2019-11-20 - Shooty Shooty Bang Bang

A few exchanged texts to pick a time and place and the details are all set. Easton pulls up to the trail head in his jeep and hops out. He pulls out a duffle bag and a small cooler from the trunk, the two very necessary ingredients for a good therapeutic afternoon up in the woods. He is dressed in his usual tee-shirt, though he has a wool flannel shirt over top and a pair of tan work pants on instead of the usual jeans. He doesn't see any sign of Ruiz's car so he figures he's here first. He hikes up a little ways following the trail markers towards the spot that he found previously for shooting. It's only a ten minute or so walk into the woods, not even a half mile in but it's far enough from the road and secluded enough to work. He sets down the cooler and the bag and starts with the booze. He sits down on a log and takes a drink straight from the whiskey bottle. Normally he'd be drinking beer for such an excursion, but not after the last few weeks he's had.

De la Vega's truck pulls up a few minutes later, surging off the access road and into the gravel lot with a skitter of rocks and squeak of suspension that could probably use tuning. Once it's been brought to a halt and the ignition killed, the man unfastens his restraints and leans over to slide something out from under the back seat. AR-15 or something of its ilk, he checks the loadout briefly and tugs the sling over his shoulder. Then with a quick glance at his watch, climbs on out and slams the door. Rifle over his shoulder, bottle of what looks like Patron in his left hand, he tugs down the brim of his cap and trudges up the trail to where Easton said he'd be waiting. Nothing particularly sneaky about his approach; he isn't trying to hide it. Quite the opposite, in fact.

The noise of someone coming up the trail is easy to pickup, especially when they aren't trying to hide it. Easton also can feel there is someone approaching, a sense that he hasn't spent much time honing or thinking about but it's nice to have. "Gunny?" Easton calls out as the shape of someone comes around a corner, he raises a hand in greeting before waiting for an answer. He doesn't hide the fact that he's drinking whiskey straight from a Knob Creek bottle, it's not like he figures Ruiz will care. Once he confirms who it is, he kneels to open up his own bag of guns and pull out a AR-15, modified with bump stock and illegal pistol grip, it is definitely not a gun he should have in a legal sense. But in every other sense? It's perfect.

The look on his face says that he's a) not surprised, and b) doesn't give a shit. Except for the fact that it's whiskey, and not tequila. That gains a bit of a grimace. "Cap," greets the surly Mexican with a twinge of a smile, hefting his rifle's strap as he approaches. Aside from the ball cap, he's outfitted himself in a ratty tee shirt and dark jeans, with a warm-looking hoodie pulled over top that has the Seattle PD logo on the back. Scuffed hiking boots, too, that look well-worn. "What've you got there?" His gaze alights on the modified AR-15, curiosity piqued, and he prowls on over for a closer look.

Easton made the mistake of trying to keep up with Ruiz on the tequila the night of the key reading. He won't be making that mistake anytime soon again. He takes another gulp of whiskey, letting that wash over his body and push away more of the strict tension that threatens to stress him to the point of breaking. He shrugs and says, "Looks like the same as you. My AR 15 , it's just the nine millimeter, though. Little pop pop gun." Going shooting usually means a good amount of ammo spent and Easton prefers not to just blow away money on larger caliber rounds. But the fact that he specifies which AR-15 means yes, he does have more than one. He leans over to check out Ruiz's gun, checking for any non-stock options. The grip is easy to pick out on Easton's as custom, especially as it's attached to the bump stock as all one piece. Easton offers it out to him for further inspection. "Did a little customization to make it more comfortable to shoot" and make it illegal, but whatever, technically none of the modifications are permanent.

Custom grip, extended trigger guard and some fancy schmancy backup front and rear sights; none of them hard to spot, for someone who knows their guns. "You should be careful with those," he murmurs, with a vague hitch of his chin that might be intended to indicate the bump stock. "Not exactly legal." He could if he were even more of a jerk than he already is, cause Easton some real problems over that. But the warning's all he seems inclined to give today; after a significant look to the man, he unslings his own rifle and sinks down beside Easton on the log. Then the cap on the bottle of Patron is unscrewed, and he chugs back a good swallow of it. "You ready? Or need to lubricate first?" With alcohol, he means. There's a flickered grin as he says it.

Nodding appreciatively at the touches Ruiz has added to the gun Easton just smirks when told to be careful. "No. Not exactly." He agrees about the modifications even if it's a dumb law that he disagrees with one hundred percent, it is still the law. He looks back at Ruiz's look, and scrutinizes him, wondering if he would actually give him shit over this. He obviously thought not, but maybe he was wrong. "I'm ready." Easton cofirms and lets out only a slight 'heh' of a laugh about the lubrication. "No we go in raw. But follow each other shot for shot, you call it and the other answers. You miss, you drink." He stands and points to a tree about fifty feet away and says "Wonky pine with the broken branch facing us." And pulls up his rifle to line up the shot. He lets off a burst of three rounds and laughs when all three go wide.

"Well that's fucking embarrassing..." He doesn't seem all that put out by it, but he does lift the bottle to take a good chug of a drink.

Go in raw? That makes de la Vega chuckle, and he watches as Easton pulls to his feet and gets set up with his rifle. He's anticipating the report of the weapon, so doesn't flinch when it goes off. But does bust up laughing when all three miss. "Fuck, not going to be hard to do better than that," he retorts, taking another swig from his bottle before setting it down and climbing to his feet. His own rifle is prepped, safety off, round dropped into the chamber as he sidles on up to where Easton had taken aim. Lower lip caught between his teeth, he takes in the direction of the wind and the distance to his target, and fires off a triple burst of his own. The branch is sheared off with one of his shots, and the other two lodge a respectable distance from the first, into the trunk of the pine. Easton is tossed a wink.

His gun comes back up then, and he sights downrange a little further. "Cedar, eleven o'clock." First shot's slightly wide, while the second two are solid - if poorly spaced - hits.

"I deserve any and all ridicule for that piss poor performance." Easton takes the missing well at least and only laughs when Ruiz comments on how easy it will be to top that. He takes another drink from the bottle, well aware that only drinking if he misses isn't really going to cut it. It's sometimes nice to pretend that outside factors are forcing you to drink. He watches as the first target is hit and then at least two rounds buried in the second. He bumps Ruiz's shoulder as he walks to take his place. He raises his gun and takes more time now lining up the shot, watching for the swaying of the trees and then squeezes off three more rounds. This time all three are buried into the trunk.

"The oak four over from the last one." It's not an oak. Easton couldn't properly identify a tree with a field guide book in his hand. Woodsy, he is not. But regardless, he lines up and hits it with two out of three of the shots.

Walking back to the log, and his bottle of booze Easton breathes out a long slow breath and decides there's been a bit too much fresh air involved here. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and puts one in his mouth before offering one to Ruiz and then lighting up. "So you got any tips for how to deal with a girlfriend to scared to fuck you?" It's the topic he's wanted to talk with Ruiz about since it came up the other night. Sadly there's no way to bring it up that isn't abrupt, but oh well that's never stopped him before. "Did you and Sutton get it figured out?" And it certainly has never stopped him from stepping right in it before either.

Ruiz grunts something at the shoulder bump, and leans over to take a swig of tequila when that shot of his misses. He doesn't look too pleased about it, but at least it's an excuse for more booze. "Nice shots," he compliments in a low murmur. Then his rifle's hoisted up again, he strafes a half step to the right, and chases Easton's well-placed rounds with a few of his own. Not quite up to par, but close. For an old man. "Left railing of the bridge," he announces then, swiveling to sight downrange a good distance. It's a tricky shot, but he buries all three rounds in the post, and growls something dirty and probably self-congratulatory in Spanish before stepping back to let Easton take his shots.

The last question is answered first, his tone flat, though possibly hiding some emotion he's not prepared to deal with right now: "Nope." As in, no, they did not get it figured out. And the rest of it? "I don't think I'm the best person to ask for advice on this one." He will, however, accept a cigarette and a light, if one's being offered. "Except maybe starting with not-fucking. Which.. good luck with that." He makes a bit of a face, as if he even can't believe he suggested that. Not fucking? Who does that?

Taking a drink for the missed shot, and then another drink because the point of this excursion is drinking and guns, Easton is duly impressed with the bridge shots. "Damn." He shakes his head and tries to line up that same shot. He can feel a little bit of the swimming sensation that will certainly not help his aim, but will help him not give a damn about his shanking shots. He takes the shot and clips the railing with one of his bullets, but the rest fly wide. He shakes his head and says, "Barely."

He does in fact light Ruiz's cigarette as well and gives only a half grimace to the answer about him and Sutton. "Sorry to hear that Cap." And he is, for a lot of reasons, sorry to hear it. Firstly because he knows that relationship means something to Ruiz after their first shooting outing. And second because he really could use some good news about where things are headed for him and Bennie. That it can all work out just fine. "Oh you mean I shouldn't be staring at every ass that walks into the bar thinking about the terrible things I want to do to them? Shiit. Yea, I'd put the not-fucking up there with the not-drinking on things I'm not so great at. And sadly I might have to add shooting if you keep kicking my ass."

Ruiz's rifle is safetied and slung across his back, and he drops back down onto the log to take another pull of the tequila. God, if that doesn't hit the spot. The bottle's capped and held onto, and his thumb takes a swipe across his mouth in the wake of it. "So am I." Sorry. He keeps his gaze trained on that bottle, something passing across his eyes. Emotions? Can go fuck themselves. "I miss her," he confides, his voice husky there and threatening to waver. It doesn't, though, and he uncaps the bottle for another swig. "You start ogling your patrons, you're going to start sleeping with them, too. Probably a bad move, professionally." Probably. Because the captain totally is a principled man. One hundred percent.

Switching the gun to safety Easton frowns at it, as if disappointed that it didn't bring him the relief he was hoping for. He sets it back down in the bag and picks up his own bottle before sitting down on the log. He doesn't look at Ruiz while the man talks about those 'feelings' things. He just nods and says, "I miss what we had." Because while he and Bennie are still very much together, it's a very different relationship than what they had before. He takes a drink to that sentiment and says, "I can assure you, sleeping with patrons as a bartender is considered par for the course. I just haven't given it a passing thought again until recently. And now I'm chasing skirts and any dick with a high and tight has me rock hard and ready to go fuck out back like a teenager." He shakes his head slowly after taking another drink, "Something's gonna give."

Ruiz will also drink to that sentiment. And does; a long swallow that works his adam's apple and leaks a little into his beard, brushed away with his knuckles once he tips the bottle upright again. "Really?" To the whole, sleeping with patrons being kosher. "Shit, so she wasn't just blowing smoke up my ass." Of course he's slept with a bartender. Or three. Probably not any time recently, though one never knows with him. The something's gonna give gets a flick of his eyes, the man next to him studied for a long while before he glances away again. What does he say to that? Javier's no good with words. So he says nothing at all. Just squints skyward as the on and off rain decides it's on again, and starts to whisper through the canopy softly.

Another gulp of whiskey is surprisingly not any more helpful in illuminating the solution to Easton's problems, but that doesn't stop him from drinking it like it were. You would think the answers actually were at the bottom of the bottle from the way he drinks. He looks at Ruiz and narrows his eyes in confusion, "Why do you think most people become bartenders?" Answering his question of 'Really' with a question of his own. It certainly never occurred to Easton to not sleep with bartenders as a patron and vice versa. He gives a sad laugh and takes another long drag off his cigarette, "Sutts? If I didn't know you or Bennie, I'd have hit that anytime. Hot people closing down bars fuck bartenders." He manages to not call Sutton a drunk, keeping his glass house nicely in tact. He then thinks of one exception and says, "Unless they're actually friends with the bartender, that's the exception. Maybe the only one." After all he and Isabella have never knocked boots, and it's not like that with him and Mariah. Platonic shutting down of bars is possible in certain situations. Maybe.

As the rain falls down Easton makes sure that his gun gets covered before leaning back to let it splash on his face. "I will tell you what doesn't help. Strippers. Thought I had this great idea to go blow off some steam and let some hot girl work her way through college all over my body. Yea, no. That just pissed me off more because it felt exactly like not being able to do what I want with Benz." A long stream of smoke comes out in a morose stream. "Punching the bouncer did make me feel a little better though, so maybe not a complete loss?" The optimistic note is quickly erased though when he turns to Ruiz and admits, "But then I almost fucked him in the alley because apparently I'm some dumb boot who can't keep it in my pants."

Well, you learn a new thing every day. Easton's rhetorical question gains an exaggerated look of fuck if I know from the Mexican, followed by a sizeable slug knocked back from his bottle of tequila. Even for a guy with his level of alcohol tolerance, it's starting to soften the edges of his self-control, and slow down his speech by a notch. "Could if you want," he murmurs once he's finished swallowing. "Fuck her. That's up to her, not me." It's kind of against the bro code, but then he went and broke that by screwing her brother and then hooking up with her. Not that he mentions any of this.

Mention of strippers makes him snort softly. "I could've told you that was a bad fucking idea." He pauses. "You punched the bouncer?" More chuckling, and more tequila. "God, you're really batting a thousand, aren't you?" His dark eyes are hooded and amused, and a column of ash is flicked off his cigarette with an inked thumb. "Look, what you need is a friend with benefits. Someone who doesn't mind fucking occasionally, you know, to take the pressure off. No strings attached."

At this point into the bottle Easton has given up by default on the shooting portion of the day. He's a little reckless, not a complete idiot. He barks out a short laugh at the possibility offered by his drinking buddy. "Yea. No. That's like fucking your girlfriends sister. It's fine if you hate 'em both." He has no idea about the background here. He is solely talking about Bennie and Sutton's relationship. "And I don't." He does not mention whether he has thought about it or not. There's no need to bring that up.

"Yuuup" Easton agrees both that the strippers was a terrible idea and that he did in fact punch the bouncer. Though technically he only got an elbow, a heabutt and one solid throw in during their scuffle. He shakes his head and says, "If it weren't for Bennie, this would just be it. With more humping strangers." The drunkenly getting kicked out of strip clubs and punching/kissing bouncers that is. The comment about a friend with benefits gets a rueful laugh. "Yea well he's fucking dead and I don't even get to see his stupid face anymore cause of fuckin' Gohl." Which is kind of the crux of the crisis here. He doesn't elaborate on what he's trying to replace between his fractured relationship with Bennie and the loss of Tom.

"But you're not wrong"

Ruiz gives a soft grunt on the subject of Sutton, but doesn't comment any further on it. More tequila goes down the hatch, and he wipes his knuckles across his mouth in the wake of it. He's quiet then, a twinge of something in his eyes when Easton mentions Tom being dead and gone. Maybe the drinking brings his emotions a little closer to the surface. He swallows thickly, tips the bottle so he can see how much is left. He's not going to be driving out of here any time soon, with the amount of alcohol coursing through his bloodstream. "You can't tell me you've got no other friends who'd screw you," he murmurs with a huff of amusement, bending his head forward and scruffing fingers through his hair. "And of course I'm not wrong." Looking back up again, he gives the other man a thump with his knuckles, and chases a swig from the bottle with a pull from his cigarette.

The drinking now begun in earnest with any pretense of other activities done away with Easton stops setting the bottle down on the ground between sips, instead holding it in his lap. He gives a half-shrug and says, "Haven't really asked much." Because up to this point in town he was either casually hooking up with anything in sight or devoted to Bennie. It hasn't produced many friends with benefits situations. "And with my damn luck my husband is straight." Yes, he clearly gets a kick out of obliquely referencing his quickie Vegas wedding to Geoff. He does at least explain "Geoff. Vegas." Okay, maybe explain is being generous, but in his mind that's plenty of information on the topic. "What about you?" Easton looks down at the knuckle thump and then back up at Ruiz, his eyes getting just a touch heavier from the booze. "Where are you at?" He means after Sutton but doesn't know how to phrase that exactly.

His rifle's slung off his shoulder, and it takes him a couple of tries to get it propped up against a tree stump without toppling over. His normally razor sharp reflexes have clearly entered the territory of booze smudged and sloppy; it's probably a good thing they've mutually decided to stop shooting. The husband bit has him squinting at the man, until he clarifies who he's talking about. "Geoff?" He pauses. "Geoff Turner? Erin's ex boyfriend?" He barks a laugh. "Speaking of friends with benefits, we hooked up for a while after they broke up." Hooked up, past tense. Though there's no real sadness attached to that one, unlike when he talks about Sutton.

Where is he at? "Just fucking someone. Nothing serious." His voice drops to a low murmur there, smoke drawn into his lungs and expelled in a long, slow exhale out his nose, followed by a dimpled grin. "Why do you want to know?" Yep, definitely tipsy. Sober Javier would never ask that.

The bottle is set down, with a bit more of a sway than Easton would like to admit. He grunts a "Yup" in confirming Geoff's identity. His eyebrows raise at the news of Erin and Ruiz, but then he laughs and admits, "Yea. Caught that after the funeral." He didn't necessarily get it, since Sutton was standing right there and seemed fine with it, but it makes more sense now in retrospect.

Why do you want to know?

Easton gives Ruiz a look, as if deciding something before he reaches over to put a hand behind the other man's head and draw him into a kiss. He's drunk, but relatively capable still of holding his balance on the log while leaning over. He murmers, "why the fuck do you think?" not moving his lips more than a few centimeters away.

Of course he caught that at the funeral. Everyone probably did. And technically, they were fooling around before she split with Geoff, but that's neither here nor there.

He's just going for a pull of tequila, hand closed around the neck of the bottle as it's hoisted up. Some sort of judgement's being made on how much is left and how long it'll take him to finish it off, when the other man leans in with that hand to the back of his head, and lays one on him out of the blue. And it's probably just as well they've been drinking, because he's got a generally well-honed startle reflex that usually involves a fist to the face at the very least. This, though? Gets a muffled growl, and his hand bunched hard in Easton's shirt. A twist of knuckles, and a harsh pant when the kiss is broken for that low murmur. "What the fuck do I think?" He gives him a shove with the fistful of shirt. More to jostle him, than actually push him away. "I think you don't meet the minimum height requirement for this ride," he answers with a shit-eating grin.

The amount of punching that usually precedes Easton making out with a guy is surprisingly high. This might be one of the few times that he didn't start with physical violence before turning to putting moves on a guy. Progress? Eh, either way the missed startle reflex wouldn't have dissuaded him much anyway. He stares intently at Ruiz as he waits for a response. The shove back surprises him a little, but he keeps his balance. "You asshole." He laughs, but keeps his eyes intently on Ruiz, more specifically his mouth. His breath heaves a bit from the brief lip lock. He watches him, "Really? At your age, still having standards? Good for you." He stands, unsteadily, and stoops over to pick up the bottle and drink down another pull. He's definitely not driving out of here, and apparently not getting anywhere either.

Hey, the night's still young. Plenty of time still for punching. In fact, that comment about at your age seems to be cause for him to fumble a pull off his smoke and drop it into the dirt. And then surge to his feet and take a swing at Easton's face once he straightens. He might be old, but he hits like a goddamned freight train.

The hit comes seemingly out of nowhere, considering the fact that Easton's not exactly at his height of alertness right now. The fist connects with the side of his head and sends him awkwardly stumbling on his bad leg over the roots and leaves. He exclaims "Fuck!" with more confusion than anger as it dawns on him that he just got punched. He turns Ruiz and launches at him to tackle the older man to the ground, Easton's arms wrapping around his mid-section and shoulder driving through Ruiz's core.

Ruiz is normally a lot more on the ball, but the amount of tequila he's consumed is making his body simply not respond in a timely fashion to the signals from his brain. He sees Easton coming at him, but doesn't process it quickly enough to avoid being tackled to the ground with a hard thud as nearly 200 pounds of Mexican collides with it roughly. He loops an arm around the back of the other man's neck in a sort of abbreviated headlock, and takes a couple of swings at him while thrashing to and fro in the dirt like a bronco trying to unseat its rider.

The thump into the dirt drives Easton's shoulder into Ruiz's stomach hard. The hand around his neck just gets him to duck his head under it and bring his elbow up to smash into Ruiz's nose. He growls, "Fuckin hell. I will break your goddamn teeth." He then attempts to grab Ruiz's wrists and pin him down, or at least stop him from getting any more punches in, all of this while attempting to keep his position from on top of the policeman, which is precarious at best. He has exactly 0 pounds advantage in pinning the man down, and his left leg isn't the best at keeping him steady.

Ruiz looks, for a moment there, like he might hurl when the elbow drives into his stomach. It's accompanied by a harsh grunt, and one of his knees comes up to try to jam into Easton's side, and provide some leverage to turn the tables on him. An attempt that's aborted entirely when that elbow smashes into his nose. Hell, it's already been broken at least twice; what's a third or fourth time? "Maldito pedazo de mierda, te joderé!" he snarls, hands curling into hard fists, taut tendon and muscle quivering against the grip the younger man has on his wrists. In all his thrashing, he manages to get one free, and tries to hook his fingers into Easton's shirt so he can shove him off onto his bad leg. But they're both pretty fucking drunk, and the attempt doesn't quite go anywhere.

With getting punched hard in the head to start and getting knocked around more on the ground Easton has lost track of what started this and why and now it's more about just the fight itself. He yells back, loudly, "I don't know what that fucking means!" Somewhere along the lines he picks out the word 'shit' but that's about the limit of his Spanish translation. He gets shoved but digs his knee into the ground and manages to maintain his balance. Still grasping one of the man's arms, he leans down to place his right forearm across Ruiz's throat and hiss at him, "Tap the fuck out Gunny."

Does it really matter what started this? Ruiz plainly looks like he means to finish it, either way. Easton's shout, and the arm jammed against his throat induce a fresh surge of aggression, and tap the fuck out, Gunny? He'll do nothing of the sort. His hand fisted in Easton's shirt drags higher, fingers slid around his throat in a bruisingly hard grip that puts significant pressure on his windpipe. Then a hard shove to try to jostle him loose, along with his knee driven into the man's side. "You fucking wish. Finish what you fucking started, Marshall." Yep, he's going for another swing at him, if he can hold the advantage long enough.

The hand around his throat pushes Easton up enough that he can't keep the pressure on Ruiz's throat. The shove rolls him off of Ruiz and he takes the knee into the side with a grunt. "What I started, you asshole, involved a lot more tongue. I don't know what this bullshit is." He takes the punch but counters with a hard cross aimed at Ruiz's jaw. He's not going to stop punching if Ruiz doesn't. That's not how this works.

That hit, combined with his level of inebriation, actually does seem to put a stop to the cranky Mexican's assault, finally. It catches him across the cheekbone, and he crashes back against the log they'd been seated at, panting heavily. An abrupt laugh then, the sound rough and husky with just a hint of tequila-induced warmth. "I don't.." He has to pause to suck air into his lungs. "..have the slightest fucking clue either." His dark eyes glitter as he struggles to focus on Easton through his alcohol-induced haze, and he's dimly aware that he's tipped over the bottle of tequila. There wasn't much left in it anyway, and he seems to be more interested in his fellow ex-Marine at the moment.

Shaking out his hand after that contact Easton looks at Ruiz, panting, not sure if he wants to make the effort of getting to his feet. There's palpable relief on his face when Ruiz takes a seat. Easton manages to roll up to sitting, leaning on one arm for support. The laugh and the admission that he's not sure what they're doing either just gets Easton to smile and then start laughing, almost reluctantly at first. He stares at the other man breathing hard and then shakes his head, "Sorry about your nose?" He doesn't sound all that sorry about it. He didn't take the first swing after all. His head lolls back drunkenly as he breathes heavily. "I do feel better though."