lounges back on the bench with his gifted smoke. "Not on your life!" He calls after the departing Ruiz, his smirk hidden by the curve of his hand as he takes another drag. "Hasta la bye bye!"