2019-10-18 - Difficult Beings

Another dreary Gray Harbor evening. The sun set a while ago, but the rain has been a steady, misty thing. It coats the ground and trees in chill water, and makes a soft hissing sound against the windows. Alexander has been out on (and under) the Boardwalk, trying to make inquiries regarding the Kruger case with the sorts of undesirables who might not generally talk to the cops. And now, when it's gotten dark enough to make outdoor interviews more trouble than they're worth, he's come to his next target: the Sea View Suites. He makes his way to the hotel bar; he looks a bit like a drowned rat, in a dark sweatshirt a couple of sizes too big for him (and now laden with water), jeans, and stompy boots covered in sand. Luckily, it's not really the kind of place with a dress code, and he slouches his way inside, scanning the interior to decide who might be a likely target to start haras...er, interviewing.

Turns out, there's nobody of import hanging out at the hotel bar tonight. Unless Alexander's interested in grilling the police captain, because yes, he's sitting right the fuck there, downing a glass of what's almost certainly tequila while checking messages on his phone. He's not dressed for duty, of course; rather, he's in his usual civilian getup of a dark, faded tee shirt, black cargo pants, combat boots and a ball cap. And enough ink to make him look like an escaped convict, of course.

There's a hesitation as Alexander sees the familiar shape of Ruiz at the bar. He looks around, as if maybe hoping that some fascinating interview subject will materialize out of nowhere. It doesn't happen, so he slouches his way up to the bar and takes a seat beside the other man. He squelches, just a little. "Captain," he says, expression impassive. A look at the drink. "Patron?" Which the bartender, eyeing him with a grim sort of expression, apparently takes as an order. There's very quickly a glass of tequila in front of him, as well: its brand is possibly dubious. Alexander frowns at it, but doesn't send it back. Instead, he says, in a toneless sort of voice, "Is this where you're staying?"

There's a shitty little television above the bar, playing equally shitty reruns of something from the 90s. Javier's studiously ignoring it in favour of fiddling with his phone in between sips of tequila. Hint: it's not Patron. And neither is Alexander's. He looks over at the wet squelch of someone sitting down beside him, and does a bit of a double-take when he realises who it is. A beat and, and then another passes in silence. Then, "Si. Waiting for construction to finish." He probably means the A-frames being built on Maple. He starts to say something else, then doesn't. More fiddling with his phone.

"Yeah? Those'll be interesting little houses," Alexander allows. "Isolde's thinking about getting one." He takes a sip of the tequila, grimaces to himself, puts it down. A beat, maybe two, where he stares at the bartender like he's trying to read the next line of the conversation off the guy's bored face. Right. Professional. His shoulders go back a little, and he says, more briskly, "Still looking into the," a gesture around the hotel, "situation. Might have the whisper of a suggestion of a lead, but too tentative to know if it's something, or just more noise." He looks down at the glass, his eyes narrow. Slowly, he picks it up and takes another sip. There's a shudder down his spine and he puts it down again. "I was trying to do some interviews. See if any of the non-usual suspects might have seen something interesting. Bunch of homeless folk beneath the Boardwalk."

The cop grunts something in reply to Alexander's commentary on the construction going up. His focus seems more on his phone than the conversation, such as it is. Well, until Alexander mentions he might have a lead. He finishes composing his message, sends it, and switches the screen off before shoving the thing back into his pants pocket. A sniff to clear his nose, but he doesn't straighten his shoulders when Alexander does. One would be hard-pressed to guess that he'd ever done time in the military, the way he carries himself. "Go on," he murmurs, fingers curving around his glass. Eyes on his drink, rather than the younger man next to him.

"Couple of things," Alexander says. He's not unaware of the cop's apparent distraction, and although it's fairly clear it bothers him from the way he shifts on the seat, and frowns at the phone, he doesn't say anything, and tries not to acknowledge it. Or the way Ruiz won't look at him. "Shooter drove off in the car, sure, but he stopped within view of the hotel and got into a second car. White car, some sort of security company. Logo might be of a dog. With teeth. I'll...attempt to narrow that down," he says, with a mutter.

Curiouser and curiouser. The new information causes Javier to furrow his brows slightly, tonguetip pressed against the inside of his cheek like it helps him think. "I'll confirm whether the original car's been impounded, and if so, where. As for the second.." He digs a battered notepad out of the back pocket of his pants, and pats himself down for a pen. "There might be security footage we can get our hands on. If we can get a license plate number or some more identifying information, I can run a DMV check." He pauses to jot that information down, dark eyes flicking up to Alexander for a fraction of a beat before sliding away again. "Gracias. Lo aprecio."

"Ah. Yeah. That's the second thing," Alexander says. "There is a security camera." He points towards Bayside Apartments. "On the corner of the apartment building. Way the fuck up there, but the angle's right. If the witness was accurate about where he saw the guy switch cars, might have caught it. I can ask Thorne if he'll let people look through it without all the warrants and things?" There's a flash of a pleased smile at the thanks. "De nada."

"I can't stop you from talking to him," he admits, his tone of voice neither here nor there. His thumb circles the rim of his glass absently while they converse. "But we have an investigation to conduct, so we'll be having a word with Thorne regardless." Or possibly a few words. "Anything else?" He sips, winces slightly, and finishes off the glass before flagging down the 'tender for another. He isn't tipsy yet, but seems well on his way there.

"You can. Actually. Probably," Alexander points out, looking down at his glass. He takes another sip, mostly because it's there. And because it gives him an excuse to waggle the glass a little when Ruiz asks if there's anything else. "It'd be difficult, but I have faith in you." It's the slightest attempt at humor, paired with a sidelong look towards the other man. "Anything I should know? About the investigation. So I'm not wasting time." Now he's back to staring at his drink, copying Ruiz's motion around the rim of his glass without even thinking about it.

Maybe the guy just doesn't give enough of a shit. Alexander's first words are acknowledged only with a huff of breath. And with nothing else to focus on, while he waits for his fresh drink to arrive, he gaze steadily at the bartop itself. Thumbs at a scratch in it like it's the most interesting thing here. "Pursley's been mostly a dead end. I've got a box of documents from the Krugers sitting in my office, courtesy of the ADA that I need to go through. And I'm waiting to hear back on Foster from one of my detectives." That seems to about summarize the state of things.

Alexander makes a thoughtful noise. "Documents are fun." A pause. "The Krugers were gonna testify about something they saw while the casino was being constructed, I think. Isabella's contacts in the environmental groups don't think it was, uh, environmental as such. If that helps. At all." Then he sort of hunches down, all valid professional topics expended, and with them, any pretense that he's not just...hanging around, and lurking. Like a lurker. He takes another drink of his tequila, makes a face. "How are things going otherwise?" That last comes out in a tumbling rush of words, his gaze, too, focused on the bar and not the man beside him.

Ruiz isn't stupid. He has a pretty good idea that Alexander's lurking. And the question, as such, doesn't catch him as off-guard as it otherwise might. "Fine," he replies, followed by a murmur of thanks to the bartender, when the glass is set down half-filled with cheap tequila. It's a travesty, but one he doesn't seem inclined to trouble himself with, tonight. He's not looking to enjoy this; he's looking to get smashed. "You?" He sips, swallows.

"I'm okay," Alexander says, with an audible pause to find any word other than 'fine'. "Went to Seattle. Came back. Headless horseman jumped out of a giant pumpkin and threw flaming pumpkins everywhere. It exploded into pumpkin bits. It was about what I expect from this town." A sideways glance to see if that gets a reaction. He takes a deeper swallow of the cheap tequila, draining the glass that wasn't very full to start with. The glass is stared at, then pushed towards the bartender for a refill. It's whisked away, but the bartender will clearly get around to it...whenever he damned well feels like it.

There's a reaction, all right; a chuckle, low and smoke-roughened and rather more amused than he probably should be. But he's had a few drinks, and is presumably beyond getting worked up about the weird ass shit that happens in this town. "Of course," is all he has to say about that. His fingers are rifled through his hair absently, then slid around his glass again. "Is there something you want to say, or?" The sentence is sort of left hanging on that note.

There's a flash of a smile from Alexander at the chuckle. He dares to look full on at Ruiz for a moment. But that question makes his gaze skitter away and fall again. A new glass is delivered to him, with cheap tequila, and he frowns at it rather than answer. But, eventually, he sighs. "Yeah." And then there's another pause. "I hurt you. I betrayed you. I used something against you in the worst possible way, and I understand you not wanting to be friends, right now. Or ever." He takes a sip of liquid courage before going on. "I am concerned, though. I have concerns. That you're just gonna push that shit down until it explodes somewhere. And I want--I can't fix what I did. I know that. But I don't want you to hurt more than you have to because of it, so if there is something you need from me to start making things right - not for us as friends, or so you'll forgive me, or anything like that, but for you - then I'll do it." He takes a breath. "That's all."

Ruiz scoffs quietly. "You're not the first." To betray him? To hurt him? To use something intensely personal against him? Maybe all three. He doesn't address the bit about whether he still wants to be friends, though his eyes slide over for a few moments when Alexander says that he has concerns. He squints a little, spawning a few crow's feet at the corners. Then the consternation melts away, and he makes a face like, what the fuck ever. "I'll be fine." His glass is tipped to his mouth, sipped and swallowed. "I don't need anything from you." Alexander's familiar enough with his mind that he can practically feel that torched, bestial apparition lying in wait. Red-eyed, lurksome.

"That doesn't matter," Alexander says, with a frown. "It doesn't make it better. Or okay. You were trying to help, and I tried to kill you. And then you helped anyway." He huffs out a breath, shifting on the seat. He's not really good at the social piece of this, and he's not a patient soul, although he's very clearly obviously trying to be. And pretty much failing, because his voice is sharp as he says, "Fine. You'll be fine. You don't need anything from me. You don't let yourself need anything, even when you do need something." He turns, then, and stares at Ruiz's profile like he was trying to meet the eyes of the beast that lurks inside the soul of the man. "But there's something you want."

"Why are you telling me this?" Ruiz murmurs, interjecting into Alexander's rundown of what happened that afternoon. "I was right fucking there, I'm perfectly aware of what you did. And it's my fucking job. Nothing personal, don't worry." Liar.

He sits there, seething a little while Alexander turns to watch him. His jaw is tight, his profile blunt-edged and brutish looking even in repose; now, though, he looks agitated. "Enlighten me, then." His glass is nudged away finally with the tips of his fingers, and he turns to face Alexander and make direct eye contact for the first time. Slight curl to his upper lip, like it could become a snarl at any moment. "Dime que es lo que quiero."

"Don't give me that bullshit," Alexander says, with a scowl. He flicks his finger in a single, petulant moment of temper against his glass. "Of course it was personal."

He waits until Ruiz turns to face him, and leans in slightly, the rest of his body tense and rigid, like it's torn between the need to lunge forward and shake the cop and the desire to cringe backwards. "No," he says, his voice low, eyes locked on Ruiz's. "Don't just sit there, locked away, and wait for me to fucking break down the doors so that you can get angry about that instead of dealing with it. You say it. Or you do it. Own it, goddamn it. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but here I am. What you want, just take it."

Ruiz bristles visibly at the word bullshit, nostrils flaring a little, a flinch of something in his dark eyes. He's as tense as Alexander, if not moreso; this is a man who's had decades worth of practice honing his survival instinct and channeling his aggression into barely acceptable outlets. When Alexander leans in to deliver those pointed words, he also shoves his face in close. Too close, noses almost touching, and snarls, "Don't you fucking talk to me like that. I told you what I want." Then he pulls away, digs a crumpled bill out of his pants pocket and tosses it on the bar. "Now leave me the fuck alone unless you've got something more for me on the case."

Alexander doesn't flinch backwards when Ruiz shoves his face in close. He matches him, snarl for snarl. "I'll talk to you however the fuck I want, Captain. Because I'm your goddamned friend, and you are not fine! You're not! I don't know if you've ever once been fine, but it is definitely not what you are right now." He glares at the other man as he pulls away. "So. Hate me if you need to. Fine. Whatever. But fucking--I don't know. Punch me. Shoot me. Talk to me, maybe. Something. Just don't sit there and bleed to death inside yourself." Then he makes a frustrated noise, and tosses his own money on the table. "You're a difficult person!"

Well, in Ruiz's defense, Alexander did suggest that the cop punch him. So just as he's pulling to his feet and turning to march himself out, he catches that little taunt from behind him and whirls on the younger man. And takes a somewhat sluggish, well-telegraphed swing at him. Maybe the best he could do at that angle, and in the close quarters, but it won't be difficult to turn aside.

Alexander spent two weeks in a cabin in the woods, chopping wood, hauling things, and venting his anger at trees. And he's not drunk. He blocks it as he comes up off the stool, knocking it aside but not taking up a defensive posture himself. "Oh, come on. If you're going to hit me, at least try to mean it. You're angry at me, aren't you? You want to hurt me. You said it." He stalks around Ruiz, head low, eyes on the other man. "So why won't you? I've fucking given you permission."

If Alexander had found him a week ago and cornered him like this, they'd be having a very different conversation right now. If one could call it a conversation. But Ruiz looks.. tired, tonight. Just utterly spent. None of the attempts to lure him in seem to take hold; he gazes evenly at the other man, a flicker of something in his eyes like a spark that tried to take hold, but it sputters out and dies. "Fuck off," he growls, and shoves his way past Alexander with a burly shoulder, pulling the brim of his cap low over his eyes as he turns to go.

Ruiz didn't fight? But Ruiz always fights. Alexander's expression just drops, along with his shoulders. He is not a man with many social skills in his toolkit, and by the utterly lost expression on his face, he's just exhausted all of them. He's pushed aside, the blow pushing a grunt from him. "But." He takes a step forward even as the man turns to go. "I don't want to fuck off. I know I'm...fucking this up, and I'm sorry. I'm worried. About you. There's so much that's wrong here, and you've had to carry so damned much even though this isn't even your town, and you hardly ever ask for help. And it's so frustrating." His hands ball into fist as he glares at Ruiz's back. "Why? Why are you so determined to just, just, be like that?"

Alexander is not an eloquent man. At least, not unless he has time to sit down and write it out.

"Why does it matter so much to you?" barks the cop, turning to face Alexander once he's a couple of paces away, and prowling back in until he breaches the other man's personal space. "You want me to forgive you? Fine. I fucking forgive you. What more do you want from me?" He breathes a couple of times, tonguetip touched to his teeth, then withdrawing a moment later. "I'm fine. I'll be fine." He's not. And he won't. His hands lift, palms forward in a rare gesture of surrender. "I can't do this tonight." Then he turns again, unless stopped, and shoulders his way past a couple of younger men just coming in.

Alexander blinks a few times. "It matters because you're my friend," he says, like this should be completely fucking obvious. "And I don't want you to forgive me. I told you, that's not what this is about. It's about you, and how you're not fine, and will you stop doing that?" When Ruiz turns to go, Alexander takes a quick step forward and just tries to reach out and put his hand on the other man's shoulder. "What happened? Why can't you do this tonight?" Because when in doubt, fire questions at it!

The truth of it's in his eyes, maybe; and it's likely nothing sinister at all. But simply, "Because I'm tired. Between this fucking case and everything else, I don't remember the last time I slept properly." He pinches his eyes shut with his thumb and forefinger, and barely seems to notice the hand on his shoulder. The fact that Alexander's touching rather than recoiling from him. "If you want to talk about this. Later. We'll talk. But I'm going to need to be a lot more fucking drunk than this."

"Oh." Alexander stands there, a little awkwardly. Okay. A lot awkwardly. His hand slips away, hanging uselessly by his side for a moment. Then he shoves it into his jeans pocket. "Right. Okay." A pause. "Sorry. You should sleep." A pause. "I do. Want to talk about this. Later. Sometime. I'll buy the Patron. People are actually sort of paying me for things." A roll of his shoulders. "Anyway. Go. Sleep." A longer pause. "Music helps me. Sometimes. When there's stress and nightmares." He turns away, then, not looking at the two patrons who just came in, or at the bartender, but rather slinking over to a corner where he can pretend he's going to have another drink rather than awkwardly follow Ruiz out.

Oh. "Yeah." You should sleep. "Trying to." blah blah blah Patron. "Fine. Deal." He's already walking off as Alexander lobs in some advice about music, and pretty soon he's gone. Save for the slightest scent of nicotine and.. whatever cheapass hotel soap he washes with, in his wake.