2019-11-06 - The Most Awkward of Hidey Holes

Let the record stand: Alexander gave Ruiz time to rethink this whole idea. He did. But since the Captain didn't, there was a curt text saying that Alexander was taking him up on the offer of a hidey hole, and coming over. Alexander is dressed as Alexanders often are, with a Pantera shirt under his oversized Army surplus jacket, a duffel bag, and a backpack, and everything looks one step from the refuse heap. Including Alexander, really. He knocks three times on the door, pauses, knocks three times again. Then steps back so he can be clearly seen through the peephole.

It's a half a minute or so before there's a scrape, a thump, and the sound of bare feet on cheap motel rug approaching. Pause for the occupant to take a peek through said peephole, and then the deadbolt's unlatched and the door tugged open. It's de la Vega standing there, of course, fingers rifled through his dark hair, threadbare tee shirt and cargo pants and he looks a little.. well, he looks a little something. Allergies? Had a little cry about something recently? Doesn't seem like him. "Hey," he murmurs, eyeing the duffel, the backpack, and then Alexander himself. Understanding dawns belatedly. "Oh. Come in." He pushes the door a bit wider.

Alexander hesitates, studying Ruiz for a long moment. "Is now a bad time?" But when the other man pushes the door open, he eels his way inside, sidesteps to put his back against the wall, and takes a thoughtful look around like he might be quizzed on the contents at any moment. Then his eyes turn to Ruiz, and he offers a tentative smile, even as he stares with that penetrating, assessing way of his.. "Hi." A pause. "I did bring booze. For rent. And thanks."

The stare is returned pound for pound; the cop doesn't tend to back down from Alexander's lizard-like scrutiny, and today's no different. He waits for the other man to step inside, then shoves the door shut with his shoulder and throws the deadbolt again. His gaze slides over Alexander, like he's looking for the aforementioned booze. "You didn't have to. I offered." Well, after Alexander vaguely implied asking. "Have a seat," he adds, a little awkwardly. There's a couch, a couple of folding chairs at the table that don't look like they belong to the room, and, well, the bed.

"You did. Thank you." Alexander slinks over to one of the folding chairs, and slips down into it, putting the duffel and backpack at his feet. He scrubs at his face with his hands for a moment, then runs his hands through his hair and sighs, shoulders drooping. There are a couple of slow blinks, before he refocuses on Ruiz. He bends down, opens the backpack and pulls out a large bottle of Patron Silver. From the clink of glass on glass, there's at least one other bottle in there. But he sets that on the table, and returns to staring at the cop. "I don't know what's less of a problem for you. I brought things I can work on, quietly, if you prefer. And my Nintendo, if you want to get stomped in a very old game or two." A subtle upquirk of his mouth. "Or headphones, if you would prefer me to just settle somewhere and not exist for a while." And in exactly the same flat tone as the options so far, he offers, "If I asked what was wrong, would you tell me, or just make that face and tell me to mind my own business?"

Ruiz ambles back over to the table as Alexander settles in, dithers a bit, and then goes hunting for the Patron. The sight of it makes him smile, however fleetingly, and he drifts off to fetch a couple of tumbler glasses.

"While I'm aware of what a Nintendo is-" Courtesy, probably, of his son. "-I don't think I'd be any real challenge to you. Nor did I say anything about pretending you aren't here." He sets the glasses on the table and settles into the seat opposite. The table's small, and there isn't honestly much leg room. "Would you like me to ignore you?" The question posed gives him pause for a moment. "I'm not sure what makes you think something's wrong."

Alexander's gaze follows Ruiz as he moves to fetch the glasses, staying riveted on him until the man has settled in the seat opposite. Unsurprisingly, Alexander gives way to give Ruiz more room in the cramped space, but his smile is welcoming, even mischievous. "You say that like I wouldn't enjoy thoroughly beating you at a number of different games. Most of them aren't hard to learn. And it can be fun; concentrating on something that is involving but not complex or threatening. It calms me."

There's a shake of his head as he reaches for the bottle and pours a glass for each of them. Generous for Ruiz, only a swallow or two for himself. "No. I don't want you to ignore me. If I did, I wouldn't have come. But I'm in your space, so you make the rules." A roll of his shoulders, before he raises his eyebrows. "You look off. A little. Around the eyes." Just a flat observation before he reaches for his glass and takes a sip.

"Oh, I'm quite certain you'd enjoy handing my ass to me at.. what's it called? Super brothers smash?" His brows furrow; he's pretty sure that's wrong. "I'll think about it," he concludes, with a sidelong look toward the younger man before he tips his glass toward his mouth. A sip, and a swallow, unhurried.

"Off?" Just that solitary word, and the thunk of his glass being set upon the table. He sniffs once, sharply, eyes on Alexander. After an uncomfortably long pause, "I feel fine. How's Isabella?"

Alexander laughs, low but with genuine humor. "I'm not that advanced. I rock it old school - original Nintendo. Super Mario Brothers. Contra. Double Dragon. Good times. And yes," his smile widens to a cheeky grin, "I'd definitely enjoy it." Apparently, he's taking I'll think about it as a win, because he sits back with an indulgent air of victory. His eyes half close as he takes another sip of his drink. A shiver runs down his spine and he grimaces, slightly. Hard liquor is never something he's quite prepared for.

"Off." Alexander just lets the repetition be his answer, and not backing down from the observation. Although he doesn't push for a better answer, either. He seems - if not at ease - at least to bear up well under the silence, but for the tap-tap-tap of his fingers on the glass he holds as it stretches on. "She's recovering. Had a massive headache, but it's gotten better." He grimaces. "It looks like her assailant lifted her pendant at the City Hall meeting, and used it to lure her to the church. She didn't get a great look at him, but probably in his fifties? Caucasian, male, a sort of cultured tenor for a speaking voice." He grimaces. "Worth keeping an eye out for him."

Original Nintendo? Javier's reclusive smile makes a slight appearance when the games are listed, suggesting he's probably familiar with a few of them. There's something wistful about it though, and the reason why may become obvious a moment later when he explains, "My father couldn't afford to buy me one. So I saved up for one myself doing shit jobs." You know, as one does at that age, when one wants something badly enough. He tips his glass toward his mouth again, eyes half-lidding, then lashes lifting as the thing's set down. He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "It was stolen before I even got it home. So I never really owned one. But if you want to teach me." He watches the other man for a long while, then switches his gaze to the patio door, which has been left slightly open; the rain is audible through it, hissing against asphalt.

The description of this assailant makes him frown slightly. "Might be CCTV footage from city hall that we can leverage. Or eyewitness accounts. I'll see what I can do."

There's a flicker of that restless, hungry interest when Javier starts to speak, and Alexander stops playing with his glass long enough to listen. A flicker of a grimace, of regret on Ruiz's behalf for the loss of something that had been worked for, but no pity. Instead, he offers another of his brief smiles. "I want to teach you," he agrees, with good cheer. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it as he reconsiders. The rest of the glass is emptied, so he can reach for the bottle, refill it in the same meager serving, and offer to top off the other man's along the way. "You must have grown up pretty rough."

It's studiously neutral, even if he's not able to keep the curiosity out of his eyes, or keep his eyes from drifting down to Ruiz's tattooed hands and arms. Then a nod, as he goes on. "It'd be great to get a picture of the bastard. When I talked to him, it was foggy, and he was wearing black glasses, a top hat, and platform shoes. Difficult to get any sort of impression of physical features."

He's quiet for a while, contemplating either the teaching of how to play old Nintendo games that he missed out on entirely, or this bastard in a top hat and platform shoes that took Isabella's pendant. Or, perhaps, "Si. It was difficult. My parents did the best they could." His eyes are squinted up a little, heavy crow's feet fanning out from the corners as he continues to watch the patio door. Then turns, on a breath, back to gaze at Alexander. His glass is nudged closer with a tap of his knuckle, indicating that he would in fact like to be topped up.

"This isn't the guy I clipped in the shoulder, is it?" he thinks to ask after a minute.

Alexander tops up the glass, and puts the bottle back on the table. He pulls his legs up in a half-lotus in the chair that has to be more comfortable than it looks, or why would he do such a thing? "Tell me about them? Your parents?" A brief smile, before he follows the gaze towards the patio and the steady hiss of the rain. There's a nod. "It is. He says it hurt. So hopefully that gives you as much of a warm and fuzzy feeling as it gave me." A sip. "I'm pretty sure he's hanging around for a bit. He didn't seem like he was planning to move on." A longer pause. "Very dramatic. I suspect he likes choreographed things he can turn into narratives, with parts for people to play."

"Why didn't you just tell me that in the first place?" A flicker of irritation, telegraphed in the slight flare of his nostrils and tug of muscle to one side of his jaw. The tequila helps, though; he lifts the glass to his mouth, and tips it back for a large swallow. "Have you tried to find him?" The inflection he puts on that word is slight, but Alexander should be able to catch it; his dark eyes hold the other man's steadily. As to his parents, a soft huff of breath expelled through his nose, gaze shifting to the contents of his glass. "There's not much to tell. We were poor. My madre was sick of the violence and the gangs and the drug deals going down in her back yard. So we left there and we came here. Like millions of other fucking people."

There's a flicker of hurt and indignation on Alexander's features, and he ducks his head to stare at the glass in his hands. "I did. Tell you. Over text. You said you wished you'd shot him in the head. And no, I haven't. Until Isabella woke up, I had no idea what he looked like, and I still don't have a very good one. Even assuming that he's hanging out on this side, rather than the Veil, in between...whatever he decides to do." He takes another sip, and puts his glass down, before reaching down to the duffel bag at his feet.

He pulls out a few books - dry looking textbooks, one labeled 'Crime Reconstruction' and then another titled 'Forensic Victimology'. They're still wrapped in plastic, although right now he uses a fingernail to slit open the latter text, neatly removing the film, folding it into a small and obsessively neat square, then tucking the square back into the duffel bag. "You said your madre taught you to cook. Do you have any siblings?" He flips absently through the book, more of his attention on Ruiz than the pages.

Javier frowns slightly, and something brittle and familiar starts to settle into place at the indignant look he gets from Alexander. "No. I mean, you should have told me that her assailant was this fucker who was playing the organ that I shot. You expect me to follow your train of thought when you don't tell me shit-" He stops, and his tongue is run along his teeth in visible agitation. It's pretty clear that his feelings run deeper than a single miscommunication. "Forget it." His gaze shifts to the textbooks that come out, and he's quiet, distracted while Alexander clips the plastic film off with his fingernail. "Yes," he replies to the siblings question, eventually. And, after another sip of his drink, "You?"

Alexander's brow furrows. "I thought I did." A pause. He looks down at the book, sets it aside, picks up the glass. Little nervous motions like he doesn't quite know what to do with his hands. "I'm sorry. If I'm not explaining enough. I don't...I'm not used to explaining things, Javier." He eyes the agitation warily. "If you let me know what I'm leaving out, I'll try to fill you in?" He takes another sip of the tequila, then shakes his head. "Pretty sure that after they got stuck with me, they decided not to roll the dice again," he says, regarding siblings, with a crooked little half-smile. "I have some cousins, though, of various ages. We don't talk much, but they exist. And," his voice turns dry, "that's not even counting the Baxters, apparently."

The nervous fidgeting is noticed, surely, given how carefully the cop is watching Alexander. But after the forget it is uttered, he seems intent on dropping the subject entirely, and tips his head back to finish off his drink in two long swallows. The glass is set back down with a dull thump, and he reaches past the other man to snag the bottle and pour himself some more. If Alexander's looks like it needs topping off, he'll do that, too.

"You shouldn't say things like that," he murmurs, on the heels of the remark about getting stuck with him and rolling the dice. "The thing with children is, as parents, we don't own them. We don't control them. We just give them a nest to fall out of, and hope to hell they turn out all right." He's quiet a moment more, then ticks his eyes back up again. "I think you turned out all right. So don't be so hard on yourself."

Alexander makes an agreeable noise when his glass is topped off, offering it over to have more alcohol added, although he's working his way through it at a snail's pace. There's a sudden, bright grin. "You think I turned out all right? I didn't think we'd gotten through that much tequila to have muddled your judgement that badly, Captain." Despite the self-mocking little lilt to the joke, his expression softens. "Thanks, though."

He looks back down at his drink. "I always wanted kids, you know. I like kids. They're always interesting. Haven't the faintest idea how I'd parent one, though. It'd be a disaster. And probably best not to...pass down...the probably tangled mess that is my DNA. But they're nice." His gaze flickers up, and he gets that look like he's about to ask prying questions, again. It's a pretty common look. This time, though, he refrains. Just stares at the other man in a silent, thoughtful study.

Javier's alcohol tolerance is probably through the roof, with the amount he puts into his body. He's on his third glass, and only just starting to look a little less prickly. The bottle's slid back onto the table, and he eases back in his chair to scratch at his belly absently over his tee shirt. "My judgement's not that muddled. I meant what I said." The corners of his mouth start to smile, but it fritters out before it really goes anywhere. The commentary on children and parenting prompts him to drink more, knuckles drawn across his lips to catch a trickle that tried to escape into his beard. He doesn't say a word about it, and his attention's on his glass again for a distressingly long time before ticking back up to meet the younger man's study. His eyebrows furrow slightly; silence.

"You," Alexander points, his smile returning to tease, "are more of a softy than most people give you credit for. Possibly including yourself." His alcohol tolerance is definitely not a match for Ruiz's, and his own slow sips, which probably have consumed only about a third of what the cop has, have gotten him to the 'vague, warm glow' portion of the evening. He still doesn't look away from Ruiz, matching stare for stare and lapsing into silence himself. Then, abruptly, he says, "I think I should learn how to pick locks. And electrical alarm systems. That sounds fun."

Maybe he's distracting himself from asking something more prying. Maybe Alexander's brain is just a bag of wiggly cats.

He makes a bit of a face at that, being told he's a softy. Like he'd been stung by a vaguely annoying, but ultimately nonthreatening insect. "Whatever helps you sleep better at night," is his answer to that. Alexander and his bag of wiggly cats, he continues to study in return; his own expression is pretty circumspect and difficult to get a read on without the aid of his gift. Then, completely out of the blue, something about picking locks and alarm systems. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" the cop retorts, draining another long pull from his glass. "Why?"

Alexander rolls his eyes. "Very little helps me sleep better at night. Definitely not thinking about your soft and fluffy side." He takes a sip of his drink, and by his expression, he's just waiting for the reaction, his dark eyes holding hints of mischief in their depths. "See. I thought that sentence was pretty straightforward. I ought to learn to pick locks and dismantle electrical alarm systems. Because it's useful, obviously. And interesting." Another drink, before the glass is put down and he's restlessly rising to his feet, carrying the backpack over to where the TV is set up. He pulls out another bottle of Patron, setting it off to the side, and then an honest-to-god original Nintendo system. Which Ruiz may or may not remember from Alexander's living room. The television is old - a boon in this case, since it means he doesn't have to use the adapters he brought to start hooking up the system. He hums to himself as he works, carefully checking each and every wire and the controllers for signs of rot or a wire coming loose somewhere inside.

"It's not illegal, you know. In Washington state, to own lockpicks. Only to use them with the intent to commit a crime. And it's not illegal in any state to learn how electrical alarm systems work. I think." He makes a 'so-so' wiggle of his hand to indicate that maybe he's a little fuzzy on the details. Then, once the Nintendo is set up, Alexander starts to prowl the small room, examining various things. "Things have been broken. Or removed."

Javier's reaction is a pretty predictable snort, accompanied by a murmured, "You can fuck right off, Clayton." Something about that little jab from Alexander causes a stitch of tension to slide in between his shoulders. His gaze tracks the other man as he stands, though he makes no move to follow. He's clearly starting to feel the effects of the alcohol; his speech isn't slurred, but it's a little slower and more heavily accented than usual. "And you know full well that I want to know what you plan on doing with that knowledge. I don't buy this whole, because it's interesting, Javier, angle." Yes, he does totally try to imitate Alexander's speech there. No, he does not do so convincingly.

Alexander clucks his tongue. "No creo que se haya pedido el idioma." The halting and somewhat broken nature of the Spanish doesn't quite hide the playfulness behind the chiding, even though his brow furrows as he concentrates on pulling the words out of...wherever the hell he gets them. But the accent is Ruiz's own. He lets his fingers trail over various objects in the room, although he makes no attempt to read them with his abilities. Instead, he eventually makes his way back to the table and settles with all the stability of a hummingbird back at his seat, to take another sip of his drink. He tilts his head to one side, and smiles at Ruiz. "I'd think it was obvious, Javier. It's a tool in a tool kit. I always like to expand my capabilities, and there've been enough times in the last few months where I could have used that sort of knowledge. I will try to use my powers for good."

There's no comment, perhaps predictably, on the state of the objects in the room. That a lamp is missing, the table's been busted and subsequently patched up, the chairs belonging to it are missing, and a rather noticeable dent is visible in the wall adjoining the bathroom.. are all rather self-evident. Ruiz makes no effort to elucidate upon these things. He simply watches Alexander meander about before returning to his seat, and the playfulness in the other man's tone seems only to drive him further behind that tense wall of uncertainty. The tequila? Not helping tonight.

"That didn't work out so well last time. Did it?" Using his powers for good. The instant the words are out, he seems to regret them. His gaze shifts away, and he finishes off what's left of his tequila before pushing slowly to his feet. "I think I'm going to go take a shower. You need the bathroom?"

Alexander blinks. Hurt flashes across his features, although he lifts the glass to drain the rest of it in an attempt to disguise the expression; he knows he's shit at hiding his emotions, but a grimace of pain and a grimace of alcohol burn are surely about the same. Right? He puts the glass back down with a more emphatic thunk than is strictly necessary. "No. I'm not very good at it. But I do keep trying," he says, quietly, looking away from Ruiz. A shake of the head about whether he needs the bathroom. Instead, he dredges up another smile, and picks up his textbook. "When you get out, maybe you'd like to learn how to play a game." He reaches for the bottle, pouring just another finger of liquid into his glass, before curling up in the folding chair and turning his attention to the very serious study of victimology.

"No." It's quiet, and there's hurt in his voice, too. Layered, like a prehistoric rock formation. Pain upon pain upon pain, some of it likely not even related to Alexander, stuffed back down with a soft sound in his throat that's barely audible. "No, I don't think I'm in the mood. You want to play, feel free." He turns toward the bathroom, already scraping his tee shirt off. With his back to Alexander, the toll that his life has taken on his body is somewhat more apparent: knife wounds, bullet wounds, a surgical scar running along six inches or so of mid-spine. Ink, of course, and plenty of it; names written neatly in rows along his right flank, something squid-like swimming along his right shoulderblade. "If you decide to sleep before I'm out, there are fresh linens on the bed. I'll take the couch."

Alexander sighs his acceptance, his head still bowed over his book, although it comes up enough to watch the man as he moves to the bathroom. Dark eyes cataloging each scar and tattoo with interest. "You know that's inefficient," he says, after a moment. "I barely sleep at all, and I don't have a regular shift or place to be. The bed's pretty much wasted on me." Still, there's an resigned lilt to the protest that suggests this is not a hill he wants to die on. At least not yet. "If you change your mind, though, about the games. Let me know. They're pretty fun."

"I said. I'll take the couch." He pauses in the doorway for a moment, then flicks the shirt into the laundry basket set up there, and steps into the bathroom. Mercifully, he shuts the door before removing any more clothing. Moments later, the shower starts up, and the sound of the spray continues for some time.