2019-11-05 - Offering (Alexa: STFU)

Cris isn't really sure how it happened. First it was 'come over and make tamales with Sutton and I' and then it turned into Cris' place being invaded by the police Captain and the blonde EMT. It'll be fiiiine.

When Cris gives his address it oddly has a 'B' after the street number, which turns out to be an apartment above a detached garage on Elm. It looks like what should be a quaint mother-in-law style place, with access stairs on the side and a porch/balcony that runs along front of the two and a half car garage. The whole of the apartment is just one fat L-shaped room, with a bathroom at the inner elbow and his bed set up at the opposite corner. The base of the L, at the entrance, is the living room area, which currently only houses an open closeting system, his clothes hung on rustic piping a small dresser beneath to store the folding clothes and unmentionables. It's severely lacking furniture there, but he just moved in. At the far top of the letter is the kitchen, a peninsula providing two bar height stools. The kitchen table has been pushed up against a wall, and is currently in use as his ofrenda. He's still trying to find places to store his personal items, of which there are few both to hide and places to store them.

Yeah, no pressure or anything. Not that de la Vega arrives dressed to impress, or anything. He shows up in his usual street wear: a black tee shirt he's worn and worn to the point of tiny tears in the fabric, and absolutely nothing remaining of the logo on the back. Dark, fitted jeans, combat boots, and what looks like a genuine biker jacket thrown over his solid shoulders. His hands are jammed into the pockets, and he's trying to stay under the lip of the roof so he doesn't get rained on. Which is mostly a losing game. "You know," he's telling Sutton, "I think your driving record speaks for itself. There's a reason Oakes doesn't let you drive that fucking bus."

"That time I borrowed your car, did I come back with any tickets?" No she did not. Did she get pulled over twice for speeding? Yes she did. It's like you can't speed in an off-duty police vehicle or something. Sutton, on the other hand, is wearing super soft leggings, and a soft white off-the-shoulder knit that makes it super obvious she's wearing a berry pink bra under that. Most of the upper arm of her left sleeve is showing for the drape of the neckline. "If you'd just brought me my latte, it wouldn't even be an issue." Is she walking a little funny? Yeah, but it's fine. Everything's fine.

Cristobal just finishes the last touch of hiding anything personal when he hears Sutton and Ruiz on his porch. He's halfway to the door before he remembers to go back to his little altar and tip the lone picture sitting there onto its face. There is a line of marigold plants along the porch, still in their plastic containers from the nursery.

In fact, the air positively permeates with the smell of the flower, which becomes apparent when he swings open the door and there is a veritable sea of orange, red, and yellow blossomed flowers stuffing the porch and apartment, some sacrificed so little petals can be strewn in a vague path.

He's in a pair of low slung jeans, barefoot, and a white ribbed tank top that isn't quite 'wife beater' because it has normal arm holes. "Yo." It's a greeting as he leaves the inner door open, but lets the screen door slapped closed behind him as he suddenly feels the urge to make one more sweep of his eyes. Shit. He's turning around a guitar so the strings face the wall in quick fashion as he waits for the others to enter behind him.

"I'm pretty sure you threatened whoever was rolling patrol that night that you'd take the donuts hostage if he ticketed you," mutters the cop, then looks up as the door opens. "Hola." Normal people smile when they greet their friends. But Cris is neither his friend, nor the recipient of a smile tonight. His outfit's given the once-over though, and the guitar draws his gaze briefly as he steps inside. Rather than take his jacket off or have a fucking seat, he stays in the doorway, awkward, hands jammed into the pockets and a bag of groceries looped over his wrist. The ofrenda is given a longer study; not judgemental so much as curious. He did say it had been years since he performed this little tradition.

The sharp scent of marigolds is pungent, and strong enough to persist even with a few plants, let alone the number Cristobal has assembled for the occasion. Sutton glances over, shakes her head. "Like I have to threaten them." She was probably about to say something else, but the door opens and there's their host for the evening. Her gaze roams Cristobal's ensemble, just the same as Ruiz's, though her face betrays none of her thoughts. Unlike her surly companion, she smiles. She steps in, and while Ruiz is awkwardly loitering like he's about to tactically retreat, she steps into the apartment, and right into Cris's personal space. "Hola, Cristobal. Thank you for inviting us into your home." She goes up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, though it's not an American custom. "Feliz Día de los Muertos." She carries on into the space, glancing around briefly.

Normal ofrenda would be cluttered with pictures of the deceased, but it seems Cris only has the one face down. The flowers are are on the table and cluttered around the legs, with candles symbolizing souls scattered across the table. If one were to count, there are twenty seven in total. His offerings come in the form of little toys and trinkets, and instead of traditional foods it seems to be all candies and sweets. "Right back atcha, Pepper." Cris bends to the kiss on the cheek, hands going momentarily to Sutton's shoulders with a thumb stroke to the bare one.

Cris notes the wallflower - or entryway flower - that is Ruiz and he gives him a shit eating grin. "Well don't just stand there, this was your fucking idea. Come in and get the elote out of the oven." Apparently he couldn't find any, so he was dehydrating some himself. "Beer's in the fridge."

Leave it to Sutton to be the one with the social graces, remembering to make the proper greeting, to kiss his cheek, to give him a smile. Javier has yet to really even look at the man, though he seems plenty interested in the altar he's got set up. The lonely picture, the twenty-seven candles. He kicks off his boots eventually and wanders over, after returning the grin with a twinge of his mouth that sort of wants to be a smile. But wants to be a baring of teeth a little bit more.

"Beer? Tell me it isn't IPA." He casually swings the fridge open to check, then wanders over to find an oven mitt and rescue the corn. His jacket? Hasn't come off yet.

Of course her attention slips across the ofrenda, takes in the photograph that's tipped down. Sutton's gaze scans over the assortment of candles, the sweets. She doesn't say anything at first, though her gaze returns to the candles long enough that she might be counting them. She wanders over to the kitchen area to duck past Javi, to slide in in front of the open fridge, and have a look at what's inside. She's not about to touch the oven. It's not a good idea in general for her to cook. She supervises and makes comments.

"You two would feel better if you fucked and got it over with," she says, bent over in the fridge with her ass in the air. She pokes around for some drinks, looking for anything other than beer, but also sliding a few close to the edge of the shelf to pull out when she's finished fucking around in there. So much for social graces.

"Fuck no, not IPA, not that there was much of a selection of Mexican beer at the Super Saver." Cristobal is referring to the dark bottles with a gold label and foiled top called Negro Modelo. "It was either that, or Corona Light. Which is fine for like, the beach." But it's not really a sun seeker, toes in the sand kind of day. "Alexa, play the El Sonido de Hoy station."

But instead of playing The Sound Of Today, Alexa repeats Sutton instead. "I'm sorry, I'm unable to find 'Fucked and Got'. Perhaps you meant 'Taylor Swift'. Playing songs by 'Taylor Swift'."

"Already tried that," murmurs Javier to Sutton's suggestion, getting the pan out of the oven and setting it on top of the stove with a clatter. "He's still a prick." Well, if Cris isn't going to say it, he is. Then the little snafu with Cris's entertainment system, and the older man gives him such a look. "Why are you fucking around with that shit?" Like, kids these days, so goddamned lazy.

His bag of groceries is pilfered through for the chiles and meat, and he gets a pan and some oil going before finally slinging out of his jacket. It's draped across the back of a chair before he casually grabs Sutton's ass, and resumes dumping the meat into the pan and giving it a stir.

There's a what the fuck muttered in the fridge there. Then Sutton does something horrifying. She sings along with the TSwift song that comes up on the Alexa playlist.

I don't like your little games
Don't like your tilted stage
The role you made me play
Of the fool, no, I don't like you
I don't like your perfect crime
How you laugh when you lie
You said the gun was mine
Isn't cool, no, I don't like you (oh!)
But I got smarter, I got harder in the nick of time
Honey, I rose up from the dead, I do it all the time
I've got a list of names and yours is in red, underlined
I check it once, then I check it twice, oh!

She's just gonna keep going until someone stops her. No, she stops there, but she does keep humming it. You don't work with Penelope Haven and not end up with this song memorized. The grabbing of her ass elicits a laugh and she gives Ruiz a little buttshake dance. Then winces. "Ow, fuck." Something's up with her left thigh.

Sutton hooks the necks of two dark bottles in one hand, pulling out the clinking bottles of Negro Modelo. "That's a cryin' fuckin' shame, bebe." She glances over her shoulder at Cristobal, gaze going head to toe down those jeans to his feet and right back up to find his pretty, pretty eyes. And she says to Ruiz like she's not looking right at their host, "He looks like he'd be good enough to make you smile for a little while."

"Oh she knows." Cris lofts over to Ruiz, "Harry's just testing to see if we'll admit it in mixed company...Alexa stop." Taylor Swift cuts off mid sentence about her latest breakup, even if that doesn't quell Sutton's humming. Unfortunately, beer's the only alcoholic option in there. A quart of milk, some OJ, and some bottled water amid standard fridge staples like ketchup and mustard. He glances back over his shoulder at the 'ow fuck' raising an eyebrow. "Alexa, play the 'Latina Musica' station on Spotify." Which gets an appropriate echo this time followed by the appropriate music. "Aren't you the one that's supposed to be making him smile or are you on the rag?"

Ruiz is busying himself chopping chiles in the meantime, which should ideally be done with gloves on. But fuck gloves. Mexicans do it the hard way. At least, the stupid ones do. He cringes slightly as Taylor Swift comes up, and then his expression turns to one of mild horror as Sutton begins singing along. The chopping's returned to with a vengeance. Like he's imagining it's Taylor Swift being diced into little bitty pieces.

"Of course I know she knows," he grumbles at Cris. As to Sutton's comment, he replies without looking up, "What about he doesn't fucking like me don't you understand? Tal vez le gusten más los gringos, que hace lo que les dice." The chiles are stirred into the meat, and then he gets to work on the dough. Oh, and Cris? "Shut the fuck up." That's for the on the rag comment.

Sutton thumps down the bottles of beer and retrieves the OJ for herself. She's been craving sweet things for days, and it's starting to get a little annoying, but at this point, she's going with it until such time as her pants start fitting tight. She goes looking for glasses shortly after, sliding around Javier to reach for a cabinet. If her hand slides around his hip, then her hand slides around his hip. "Maybe you didn't do it right." She grins and looks over at Cris when she kisses Javier's shoulder for cracking off about the rag comment.

"Cristobal, he makes me smile. And then I make him smile. That's how this works." Her fingers slide across the small of Javier's back and she puts a bottle of beer down by him, and then carries one over for Cristobal, empty glass left behind on the counter for her to fetch her own juice in a moment. "Don't be crass." She says to Cris after telling the men they should fuck already. "Drink this, cabrón, it'll cheer you up. Or it won't, but it'll keep your mouth busy." She offers him the cold bottle.

Don't be crass, Sutton tells him, yet as she delivers the beer, Cris' hand goes to her hip to draw her into a little sway with the music. "If he thinks that I suck the dicks of people I don't like, imagine what I do to the ones I really hate." He's grinning as he plucks the bottle from her offering hand. "You're not drinking. Shit, did he knock you up?"

Hey, Javier's not complaining about a few extra pounds on the blonde. The way he looks at her, he probably spends roughly 45% of his time in her company imagining her with her clothes off. The food's given a quick stir while he's thinking of it, and she does, in point of fact, make him smile when her hand slides over his hip. And then he makes a pleased little sound when her fingers catch on the other side. His own hands are covered in corn dough though, so he doesn't touch her in return.

"Gracias, bebe," is for the beer, even though he's not a beer fan. He ducks his head down to kiss her mouth before she pulls away, and then he returns to the task of making the dough while the meat and chiles cook and the music of his homeland plays. Hell, it's almost a nice evening. Oh, and he's perfectly aware of Cris putting his hands on Sutton, which doesn't get a reaction beyond a brief glance.

Of course that light kiss from Javi was returned. The scent of spiced meat filling the apartment as it cooks. The smell of food eases any lingering tension the blonde may have had in her shoulders, though she still moves a little stiffly. She doesn't adjust Cristobal unless his hand slips lower than her waist on the left hip. Up close, her pupils are dilated, and it's not hard to note she might be a little bit high.

"Yeah, but that was back in July." Sutton replies, sliding her hand around Cristobal's waist to lean in to the dance. "And I got over it." She looks over at the candles, the path of her gaze following the twenty-seven. She moves easily to the music, years of Tuesdays at Latin dance nights around Seattle having tuned her body to how to move to this music, with a stranger or an old friend. "This is something else, sweets cravings. It's this dream I had the other night. It won't leave me."

"I don't like beer. I only drink it when it's ice cold and no one's willing to mix a vintage cocktail, or I'm eating spicy ass nachos." She pauses, then asks, "What do you do with the ones you don't like?"

July. Right. Cris leans into murmur to Sutton's ear, "I'd say ask the first twenty six, but...you'd have to dig them up first." Then he's slipping away from their little dance, "I think there's a bottle of red wine in the bottom cabinet." Not that he's offering to fetch it for her, instead moving over to one of the counter stools to claim it. After a sip of his beer, he's reaching over to pull the tray of corn husks towards him to start separating them. "People I don't like aren't invited into my home, Javier." He points out.

Ruiz doesn't seem inclined to police Sutton's dancing, or Cris's hands on her. She can take care of herself, and she can police her own body. Before he quite realises what he's doing, he's humming along with the music. Softly, barely audible as he works. There's a brief glance over his shoulder when Cris invokes his first name, and then a furrowing of his brows as he goes to grab the pot of corn husks and start laying them out to load them up with dough and meat. "Who's the picture of?" he asks, trying to make it sound offhanded.

That thing that Cris says to her has Sutton giving his hip a light smack as he walks away from her. She wanders closer to the ofrenda, but doesn't touch. She slides her hands onto her hips. She's thinking about touching it. She crosses her arms to try to still the urge. Maybe she's thinking about tucking something else onto the altar. She reaches over and her fingertip skims a little dish there, maybe it's full of salt. She unconsciously continues dancing, a one, one-two, one sway of her hips, despite the irritation it causes. She mutters something under her breath and brushes her fingers lightly across her outer thigh. Fucking pumpkin spice latte cravings. When neither man is looking, or when she thinks they're not, she tucks her fingers under the slouching neckline of her sweater, pulls out a small photograph, presses a kiss to it, and tucks it onto the ofrenda behind a little pot of water. She makes her slow way over to go in search of that bottle of wine.

Cris makes a little gimme for Ruiz to put the stuffing closer so he can start filling the husks too. "A nun I knew growing up. Sister Ya." Get it? Nun Ya. None yah business. His gaze flicks over a little nervously when Sutton gets a little close to the altar, but he forces his gaze away to the task at hand. "You know, Harry. It's a shame about the preggo thing. If there's one thing a latin man loves even better than sex, it's seeing a girl with a big fat round belly full of his baby." Talk about a man marking his territory. "You'd be smokin' hot. So whadya do to your leg anyways? Pull a muscle doing bedroom gymnastics?"

The filling's coming along nicely, but there's still plenty to make; Ruiz is maybe a quarter of the way through. His eyes flick over to Sutton occasionally, flitting about the altar like she is, but he doesn't comment on her furtiveness. Or notice the photograph she sneaks in there. Or if he does, he makes no mention of it.

The bowl of dough is pushed a bit closer to Cris, with a little tic in his jaw at the flippant answer he gets regarding the photograph. It does seem to do its job though, in not enticing him to ask any more questions about it. Then the guy has to open his big mouth about Sutton being pregnant, and he turns slowly to the younger man and looks him right in the eye. "You fucking say that again, I will knock your fucking teeth out." Then he waits to see if Cris will actually be stupid enough to challenge him on that. Bamboleo plays cheerfully in the background, and his big shoulders are rigid with tension.

Sutton comes up against Cristobal's back. She leans in very close, very, very close. One hand snakes around his body. The lean of her body in against his effectively keeps him in his seat, unless he's willing to knock her back of over to get up. Her hand slides down his chest and over the man's abs. She doesn't speak until Javier has turned and said his peace, and then she adds to that, very quietly. "That's how he asks nice. Don't make me ask." Her chin hovers a breath from resting on Cris' shoulder. She looks at his throat for a beat, his pulse point, then raises her gaze to Javier over Cristobal's shoulder.

It seems both men know when it's polite to back off certain touchy subjects. Ruiz with the photo and Cris with the pregnancy comments. Of course, one of them has more tact than the other. "Okay, Jesus Fuck, no more baby talk...as hot as that would be to see you try." But he's dropping it, at least, perhaps in the spirit of the holiday. Cris is going for the corn meal dough to start filling husks the old fashioned way, by using his hands to press it in when Sutton adds her portion, his stomach tightening beneath her hand. His head turns barely. "Seriously, you two. Stop threatening me with a good time."

Ruiz's jaw is still tight as he regards Cris beside him. Who has a strange idea of a good time, if it includes having a cranky police captain smash his fist into his face again and again until he either goes down, or takes back what he said. The older man runs his tonguetip along his teeth slowly, dark eyes on blue as Sutton shares a few words of her own. With considerably more handsiness. Which is kind of hot, all things considered. He shifts his hips slightly, and gets back to pressing dough into corn husks. "If you two are going to fuck, do it on the table. Not the counter." Because that's where the food's being assembled, and he's hungry, damn it.

Any second now, Sutton's going to stop touching Cristobal. A moment more, then her nails skim up Cris' abs again and she hms. "You probably would enjoy it too much." She's definitely high. You can tell because before she steps away from Cristobal, her lips press to his throat just behind his ear. "Behave." Like that'll happen. Not as if Sutton's going to commit much violence until after someone feeds her. It smells like all the delicious things in this kitchen. She pffs at Javier. "Javi." She gives him a look. "Behave." Now they're both getting it from her.

When another fast song, Bem, Bem, Maria begins playing, Sutton checks out of the dance, bending to go through the cabinets, ass once again in the air. Her sweater slides up a little, no other tattoos, just that one sleeve that's visible. She digs around until she comes up with a bottle of wine, touching every damn thing she comes across down there. Her butt begins to bounce to the music again then she pops up with the wine in hand. Thank god it's red. She digs around in the nearest drawer and actually gets the corkscrew on her first try. She jams it into the cork, looking across the counter with those hazel eyes at Mr. Cruz. Twist, twist, twist. "I dropped my bike in the rain the other night and now my beautiful thigh looks like I was too lazy to put on leather pants. Stupid. It also hurts like a motherfucker." Hence the WINE to go with whatever she already took.

"Someone open this." She can't get the cork out without risking dropping the bottle.

"Please." Cris says of being told to behave. "I have manners." Uh oh. "First: the table is being used as the ofrenda, so it's either the floor or the bed. Second: I'd only fuck your girl with you in the room if you're the one setting the pace by fucking me from behind." He flicks a little chunk of corn meal off his finger and then reaches for a towel to mop off his hands and make a motion for the bottle from Sutton. "Need me to take her to the shop?" The bike, presumably.

More like the whine, Sutton. Javier doesn't say a word about it though. Because he's busy making dinner, and the best way to curtail any gruff comments from the Mexican is to keep his hands busy. "Por qué no me obligas?" he murmurs to Sutton without looking up at the saucy blonde. Though her bending over to root through the cupboards certainly gains a long glance. Which is disrupted, once again, by Cris and his big mouth. He watches the man like he can't decide if he's for real, or just flinging his usual facetious commentary and waiting to see if something sticks. "In your fucking dreams," he tells him eventually, and then smiles. Dimples and crinkle-cornered eyes and everything. The shop question, he'll leave to Sutton. Her 'bike', her rules.

Yeah pretty much as soon as Cris says he has manners, Sutton's gaze comes up and goes to Cristobal. Right. She's thoughtful for a minute when he paints that picture. "... uh." Belatedly, she slides the bottle over toward Cris. "Wasn't going that fast; needs some paint. Maybe a buff. You know somebody good enough?" She sounds a little more worried for the bike than her booty. "It's vintage." She dropped a vintage Triumph on the rain-slicked street in pursuit of a pumpkin spiced latte, a tragic tale of woe.

She turns that gaze to Javier when he asks why she doesn't make him behave. "Do you wanna do this in front of your little friend?" She says like they're on the playground and he's starting some shit. Once again, Sutton is high. In case anyone missed it. "Put the dimples away, Jesus, you'll blind someone." And that's when she smacks his ass.

That smile from Ruiz gains just as much as a lascivious glance from Cristobal as Sutton's bobbing butt dance she does when she's searching for things. "At least in one of them. There's also the one she's sucking me off while you watch from the chair, jerking it. Or vice versa. Or she's giving the little man in the canoe a vigorous rub while we fight it out to see who's going to top...or...want me to keep going?" He asks as he cranks open the bottle of wine. "I've got connections." Again, presumably the last is about her bike.

The little man in the canoe? Javier was following along pretty well up until that point. Maybe even getting a little distracted with all this dirty talk. But the canoe thing brings his mental porno reel to a screeching halt. "What?" He looks down, realises he's lagging behind in making their dinner, and picks up the pace. The rest of the dough's pressed into the corn husks, and the meat spooned on top before he starts folding them closed. "No, I think I've got the picture." Rhetorical question, Javier. "Besides-" Smack. He turns, and makes a little growling noise, and pretends to snap at Sutton with his teeth. Playfully.

Sutton slides the glass she pulled for OJ over for Cristobal to pour the wine and she puts the OJ back in the fridge. "I think I know why you ended up going down on Javi and not the other way around." She's thinking about taking a couple of steps to hop up onto the counter, but that kind of move would hurt quite a bit. It reminds her, suddenly, when she brushes against the counter, that standing is her best option. "Wine. Hurry up." Sutton's not about to explain the little man in the canoe thing.

Her gaze flicks back to Javier when he snaps. She advances and slides her arm around him this time. Whatever she took makes her extra touchy-feely. "Besides," she finishes for Ruiz, regardless of whatever it was he was going to say, "I don't share like that. No divided attention or I get bored. Then I'm thinking about checking my phone, and once I want my phone, the date's just over." She presses her face to Javier's chest. "You smell like meat. I'm so hungry. How long do tamales take to bake?" They're baked, right? She's not a cook.

"Yes, please, if you would take my bike in." She seems to have forgotten she's leaned in against Ruiz, but her gaze drops from Cristobal's striking blue eyes to her empty glass, which is so patiently (ha) waiting to be poured.

"So that brings us back to the simultaneous fucking situation." Cris says as casual as he's listed the rest of the other situations off, dutifully filling that glass dangerously close to the top with a glug of the liquid in the bottle as the air bubble tries to get past the tide. "A man's gotta distract himself with these things working in a strip club so my thoughts don't stray to the girls. Two fundamental rules in life. Don't get high on your own supply, and don't shit where you eat. So to speak. Unless scat play is your kink, no judgment, just not mine." He doesn't bother recorking the bottle. "Yeah, I'll pick her up tomorrow or the next day."

"Steamed," Javier corrects, kissing the top of Sutton's head. Which is all he can presently reach, with her face nuzzled in against his chest and his hands all doughy and sticky and unsuited to tipping her chin up for a proper kiss. "Not baked. Steamed. Speaking of which, you have a steamer, right?" A brow's arched at Cris, and then he reaches around the blonde to rinse his hands off. Once they're dry, her face is taken in his hands, and she's given a proper kiss. Closed mouth, no tongue. But he thought about it.

"He does have a good mouth, when he stops talking," is pointed out with another smile sent Cris's way. That's two in one night. He must be doing something right. Sutton's hair's petted with a brush of his fingers, then he pulls away to go find that steamer rack.

Sutton stands there in the circle of Javier's arms like he's not trying to reach the sink around her, basically making a physical nuisance of herself without noticing. She mms. There's the kiss, chin tipped up, almost chaste. She smiles.

"That's gross," Sutton says to Cristobal, though it's spoken to Ruiz's chest. Ah, the sound of wine being poured. It's like the yoga pants clarion call. "I am not afraid to judge. Poop is gross. Needles are gross. Vomit is gross." Yeah, she's a paramedic. What of it. "Cool," she says regarding the bike, slipping free of Ruiz's grasp to retrieve the wine while he goes in search of a rack. She mms. "I can see that about his mouth." She leans over to slurp a little off the top before she picks it up. Full enough there, Cris? "You better not say that about my mouth."

She wanders off with her cup of wine, around and out of the kitchen again. Where's she going? To contemplate the ofrenda. This time, her hands are likely to wander. She stands there watching the candles burn, slowly drinking that wine.

Cristobal makes a vague gesture to where he keeps the steamer. "Is this the part where I'm supposed to point out that the tamales are supposed to be for the ofrenda, not actually to be eaten? Though I don't need any for mine, so I suppose you can have my share." With a nudge of his foot, he swivels on his stool to watch where Sutton's drifting off to again. Ruiz pops the first batch in the steamer and then gets a call, giving them both the 'hold on' finger while he steps out on the porch to stand under the overhang and take the conversation private. "You should take some of these marigolds with you for Javier's altar. I think I bought out the nursery temporarily."

"I think you did." Sutton replies without looking over, even as Ruiz takes a call with his hand on the steamer. She doesn't turn around to look over for a while, her profile to Cris, mostly giving him a view of her inked shoulder, half her arm, and her tousled blonde locks. "We could." Take some flowers. She's a little distracted, looking at the photo she put on the altar. "I want one. Just one, love." She mms. "I never was very good with all the rules." Her hand snakes out and she touches the back of that photograph face down on the altar, tracing her fingertip across it.

It's incredibly rude to touch it, let alone consider flipping it over. She shouldn't do it.

She knows she shouldn't do it, and yet there goes her hand making the motion to do it anyway.

Sutton turns the image up and tucks it back into a standing position.

Of course Cris is hopping off his stool in one fluid motion, taking the two quick strides with his long legs that it takes to eat up the distance between them. It's just long enough for Sutton to get a glimpse of the image on the framed photograph, a bald child no older than half a decade or so old in a hospital bed, looking even smaller considering the dozen tubes and leads stuck to their little form, yet the child - a girl though the only indication is pierced ears - giving a smile and a middle finger to the camera with a younger Cristobal leaning behind her giving the same gesture to the camera. It's just a glimpse. Before Cris' hand is slapping down on top of the photo to flatten it back to the altar and Sutton's fingers beneath if she's not quick enough. "And we were having such a good time." He growls right into her ear, much the way he did in the car when a line was crossed.

The blonde doesn't move away, though her fingertips do leave that photo a fraction of a second before he slams it down. Her fingertips linger in the air a few inches from the photograph. Sutton makes no move to touch it again, nor does she turn her head to Cristobal. She puts the nearly empty wine glass down. Thump. Right on the table there, beside a candle. That hand comes up and brushes up Cris' chest. At least that's the aim of it. She doesn't look over, he could move. He could do any number of things. If he does nothing, her fingertips slip up his throat, her knuckles brushed under his jaw. "Don't push, Cristo." The words are soft, so softly spoken.

Cris' chest is rising and falling quickly beneath Sutton's light touch, puffs of air leaving his nose as he is practically vibrating with restraint. "Here's what's going to happen." He doesn't shy away from her touch. No, he's standing stock still now, because moving right this second could be dangerous slope he can't come back from sliding down. "You're going out there and tell Javier that you're not feeling well from the combination of wine and whatever the fuck you took before you came here." He's talking quietly, either to not alert the Captain that anything is wrong within the apartment or it's just part of his thin self-control at the moment. "That I'm going to finish the tamales and deliver them later." The table containing the ofrenda starts to jutter, items clinking against each other. "You're going to take a marigold. And get the fuck out."

Sutton finally looks over. She looks up. Though Cris isn't all that much older than her, he's certainly taller. She looks at his mouth, and then she looks at his eyes. Another woman, perhaps a smarter woman, would hesitate to stand so close to him with the ofrenda vibrating. Then again, another woman wouldn't dare cross the line and touch his altar. "I won't lie. I will go. I'll tell him we're leaving." She's quiet too. He may have shut the door, but Ruiz has an alarmingly good sense of hearing, even when he's busy on the phone.

Though she can't feel him using the glimmer he's very clearly using, Sutton has a good idea what's happening. "I'm surprised you'd make comments about my —" Pregnancy, she was going to say, but perhaps she thinks better of finishing that sentence. Her hand turns and her palm presses lightly against his throat. She may have something else to say, but she doesn't. Nor does she apologize. She leaves the photograph of her brother tipped behind the pot of water on his altar. "Thank you for the wine." She turns a little, but doesn't move yet. It's a delicate balance and he hasn't moved, but he might snap if she does first.

Cris' breathing is still coming rapidly, and when she dares to turn towards him and look up at his face, his glare back is both simultaneously ice cold and searing hot and his lips are pulled tight against his teeth like he's about to spit out another command as she keeps talking about being surprised at something. It takes a moment for that to sink past the haze of red he's seeing, but as she turns, his hand snaps up to her throat. It doesn't grip, it seems to stop just shy, but his thumb is jutting up to ensure she keeps her chin tilted up unless she wants it jabbing into her lower jaw. "Did you lose a child? Don't. Fuck. With me. Did you lose a child?"

Sutton flinches when his hand finds her throat. He doesn't squeeze, and that's the only reason, the only reason, she manages at all to keep it together. She does make a soft sound in the back of her throat. And yet her gaze doesn't drop from Cristobal's. Her chin stays up, her gaze on his. Something shifts in her expression. It's subtle, but he's looking right at her when it happens. "He said he couldn't. And I can barely take care of myself." She swallows. Her nostrils flare before she speaks again. "Lost isn't the right word." She made a choice, and it wasn't an easy one, but it's not the same. It's not the same as loosing a child. Even if sometimes it feels like it is. "I made the choice." Her eyes are a little glassy, and when she finally looks away, it's not really away, it's just a drop of her gaze to his jaw, her amber eyes with green flecks shaded heavily by her dark lashes. She closes her eyes and a little wetness escapes, but it's barely enough to slip across her cheek, let alone drop across his wrist.

Cristobal asks through clenched teeth. "Was it his?" No question as to who the 'his' is, as his eyes barely tick to the door.

"Of course it was his." Sutton's lashes rise, brows drawing together. Her confusion is evident in her eyes. "Of course it was. Why?" It's funny that Ruiz never asked her that question, not once, but Cristobal does.

Cris' jaw clenches hard and then just like that, his expression changes. Softens. And the man drops to her knees in front of her, reaching for her hips to draw Sutton close and press a kiss to her stomach before muttering,

"//Oremos a Dios, quien a través de los siglos.
Has escuchado los gritos de los padres.

Señor, escucha nuestra oración.

Aquellos que conocen el dolor del dolor, para que puedan ser consolados,
Oramos al Señor

Para esta familia, para que pueda encontrar una nueva esperanza en medio del sufrimiento,
Oramos al Señor

Para todos los que han sufrido la pérdida de un hijo, que Cristo pueda ser su apoyo,
Oramos al Señor.//"

It's the benediction for a lost child.

Sutton stands there, Cristobal's hands on her hips, for once stunned into silence. She stands there in that silence, while he speaks the benediction, and her left hand rests loosely curled against her ribs, and her other hand brushes across the crown of his head, her fingers slipping into his hair. Around them the candles burn, the scent of warm wax melding with the spice of the tamales as yet unfinished.

Sutton's gaze turns from Cristobal to the door. She says nothing.

Cristobal finishes the words and drops his forehead to her stomach as her hand touches his hair. He holds her there for a moment before gathering himself and drawing back up to his full height to stand in front of her, his jaw once again setting as his thumb pads against that tiny bit of wetness on her cheek. "You should go." Before he follows up that thumb with a light kiss where it traced. "And never bring him back here."

"Cristobal." Sutton says his name, just his name, in the wake of the soft kiss to the apple of her cheek. "Lo siento." Now she says she's sorry, but it's not for touching the picture. "I made the choice." Not Javier, her. Saying it again doesn't change the outcome or the tangle of emotion surrounding it. Nor will it change how she feels, or the months of reckless behavior after. She shakes her head, so many things unspoken. "I'll go. We'll go." She corrects herself and touches the bouncer's hand. She moves then, without saying much else. The wine is already starting to make her a little dizzy. Alcohol on top of prescription pain medication that isn't hers was a poor decision. "Goodnight, love."

Cristobal says nothing to the apology. The explanation. The bid goodnight. All that is heard as Sutton slips out the door is, "Alexa. Shut the fuck up. Dammit. Alexa. Stop."