2019-09-19 - I Don't Know You From A Hole In The Ground

The beach isn't the best descriptor, but Declan texts a spot that should be easy to find. He must have walked, because his truck isn't nearby.

Seated at a picnic table that definitely needs to be repainted, Declan wears an old shirt with paint flecks all over it, jeans with holes in them, and no shoes. His boots are nearby, socks laid over them. There's dust on his arms and shirt, maybe from drywall, and it's gotten into his hair, too. Fresh off one of the last jobs for awhile, worry is painted beneath his eyes while he waits. His phone's out, a text conversation open, while he waits.

Ruiz, on the other hand, drove. Probably straight from a shift at the precinct - or an unsanctioned break. It's an unmarked cruiser that pulls up at the edge of the boardwalk; mean looking Charger with 8 cylinders growling away under the hood. The ignition's killed after a moment and a guy in a suit and tie clambers out, slams the door. Well, part of a suit. The jacket's been ditched, shirt's sleeves turned up to his elbows. Which makes for an awful lot of ink on display as he ambles on up to that picnic table.

Dark eyes peruse the other man carefully, slowly. Nothing aggressive in the way he's studying him; it's a thoughtful assessment, like he's matching the visual to whatever mental picture he'd had of him. "Mr. Hopper?" Another step forward, and a hand is offered, inked right up to the backs of his knuckles. "De la Vega."

When he hears his name, Declan turns and stands. His expression shifts to an easy, maybe disarming, smile. It's practiced, honed. The mask he wears most evenings.

He takes the hand and gives it one good, firm shake. Rough hands, but a somewhat quiet voice. "You can call me Declan. Good to finally meet you." Declan gestures to the table and sits back down, still smiling a little. Looking past Ruiz, he sees the car before turning back. "That yours? I always wanted a Charger. I guess being a police captain has its perks."

The captain deals with people as well, more often than he'd probably like. And he knows the tenor of that smile. There's a noticeable beat before it's returned, slight. His hands too are rough, a little callused, and his shake is equally firm but not overpowering. "Declan," he corrects evenly. "I'm guessing Dahlia's mentioned me." It's a little breezy out here, and his fingers catch at his tie to stop it from flapping it around as he sits. His accent is Mexican trash, mingled with something a little Southern. Virginia, maybe.

"Not mine. Came here from work." He chuckles low. "I'd like to hear your perspective on what's going on with her." He hasn't broken eye contact since he walked up, his gaze slightly narrowed as he regards the younger man.

"A few times," Declan jokes. However tired or worried he might feel, Declan's good, very good, at faking it. And he definitely is. Looking back at the car again, he sighs, a little wistful. "Should've become a cop. Anyway. You didn't come here to shoot the shit."

His toes grip against the sand while he turns back. "You'll need to understand that there are some things I don't know. She keeps some stuff about work pretty close to her chest. And, I don't ask." Declan shrugs. "We're still pretty new. I thought she'd tell me in her own time, if I needed to know. So if you want everything, I'm not your guy. But I can tell you about the addiction, and," he gestures, "and why she's with me, and what I think, of course." His smile fades a little. "She's in with some bad people. I don't know how bad, or who they are, but I'm thinking it's... some kind of debt. One that isn't taken care of with money, because she has rich friends. In repaying it, she took some coke to get someone to trust her." Declan shakes his head. "And because of the stress from work, whatever she owes, you two," he gestures to Ruiz, "her mom, brothers, past... she kept using. She's been on it about two months, slow, until now." Declan clears his throat. "As for why she's with me: I think she feels safe there, at my place. She knows I'll take care of her and help her kick it. I really have no idea if she'll stay, or what she'll do next. I told her she needs to take at least a week to get right. After that?" Declan shrugs. "I told her we'd figure it out."

Ruiz probably has a sense that the other man is putting on a face for him. Though he doesn't know him nearly well enough to know how much is fabricated, and how much is real. He does however catch the wistful glance at his cruiser, and flickers a slight smile as he settles in. It creases the corners of his eyes in fine, numerous crow's feet that suggest he's got a good decade, decade and a half on the other guy easy.

"Two months," he summarises once Declan's finished speaking, blowing a breath out his nose. "I'm not questioning why she'd be staying with you. I'm not asking for theories. I want to make certain she's safe, and since I don't know you from a fucking hole in the ground, well.. here we are." His expression doesn't shift, and his gaze is steady.

Declan nods his head. "She's safe, man. I don't believe in God or Jesus, but I'll swear on anything else you want." He holds Ruiz's gaze, expression still controlled behind a small smile. "I'm going to help get her through this, the whole way, as much as it takes. I've cleared my schedule." He opens his hands. "I'm not sure what I can say that'd give you faith. But sure as winter, yes, she's safe." Declan clears his throat. "We've started research. She has her other friend, Justin, who's going to come by. When it's time, I'll be with her through the worst of it, and when she's ready for some freedom, yeah, we're working on writing some rules so that she can feel comfortable."

Declan looks off again. "As for me, I'm not a complicated guy. I worked hard for what I have. Grew up here. Lost a lot here. I'm still standing." He looks back. "Pull my record. It's clean." Declan shrugs. "I guess to a guy like you I don't look like much. But like I said, sure as winter, I'll get her through it. She'll come out the other side."

All of the reassurances and explanations seem to.. well, it's difficult to gauge their effect on the cop. He has a fairly epic resting bitch face to begin with, and seems a touch cagey about this man whom he's only met a few minutes ago, talking about effectively controlling Dahlia's life for the next little while. It wouldn't take an expert in human psychology to pick up on the fact that de la Vega's a bit of a control freak.

At the lost a lot here, there's a twinge at the corners of his mouth. Not quite a smile, almost more a baring of his teeth that wants to be a smile. He snorts softly though when Declan tells him he might not look like much, to a guy like him. The man may be a captain in the force, but he looks and speaks like a poor Hispanic boy from the barrio. "I have," he answers after a long pause. Pulled Declan's record, he means. "And you treat her properly, and I don't think we'll have any trouble." It's not a threat, really. Though it does sound sincere.

Declan nods a few times and looks away again. The records would show that his dad was killed when he was a kid, and the whole thing was pretty dubious. His mom took off, and did some... bad things. His sister is a fuckup and a drug addict... and his aunt is a hard working, blue collar salt-of-the-earth type. Declan? Nose clean. Records don't show any felonies, maybe a few parking violations, he's definitely been through the ringer, but he's a far cry from his sister... or his mother. And still standing They have at least a half dozen priors apiece, maybe worse. "It means a lot to hear you say that." He shrugs. "Like I said, I know this can't be easy. I can tell you still care about her."

Declan turns back, easy smile still there. "I try to," treat her properly, "and when it's all over, I'll tell her you came by. Maybe you two can work some things out. But for right now, I have to ask: please don't make it more complicated. Let me take care of her, get her sober and on her feet again." He pauses, smile fading, "Please."

Maybe those rap sheets are what's on the captain's mind as he watches Declan. Maybe the absence of anything more than a parking ticket is what has him sitting on the other side of the park bench from him, instead of with his hands around the man's throat and up against a fence. He certainly looks like the type, given the tattoos and his overall brutish mannerisms. "Dahlia makes her own decisions. She always has. And this is her decision, not yours, which is why I'll respect it." He's still watching the other man once he turns back, gaze hard and steady.

"But don't push your luck. You know a lot less about us than you think you do. And I will have my eye on her, and you, whether you approve of it or not, Mr. Hopper." Still not a threat, but there's no question the man has his hackles up. He looks off toward the water briefly, then pushes to his feet in preparation to go.

Declan nods a few times. "Yeah. She does." Nodding twice more, he watches Ruiz begin to stand.

"Hey, wait a second." He pulls his wallet free, from his pocket, and pulls out a card. It's handed over. "I didn't know what to make of you before. But," he smiles again, "I don't mind pushing my luck. Especially now. This is my card, with all the numbers. Text me. Call me. You don't reach me on the cell, call the house. I'll answer, one way or another. I'll tell you how she's doing." He stands up. "As for me, I told you who I am and what I'm about. You find someone who says different? Tell me. Like I said, I worked really hard for what I have." The holes in his jeans come natural, after all. "We'll talk as much as you want."

The older man pauses as he reaches his feet, and is handed a card. It isn't taken immediately; Declan's face is watched, and then the bit of paper that's offered. Tension's stitched through his shoulders, the line of his jaw. But he reaches for the card anyway, collects it between index and middle finger, and turns it around to check the back. "All right." The hackles seem to come down a notch. Maybe he's just not accustomed to dealing with civilians who aren't trying to put a bullet in the back of his head at their earliest convenience. A sigh's blown out his nose, and the card disappears into his pants pocket.

"Thank you. You take good care of her." His gaze lingers on Declan a moment more, and then he turns and prowls off for his car.

Declan nods once. Standing there in his paint-flecked shirt and jeans riddled with holes, lack of crows feet, no Charger... he really might not seem like a whole lot. The guy doesn't even have boots on. But the card was extended, released, and a nod's still given.

"I will, man. And you call. Don't let yourself get lost in worry." He leans against the table, still smiling. He watches Ruiz move towards the Charger, a car of his dreams, expression not faltering. The wind-swept tie doesn't even earn a look of envy while he waits... and waits. Declan's pretty good at waiting. He's been doing that most of his life. Just another local searching for a shot at something bigger, it's practically a way of life.