2019-09-11 - Plums and Tequila

It's some time later at the Clayton house. Enough time has passed for Alexander to change out of his wet clothes and dry his hair; he's now in a baggy sweatsuit with an Addington High School seal on the front of the shirt, and the gray fabric bunching up at the wrists and ankles, his hair sticking up in various odd ways as it's been dried. Isolde isn't here at the moment, although Alexander doesn't seem worried; perhaps she's staying at the lavender farm tonight. Luigi's cage is covered so the bird can get some sleep free from the odd, nocturnal habits of his humans and Alexander wasn't lying about the tequila - a bottle of it is sitting on the kitchen counter, along with two glasses.

Alexander himself is sprawled untidily on the worn couch, staring with a blank expression at the television, which is off. His phone is on the table in easy reach of his hand, but it's turned on silent for the time being as he just decompresses from the anxiety and anger. His forehead is red from his headbutt, and will probably bruise at least a little. Music is playing from the bedroom - for anyone else, it probably wouldn't be soothing, since it's Megadeth. But it works for him, and it's down low enough to not cause Luigi distress, so the neighbors aren't about to complain, either.

The rumble of an engine can be heard outside, a good minute before the sound of footsteps approaching the door and a quick knock. It's Elm, so the thing's probably locked. But he'll try it anyway. Visible through the window or peephole, middle aged Hispanic fellow, casually dressed, in a battered leather jacket and combat boots that've seen better days. Wet hair, faintly irritated look on his face.

It's locked. Alexander is no longer in the state where he wants to deal with anyone who might think that 13 Elm Street is a good place to rob. Although, honestly, Alexander has more to worry about with the local teenagers playing pranks and leaving nasty little gifts on the porch of 'Crazy Clayton' than he does robbery - maybe because he's more willing to put up with the petty cruelty of children than he is a determined invasion of his personal space. Either way, it doesn't take long for Alexander to rise from the couch and pad to the door, check the peephole, and open the door. In contrast to Ruiz, his own expression has a warm, if brief smile, with more pleasure in his eyes, and little sign of his earlier rage. "C'mon in. It's still raining out there?" A sigh. "Summer's going for sure. Want a drink? Or a plum? I haven't figured out what to do with those, yet."

Ruiz's expression shifts slightly once the door's opened. Some of the irritation bleeds away; it probably wasn't directed at Alexander. The neighbourhood, maybe. He's no beat cop any longer, but he probably still spends more time on this street than he has any desire to. "Still raining," he confirms with a wry twist of his lips. He does come in, hands in his pockets, big shoulders clearing the door sideways, dark eyes performing a habitual search of the living area, possibly for hidden invaders or booby traps. He takes three steps inside, and pauses. "Plums? Where'd you get plums from? Roen? Of course I'd like a drink." When doesn't he?

All's quiet on the Western Front. Or, at least in the Clayton living room. Aside from the music playing from the bedroom (now, Iron Maiden), that is. Alexander waves him to the couch, threadbare but clean, with Isolde's sleeping stuff put off to one side, including a large plush frog, which stares blankly at the cop. "Yeah. He just left a big box of vegetables - zucchini, tomatoes, plums, other stuff. I've been trying to practice. With mixed success." Which might be why there IS a faint, burnt smell in the air, under the usual light herbal fragrances from his own indoor garden. "But I don't think you can make anything with plums. Just eat them?" He heads into the kitchen, slouched and careful, still favoring his chest and the new bruises on his stomach a little. He pours two glasses of tequila...then finds a tray (actually a cookie sheet) and puts the glasses, the bottle, and several ripe, homegrown plums on them, coming back into the living room with the whole thing. A flick of his eyes to the other man, assessing. "You okay?"

By the time Alexander returns, his house guest has indeed availed himself of the threadbare couch. He tries not to disturb Isolde's blankets and pillows piled nearby, though he is engaged in a staredown with the frog, and thus initially misses the fact that, "You're using a cookie sheet as a tray." It's noted with a steady look that shifts, after a moment, to full-on amusement in the form of a dimpled grin. "Do you seriously not own any trays, Alexander?" He reaches for a plum, bites into it. "Fine," is mumbled around a mouthful of fruit, juice wiped off his chin with inked knuckles. Another bite. "This is pretty good. Are you?" Okay, he probably means.

"Microwaveable stuff comes in its own tray, or you put it on a plate," Alexander says, a bit defensively. That's a 'yes, seriously, he has no trays'. He settles himself on the other end of the couch and takes a plum for himself. "Yeah. August grows lots of things, I think." He takes a bite, then reaches for his glass of tequila. Takes a sip, tilts his head to one side, takes a bite, lets all mingle before he chews and swallows. He nods to himself. There's a self-mocking little smile as he glances back to Ruiz. "Am I ever?" Then, more seriously. "I'm fine. S--thank you. For," a wave of the glass. "Have you found a new place, yet? You were looking. I think."

"Mmhm." In other words, the cop isn't buying it. He's seated in his usual lazy, space-eating sprawl that takes up more room than it truly needs to. Knees spread apart, shoulders slouched into the cushions, he hasn't bothered to kick off his boots or shrug out of his jacket yet. Two more bites of the plum and it's gone, and the pit is tossed back onto the tray for want of somewhere else to put it. He reaches for the other glass. "I've got a couple of potentials, but one of them isn't built yet." He grunts something, takes a sip. "So we'll see how that goes." A flick of his eyes to the pile of blankets and pillows. "Is this a permanent.. arrangement, then?"

In contrast, Alexander is tucked back into the corner, even though it's his couch, like he could make himself disappear to stay out of the other man's way. But if his body language is excessively withdrawn, his stare is disconcertingly direct, like he's trying to stare through Ruiz's face into his brain. "Good luck with it. You want anything in particular? In a place?" A bit of wistfulness there, maybe, although he blinks at the question, looks at blankets. "No. I don't think so. Isolde's welcome here. It's nice. Having a friend around. But she needs a place that can be hers, when she's ready. It's important. Things of your own."

Ruiz doesn't seem to have a problem with the direct, soul-seeking stare. It's met pound for pound, dark eyes steady. Alexander knows what's behind them; he has some idea of the shape of his mind, and Javier likewise. Not that he isn't curious to know more; they're too much alike in this way. "Want anything.. in a place? Clean. Quiet." He sips his drink again, still watching Alexander. The wistfulness is picked up on, caught like a thread, and tugged on with a curious look in his softly furrowed brow. "Mm," he murmurs to the last. "Of course. I agree. It's nice of you to have given her a safe place, though. I met her briefly when she came through the precinct."

"Not the Bayside, then - although I imagine it's normally both of those things when there aren't murders and monsters. I'm honestly surprised Thorne hasn't just had a temper tantrum himself. Wouldn't blame him," Alexander says. He drinks the rest of his tequila. "Clean and quiet is nice, though." He peers curiously at Ruiz. "What happened with your other roomies. Miss Falco said she moved out." He glances at the bedding. "Did she? Why? It wasn't nice. She's a friend. Or was. In college. She disappeared. I thought she was dead. But she's not, and that was wonderful." He offers a smile, reaches over to refill his drink. "But she's dating Itzhak, and I'm...probably still dating Isabella? If she lets me. And that gets awkward. Only one bed." He has three bedrooms, but well, they're occupied.

A soft snort when the Bayside is mentioned. "That place is a little too rich for my blood." He's a captain in the force, he can probably find a way to afford it. Probably. So maybe it's the principle of the thing; he doesn't seem the sort of man to have grown up in, nor spent much time around that sort of opulence. The contents of his glass are polished off, and he holds his out for a refill as well. "Yes. She moved out." His gaze trails away from Alexander when Lex is mentioned. Clearly a story there, though he doesn't seem inclined to tell it. "Lucinda stole my mattress and vanished." He sighs. "Needless to say, I'm not looking to share this time around." Clearly he's blameless in whatever happened with his ex-roommates. Right? "Is she?" Dating Itzhak. This seems to amuse him, for some reason.

And a refill is provided. Alexander gives Ruiz a long look at the minimal answer, but he doesn't press. At least until the follow up. "Your mattress." He shouldn't laugh. He tries to hide it by raising his glass, but he's just not good at hiding things, and it just makes it into a watery, bubbly sort of laughter, his dark eyes merry. "Maybe there were happy memories there? Could be complimentary." Another quiet chuckle. "But. Yeah. It's nice to have a place to yourself." A nod to the mention of Isolde and Itzhak. His eyes slant sideways, studying Ruiz again, with that look on his face that suggests he wants to ask something, but hasn't quite worked up how to do it.

Noooope. He's definitely not touching that one, regarding the situation with Lex. Not that it's awfully hard to guess, at least vaguely, what might have happened there. "My mattress," he confirms, staring at Alexander when he tries to hide the fact that he's laughing. It's a beat before he, too, smiles, on the heels of the next thing said. Briefly, oh so briefly, there's actual warmth in his eyes. "There were definitely happy memories. I should find out how she's doing." Or, you know, where she is. He presses the tip of his tongue against the inside of his cheek a moment, then withdraws it, and drinks down about a quarter of the contents of his glass. "Spit it out," he murmurs, looking back up at the younger man.

"You should. People like that. Unless the last time they saw you, they were throwing things at your head. Then they like it less. In my experience." Alexander gives a little 'people are strange' sort of shrug, and drinks his tequila. The fact that he's not a liquor drinker normally is obvious in the way his cheeks are reddening, but he continues steadily through the glass. "You. What do you think about Itzhak. I like him. He's kind, and takes good care of his animals, and he has a lot of heart. He's a good guy."

Ruiz, himself, is looking slightly more at ease as the evening wears on and his glass is drained, and refilled yet again. Maybe tequila is his only way of settling enough to be human to other people, but he's actually smiling at Alexander's oddball commentary paired with the shrug. People are strange; he's not wrong. "I'm not sure why it matters what I think of him," he ventures first, a brow coming up slightly when the animals are mentioned. The good heart. "He seems like someone who's taken a few wrong turns in life." It might be an indictment, or it might not. His tone is maddeningly even; his eyes, a light-absorbing gunmental grey in the low light of the living room, that give away even less.

Likewise, as he drinks, Alexander also seems to relax from his almost permanent state of anxiety, but it makes him more chatty, in a distracted and amiable sort of way. He studies his glass, takes a drink, studies it again. "Of course it matters. I'm curious. And sure. Obviously. He's in Gray Harbor; wrong turn by default." That's dry with a hint of a smile that seems to apply to everyone in Gray Harbor. "You and he remind me a little of each other. Not entirely. But you're neither what you have decide the world will see you as - not entirely. Very protected. But kind under all the," a thoughtful pause, "armor."

Maybe Ruiz just likes to hear him say it. He is awfully pushy and controlling. Laughter at the comment about Gray Harbour and wrong turns. "You're not wrong," he offers, glass lingered at his mouth, then sipped from. "I'm not sure I understand the similarity," he grumbles. "He's a Jew from New York who fixes cars. And is decent at it, from what I've heard." And the cop is as close to Mexican trash as they come, a filthy kid from the barrio whose parents immigrated to America in search of an end to the gang violence. He's thoughtful for a moment, then gives his drink a swirl, and a flickered smile. "He's sweet on you, you know."

"He's a violinist, and plays beautifully." Alexander pauses, thinks about it. "Fiddler? Maybe he'd prefer fiddler. I don't know. It's pretty amazing either way," he says, with enthusiasm. "And you are much better read than one might expect from the charming but surly exterior." More enthusiasm there. Tipsy Alexander is enthusiastic about a lot of things, so he takes another drink. He's also enthusiastic about that, and about the refill he pours himself. Although his expression shades a little more conflicted at the last. "Yeah. He's got a beautiful mind. I can't. Right now." A wave vaguely towards the docks where Isabella's houseboat is. "He has a beautiful mind." He doesn't seem to realize he repeated it. Then his head tilts and he regards Ruiz with slightly narrowed eyes. Curiosity engaged. "You keep asking me what I want. What do you want, Javier? When it all comes down to it?"

Ruiz simply listens, and watches, and probably understands a fair bit more than he lets on, about the dynamic there. He's not blind, and he's not stupid. "You won't," he corrects. "Not can't. Won't. It's a decision. A choice." As to Itzhak's beautiful mind, well, he either doesn't have an opinion there, or he chooses not to give it. He hasn't had enough tequila for that. Laughter at the question posed to him. "No. Don't you try to turn this around on me. This is nothing to do with me. What do you want, Alexander?" He rests his elbow against the couch cushion, fist supporting the lean of his head, and gazes at the younger man steadily. Glass tipped back to drain it once more, the inebriation is starting to show in his eyes, and his easy smiles.

Alexander thinks about the correction, then shrugs and accepts it. "Yes. I choose not to. It'd hurt people I care about, and I'm probably going to do that anyway, but I'd like to put it off as long as possible and not do it in a way that makes me an egregious asshole if I can avoid it." He has to sound out egregious carefully. The question requires more tequila. "You always do that, you know," he says, as he pours another glass, offers to top off Ruiz's. "Deflect." Like he's not doing that right now. But he does circle around back to it, expression going blank. "I want to be a real person. I want things that know things about me to stop looking at me like I'm going to be the next Gohl. I want Gohl to stop looking at me like I understand what it's like to just want to kill things, even if I do." A longer pause. "I thought. Growing up, that I was just fucked up because I couldn't get people out of my head. But now, there are a lot of very successful people with the same issue. So, I'm pretty sure that I'm fucked up because I'm fucked up, and probably would be even if I didn't stand out at all. I want to...not be that." He shrugs, drinks, and gives Ruiz a lopsided smile. "But I don't get to have any of those things. So. Survival. I want to survive."

A tip of his glass to the cop. "Your turn," he sing songs.

There's a soft snort from the cop at the egregious asshole bit. Not that it was necessarily intended as a slight against him, but there does seem to be enough consensus that de la Vega is a prick of some calibre. He tosses back what's left of his drink and shrugs out of his jacket while Alexander waxes philosophical about what he wants, and when he gets to the end of it, Javier mutters, "That wasn't what I meant. And no, this isn't sharing day in kindergarten. It's not my fucking turn." Ok, he probably hasn't had enough tequila yet, after all. "Mas, por favor." His glass is held out between inked fingers, and given a waggle.

"What did you mean?" Alexander peers at him with curiosity. Then reaches for the bottle and pours him another drink, apparently not put off by the refusal to share, even if Alexander's return roll of the eyes suggests that yes, it was his turn. It's a healthy amount, and the bottle goes back on the tra--cookie tray. Alexander eyes the plums remaining there, then reaches for one. He grabs it and starts tearing it apart with his fingers, letting the juice and small pieces fall into his own tequila glass. He puts enough in there that each piece can get a good coating of alcohol, then puts the poor half-a-plum back on the tray and swirls the glass around with one hand, while absently licking the juice off his fingers.

Ruiz is silent as his drink's poured, dark eyes lifted to study Alexander's, then his gaze relinquished once his glass is filled again. He slouches back against the couch cushions a little more bonelessly now, and idly watches Alexander with the plums and the tequila and.. "What the fuck are you doing?" he murmurs with a warm, smoky laugh. "That's a great way to ruin a perfectly good glass of tequila." Not that he isn't curious about what tequila-soaked plum tastes like. Yoink as he leans in close to steal one, and eat it. "Mmf." Which is Javier-speak for, not bad. What did he mean? He does not elucidate.

"Experimentation, Javier," Alexander says, with no little relish. "If it's not good, well. There's more tequila." He peers at the bottle which is, to be honest, almost empty. "I have another bottle under the fridge." A pause. "No. The sink." He makes a noise as his plum strip is fiendishly stolen and mutters, "Civil asset forfeiture," under his breath. Then watches his face to see the results of his experiment. A bright smile at the noise, and he reaches in to grab a piece for himself, eating it in a bite. "Mm. I like this." He reaches for another piece, and looks back to Ruiz. "You didn't answer my question. Again. I'm just gonna keep asking questions, you know. Liiiike, why did you come to Gray Harbor? Drawn here by head fuckery?" He pops the piece in his mouth, quickly licks off the bit of tequila and lime juice that threatens to escape down his hand.

Really, it's not bad. So much so that the surly Mexican reaches in to snag another piece, drops it accidentally on the couch, and unhesitatingly re-snags it so he can pop it in his mouth. "Under the fridge," he repeats, and chortles. Which turns into an actual rolling belly laugh, rough-edged and warm and smoky sounding. His eyes are all squinted up, heavy crow's feet spidering out from the corners as he continues to shake with amusement and lick his fingers off. It's chased by a pull of his drink, and his head flopped back against the cushions, his hair damp enough still to leave a mark on the upholstery that'll fade before too long. "Work," he answers the question. "A promotion. I wasn't going to take it, but.." He sips again. "Algo sobre este lugar. Sabes a lo que me refiero."

"They're both appliances! Sort of. Hush. Don't laugh at me," Alexander complains, but it lacks the usual cringing bite with which he regards any trace of mockery. Instead, he watches the Captain laugh with his expressive features open with delight. He grins and chuckles a little on his own as he snags another piece and slips it into his mouth, listening intently all the while. "Mm. Yeah. Hooks you in. I wonder why." A brief furrow of his brow, but less metaphysical concerns move him at the moment and he tilts his head to one side. "Town gossip says that when Thatchery retires you might be offered the job. Do you want it?" His voice turns rueful, "Gossip suggests you do at least half of it now."

"A sink is not an appliance, mi amigo," Ruiz replies somewhat sardonically, chortling some more at the absurdity of it all. His speech is starting to slur a touch, words drifting and blending together, accent a little more pronounced as inebriation starts to set in. A grunt at mention of Thatchery. "Do I want his job? I don't know." It means more responsibility, technically. Though Alexander's right that he already does much of it. And is frequently the man's proxy, when he's otherwise indisposed. "There are days I wake up and wonder how the fuck I wound up with people trusting me to wear a uniform and carry a gun. So I don't know." His brows furrow, and he contemplates the contents of his glass before downing some more.

"What is it, then? Furniture?" Alexander frowns. "That doesn't seem right. A...fixture? Maybe?" When he's intoxicated, this seems like a deeply important question to get right. He doesn't slur; if anything, he goes the other way, becoming exaggeratedly precise in his speech, except for the speed, which increases, and the liveliness of it, which does likewise. "But if it has a garbage disposal attached, I feel like that really does count as an appliance. Because of the mechanization." He brandishes his plum-and-tequila glass at Ruiz, as if making a brilliant counterpoint. "Well. You made a choice, didn't you? Applied. Worked at it. You want it, right? Maybe not the Chief's job, because a lot of that is kissing up to people and probably being leashed by Monaghan, the Addingtons, or both. Probably both," he mutters after a bit of thought. "But the job itself. You want what it lets you do, maybe?"

There's a noncommittal grunt from the cop, as far as what a sink is in the grand scheme of things. As if he has any idea. His glass is empty, again, and this time so is the bottle. Which irritates him slightly. So he pulls up off the couch and goes in search of this other one, under the fridge. No, sink. Fuck. "I said I don't know," he grumbles. "If I want it or not." His back is to Alexander, so the man likely won't notice the flicker of something that passes through him when Felix is mentioned. "Part of me wants to get the fuck out of this town, and just drive and drive and.." And what. He stands there with his glass in hand, trying to remember what he came into the kitchen for.

"Oh." Alexander thinks about this for a bit, then nods. Accepting it. Not knowing is an answer, after all. He rests his head on the back of his couch, watching Ruiz get up and wander into the kitchen. "Left cabinet. Under the sink," he tells him, in a sing-song. "Don't grab the bleach. Not so good for drinking." The bleach (and other cleaning supplies) are on the right hand side under the sink, of course, while another bottle of tequila and a couple of bottles of scotch are under the left hand side. None of them have even a little dust, so they were probably purchased quite recently. "And everybody wants that. That's normal, Javier. If this town doesn't scare the fuck out of you, you're an idiot or crazier than I am."