2019-10-16 - Hail Mary

It's not a Sunday, there's no service or choir practice and the Priest isn't currently taking confessions in his little wood paneled booth. St. Mary's is quiet, but perhaps that's why Cristobal has taken opportunity to visit the sacred halls.

He's sitting in a pew near the middle of the congregation, eyes staring sightlessly at the statue of the Holy Mother where she's holding her infant. It's just a place to direct his gaze really, conveniently in his field of vision. Hands are folded not in prayer but just in a loose grip of fingers that hang down between his gapped knees. Instead of a worshipper, Cruz looks like a man stoically waiting to be called to the principal's office.

Footfalls on worn hardwood, the pace slow and almost hesitant, like whomever they belong to isn't quite sure they're in the right place.

They halt entirely upon spotting the solitary figure seated in one of the middle pews. A long pause, an internal debate. And then the footfalls resume, followed a few moments later by a hand slid along the back of the pew in front of Cris, followed by the creak of the bench itself as someone settles in beside him.

"Finding what you're looking for?" The voice, of course, is that familiar scratchy-warm rumble. De la fucking Vega.

It's likely Cris realized he wasn't alone at the sound of footfalls, but when a form settles next to him he doesn't glance aside. It's not until Ruiz speaks that the corner of Cruz' mouth lifts in a smirk of recognition.

"I know, I'm just as shocked as you were the placed didn't start ablaze when I walked in here. I wouldn't sit too close though, just in case there's a focused strike of lightening." His blue eyed gaze ticks over, looking to the Captain just from the corner eye for a moment before it flicks back to the altar.

"Sometimes it's not about finding something, but leaving something behind. What about you, Javier. Come to say your Hail Mary's and ask for divine forgiveness?"

There's a chortle from the older, more darkly-featured Latino beside Cris. He shifts to lean forward slightly, consciously or unconsciously mirroring the blue-eyed man's posture. Leather jacket, ratty old tee shirt that exposes a sliver of the semper fi tattoo at his collarbone. Dark, fitted jeans shoved into combat boots. He hardly fits the image of a churchgoer, but then neither does Cruz. "Something like that," he murmurs in answer to the question, gaze focused forward. Then a turn of his head to study Cris's profile. "I'll bite. What're you leaving behind?"

"Brave." No that's not in answer to Ruiz question, but a reflection on the man beside him not moving at the warning about lightening.

Cristobal's fingers unlace from each other and palms start slowly rubbing against each other. Hard calloused hands, not afraid of work or getting dirty, the slightly swollen knuckles of a fighter. "Dia de los Muertos is soon. Have you set up your ofrenda yet?" Still, not quite an answer, but perhaps a indication as to why he is here in a roundabout way.

If Cris knew de la Vega a little better, he might realise why threats of electrocution aren't on his list of things to be concerned about. Maybe he'll find out. Maybe they won't kill each other while they're at it. "No," he replies after a long pause, and something dug out from under his thumbnail. "Have you?" God, it's almost like a normal conversation.

Maybe it's the roof they both sit under, that brings out this minor detente between the two.

"Started." Cris flicks another look aside, back away. Not precisely a nervous thing, but a glance that doesn't want to settle on the other man's features for long.

"Stopped." His chin dips for a moment, watching his hands worry against each other. He forces them to form into fists, pressing the curl of knuckles against each other to stop from fidgeting. "I mentioned something about heritage before. Don't remember if it was between blows, or maybe you just knocked the memory loose, but you don't seem to care for it. Where you're from. Why is that I wonder?"

Maybe it's the roof. Maybe it's the statue of Mary, gazing at them with quiet censure. Maybe he's just tired. Too damned tired. His fingers weave together, inked knuckles with not, and he stares at his hands a while before looking over at the word stopped. He watches Cris's profile again, and this time his gaze remains. A flicker of something when it's alluded to that in the flurry of violence, he lost track of that conversation. Not that it's an unlikely conclusion.

"I'm not.." From there. "I am, but I grew up here." But he speaks with an accent, low-key, like he's put effort into trying to hide it. But it's there, and it marks him indelibly as Tijuana street trash. "Where're you from?"

"Officially? I was born in El Paso." Cris gives a huff of laughter, a disbelieving shake of his head with his eyes turned upwards like he's silently asking for strength. "But the mi familia..." Well. The smirk is indication enough that perhaps the 'border' was just a suggestion to his kin. "Funny how that all works out. Hmm?" There is a little flick of his hand, "I was actually born in a Church like this. Well, not quite like this. Bit less pomp and circumstance, si?"

The bouncer rises from his seat, "I have some candles to light." Which isn't a dismissal by his tone, more of 'you're going to have walk and talk'.

There's no doubt what that smirk means. And given the look it gets from de la Vega, it's more than likely they're in the same boat. Figuratively speaking. Since their families probably walked across.

"Voy a ir contigo," he offers low, almost inaudible. He scrapes the heel of his palm against his bristly cheek, and then climbs to his feet as well and slides out of the pew to let Cris pass.

Cris sidesteps down the row, not putting his back to the main altar until he's free from the pew and crosses himself complete with a kiss to his thumb before he turns to walk down the aisle. He's fishing in his pocket, pulling out his money clip and fanning out some bills so he can pluck one from the wad. The offering is stuffed in the donation box as he passes, and yet another at the tiers of candles that asks only for a quarter for each one to be lit.

He pulls a stick from the canister and lights it on a votive that's burned down to a puddle. "Do you want to go first?"

Ruiz follows along dutifully, hands shoved into his pockets. He knows the ritual, surely, but somewhere along the line, it's fallen out of favour. Maybe simply an attempt to assert himself as American. Which is ironic, considering he's less of one by a long shot than Cris. He does grudingly tug out a crumpled bill from his wallet to shove into the donation box, though. And answers the question after a moment, "You go ahead."

Cris gives a little up-nod of acknowledgment, "Gonna be awhile." He grins, a little bit toothily than before. It's a guarding thing, protection against the warring bit of vulnerable that rears it's ugly head as he starts to mutter little prayers as he touches the flame to one wick, and then two. It keeps going like this for some time, until most of the rows are alight. If Ruiz is counting, he doesn't stop until he reaches twenty seven before he shakes out the stick and flicks it back into the container.

The captain's a silent, stalwart sentinel in the flickering dark. He remains where he is, shoulders slightly hunched as if in rebellion against the military man he used to be. He watches Cris light each and every one of those candles, not a word spoken throughout. His mind, in fact, seems.. elsewhere. Perhaps lost in some distant memory of helping prepare the ofrenda as a child. Perhaps nothing of the sort.

When Cristobal finishes lighting the candles he goes to the Holy Font and dips his fingers in the pool of blessed water, drawing out the cross on his form again. Only when he's through do his eyes go back to Ruiz.

"You know, if I were a paranoid man, I'd think you followed me in here, but it's a small enough town that I'm just going to chalk this up to coincidence. So what, you got something going with a nun? The Padre? Otherwise, I'm keeping you for something. So tell me el jefe what is it YOU'RE looking for? Maybe it's just a quiet moment, and I'm ruining that for you too."

Ruiz's eyes come up when Cris looks over, and his expression is slightly perplexed for a moment as the other man starts to speak. His look of confusion is joined by mild irritation with the suggestion that he's screwing a nun, of all things, and his hackles coming up is nearly a palpable thing. Like whatever moment they'd been having is broken. "You're a real piece of work, Cruz," is all he says, and drifts a step back. Then another. Dark eyes steady on the younger man. "Nos vemos luego," is grumbled before he turns to go.

"It's been a steady, drawn out process. A lot of trial and error to reach this state of perfection. Do you think this state of irritating irascible charm comes naturally? It takes work." Cristobal sucks on the inner pad of his cheek as Ruiz turns, eyes down cast for a moment as he was in the pew, but the naked moment of something bordering on contrition will go unnoticed.

"I'll say a prayer for you, Javier!" He calls after, followed by a chuckle that sounds a little hollow.