2019-12-23 - Tibb's Eve

"That's what I was thinking," Elias says as they arrive at the club, "A little something to get one's feet wet that doesn't involve running for one's life." He steps out of the Uber and then up to the door of the club, opening it up and holding it for Dante with a grin and a flourish. "After you," he says with a grin.

"Quite the gentleman. Cheers." Dante heads towards the door, trying not to slip on his decidedly tread-less stylish shoes. He's not the fool who tries to go without a coat, so coat check is the first stop. He's not really sure how many people will be here close to the holidays, but they'll make their own fun if it's quiet. "What would you like to drink, my dear?"

"Rum and coke for now," Elias says when Dante asks him what he'd like to drink, stomping a bit of snow off his somewhat more practical combat boots before following him inside the club which is, as one might suspect, not particularly populated due to the snow storm and it being close to the holidays. Still there are enough people within to make it not seem empty. He heads toward the bar, giving a bit of a wave to a familiar face or another as they go.

Dante and Elias just deposited their coats at coat check, and are now making their way bar-wards. As is his custom, the Englishman is in a bold suit in a shimmery blue with black lapels and a gold pocket square. "Shall we call this a cabin fever party? Anyone who has ventured out in this weather certainly doesn't want to be cooped up." That's certainly true for the aggressively social writer. He leans on the bar and orders a rum and coke for Elias and a gin and tonic for himself.

Sparrow's in sequined green tonight. Between the short dress and the bright red hair, she's looking terribly festive. If not exactly dressed for the bitter weather outside. On the dance floor, though? It's a whole lot warmer. Enough so that her forehead glistens with sweat as she shimmies her way back toward the bar, giggling at the cute brunette she'd been dancing with before the other girl wanders off to rejoin her friends. Spying the familiar Elias on his way the same direction, she calls over a, "Hey there, handsome!" before adding a sorta hissing 's' that might not carry when she looks the less familiar Dante over as well. When the bartender bounces from them to her, she orders a sour beer for herself, whatever local brew they've got on rotation, chirping a cheerful, "Thanks," before looking the pair over again, her smile so very, very red and wide tonight.

Leaning up against the bar, Elias is dressed in a pair of black jeans and combat boots that lace up his calves as well as a dark red button down shirt that is warm enough with a jacket, but light enough for the club should things get warm on the dance floor. "Seems an appropriate thing to call it," he agrees with Dante. He spots Sparrow in time for her to call out, and he lifts a hand to wave to her in greeting as she arrives at the bar. "Sparrow, darling. This is Dante. Dante, Sparrow. I don't know if you've met. But this is the lovely Agent P who gifted me the skirt I wore at Halloween."

"Oh, so I have you to thank for the garment that really showed off his legs," says Dante with a wide smile to Sparrow. He hands Elias his drink when it comes up, then takes up his. He lifts his glass in a cheers and sips from the drink, then looks over the dance floor. It's sparse, but the people who came, definitely didn't slog through the weather to sit with their ankles crossed.

Enter one slightly scruffy, Christmas'd out Mexican, stage left. The guy's shoving his car keys into his jeans pocket as he ambles on in, and the bitter scent of cigarette smoke lingers on him, suggesting he just finished enjoying one out in the parking lot. A critical eye is cast over the smattering of people who've chosen to spend their Christmas eve eve drinking and making questionable life decisions, before he angles toward the bar. Dark jeans, a knit sweater and bomber jacket thrown over his bulky shoulders, hiking boots with a dusting of snow on them that's mostly shed by the time he reaches the counter. "Tequila," is murmured to the 'tender with a little knock on the bartop, once he gains his attention.

"Dante," Sparrow croons back at the man after he's introduced, the name surely carrying with it certain literary implications. She dips in an awful approximation of a curtsy when introduced herself, when credited with that particular gift. "I am merely an enabler," she corrects with seemingly sincere modesty. "Gift like that means nothing without the gams or the gameness to put it to good use." With her own beer handed over, she lifts the glass toward the pair then claims her first sip. And then a second. Dancing is thirsty work. "Wonderful, isn't it?" she says of the scant crowd out on the dance floor. Without specifying what about it, precisely, she finds so fantastic. Recognizing the tequila-drinking Ruiz from some previous holiday festivities, she lifts her drink his way and flashes a bright, friendly smile without imposing herself upon him.

When his rum and coke arrives, Elias takes up the glass and he lifts it in cheers as well before taking a sip from its contents. He chuckles and says, "You don't give yourself enough credit," to Sparrow. There's a smile over toward Ruiz, and a dip of his head. One can't spend their entire life in the town without at least a passing familiarity with the local police force, even if one's never had any trouble with them, themselves. "We're celebrating cabin fever," he tells those at the bar, "Or, an attempt to relieve it, at any rate."

"Why thank you for enabling, Miss Bird," says Dante as he sends his gin and tonic on a collision course with Sparrow's if she will oblige. "It's not the size of the crowd, it's the quality. And I will take a small crowd that came to dance over a large one that sits on their arses." That was a particularly English sentence from a particularly English man. Though he glances sidelong at Elias. "Though I'm not a fabulous dancer myself. The powers that be grace a man with either moves or a charming accent, and it seems I've only received one of these blessings." He glances the way the others do, though he doesn't have the same immediate recognition the others do for Ruiz - being a relative newcomer and all.

Elias's brow creeps up when Dante proclaims that a crowd that came to dance is more desirable and he asks, "Does that mean that I might hope to get another dance tonight?" Though he chuckles at the sidelong glance that follows and the comment on Dante's accent versus dancing. "Practice makes perfect," he points out, and lifts his glass for another sip, dark eyes sparkling with amusement.

Police schmolice, de la Vega is slumming it tonight hardcore. Never mind that he has a pretty recognisable face, and nobody's likely to mistake him for anything but the police captain. He slings his jacket off once his drink's enroute, and tosses it across the back of a bar stool before settling in. "Hello again," he greets Sparrow politely enough. Which means, for him, no f-bombs or scowling. Elias he doesn't recognise, and simply gets a head-to-toe look, before he turns back to accept his drink with a murmured, "Thanks."

Sparrow's modesty drops as she angles an amused, low-lashed look toward Elias and quips, "Words not said often enough." Her glass clinks cheerfully with Dante's as she dips her head in gracious acceptance of that gratitude. Before she lifts her head again to take another swig of her nearly magenta beer. "Right?" she says for his crowd preference, as if that were precisely what she'd meant. "Dancing out there--" She waggles her glass thattaway with one finger extended toward the dance floor. "--isn't about skill. It's about fun. And hotness. Definitely got the second, and your willingness to brave the weather paired with the company you keep suggests the first, so." The stern lift of her brows in Dante's direction implies she's taking no more excuses for why not to dance tonight. Not from him, anyway. She tips a nod toward Elias at the line about practice, even if she might disagree on the point about perfection. Not a relevant detail.

Her attention diverts back to Ruiz as she ventures, "Javier, right?" with some uncertainty, plucking it from what seems a more distant memory than it really is. Weeks! "These are my friends, Elias and Dante," she provides, facilitating introductions. "Are you also looking for any excuse to dance? Cuz I'm pretty good at making excuses."

"Perhaps," says Dante with a toothy grin at Elias. He keeps eye contact as he swigs from the gin and tonic. "Though I do admit that a sparser dance floor makes me a titch more self-conscious than crowded one." He nods towards it, then looks back to Sparrow, eyebrows lifting. He then drawls, as much as an Englishman can drawl. "I like her." The gin and tonic is getting low fairly quickly, but he doesn't seem too bothered. But then there's quasi-introductions, and he nods to Ruiz. "Welcome to the twenty-third of December, which I hereby dub, 'get-fucked-up-eve.'"

Elias does not seem bothered at all by the head to toe look and just smiles. He's in a good mood this evening, and out and about enjoying himself with good company. Even a giant snowstorm and a mess outside doesn't seem to be dampening his spirits any. There's a slow amused smile for Sparrow as he sips his drink while she speaks to Dante. "Perhaps," he repeats, chuckling a little bit. He lightly brushes a hand over Dante's arm and says, "Fewer people here mean fewer people watching as well. Besides, I'm sure I can distract you from noticing those few that are there." He then laughs at Dante's drawl. "Good. I have excellent taste in company." He lifts his glass at Sparrow's introduction.

"Any excuse might be overstating it," quips Ruiz glibly on the heels of Sparrow's question to him. Questions plural, really, and he answers the first one last: "Javier, yes. Ah.. Philomena." No inflection at the end, but he seems uncertain regardless. His drink is lingered at his mouth for a moment, then sipped from, dark eyes perusing the girl with the fire-red hair like she's some sort of exotic flavour of ice cream at the gelateria. Dante, too, he doesn't recognise, but flickers a smile that doesn't quite bring out those dangerous dimples, and lifts his glass as if in toast to that.

Sparrow's cheeks take on a touch of color as Ruiz addresses her by her first name. Clearly, she hadn't remembered giving that out, but the smile which accompanies that blush assures she's not bothered by it at all. "Well. If you need a particular excuse..." The offer goes unfinished, her attention lingering for just a second or two, before she shifts her bright-eyed attention back to Elias and Dante, chirping to the latter, "Mutual," with another lift of her glass in his direction, then again toward Elias with a fond smile, another pair of excuses to drink. Not that she needs any, but she gladly accepts every one that bubbles up. The brit's declaration of the day's new name has her eyes flashing wide as she wonders, "What's that make New Year's Eve? Should I be aiming higher or lower tonight?" Only the hint of a grin that tugs at her lips suggests she's not entirely serious about that.

"I am currently quite happy to be a great distance away from my family. Being around relations at Christmastime in my estimation is in fact, overrated." Dante lifts his glass in another cheers, then swallows until he's down to ice. That's definitely down the road to get-fucked-up-town considering her had a full glass not long ago. He glances to Elias, and bumps hips. "You should know me well enough by now to know that I don't have a problem with people looking at me." See: the shiny blue suit with gold pocket square he's currently wearing. Sparrow gets raised eyebrows. "Get fucked up times a thousand eve?" And then he looks to Ruiz, then back to Elias and Sparrow. "Who wants to do a shot with me?"

Elias takes the hip bump with a grin and says, "Oh, I know. And with good reason." He then settles onto a stool at the bar since they are getting serious into the drinking with the proposal of shots. "Of course. I am in." He drinks the remainder of his glass fairly quickly. Elias is not a very large man. He's very lean, and it's like as not that it won't take him very long to start feeling the alcohol if he drinks at that speed. He grins over at Sparrow and shrugs his shoulders, "I would say you've got about a week to recover, so why not shoot for a rough equivalent."

"Depends," murmurs the cop after a lengthy sip of his tequila. "Can you dance?" Could be a tease, could be an honest question; his furrowed brows and too-serious expression make discerning that, difficult. He scritch-scratches his thumb through the scruffy beard at his cheek, then slides his phone out of his jeans pocket when it buzzes. His eyes tick from the screen, once he's finished composing his message, up to Dante when he suggests shots. "Sure. You buy this round, next one's on me." Then, because he's finally starting to warm up, and it's pretty toasty in here, he pushes up the sleeves of his sweater to his elbows one at a time. Hell of a lot more ink than one might expect on a ranking police officer; it runs right up to the first knuckle of his right hand. That brutish looking profile, too, could either be nothing or everything one expects in a cop.

Sparrow almost certainly wants to pull that thread that Dante offers about his holiday preferences, curiosity clearly caught, but she's very easily distracted. By flirtatious comment he turns toward Elias. By the high bar he sets for NYE. And definitely by that invitation. Her free hand goes up as she tells him with some degree of seriousness, "You're my best friend now," like he might not have any choice in the matter. Ruiz's offer for the next round gets a quick quip of, "And you're next in line," though that sounds like it might be a warning. Her gaze flits to his ink as the sleeves go up, but she finds his eyes again as she answers, "Probably won't take off as much tonight as the first time you saw me dance, but." The shrug suggests it's up to him to decide how good a dancer she is. Which, really, is middling. More enthusiasm and rhythm than skill or artistry. To Elias, she reminds, "I've got two days to spend hungover with my family, so." Her beer wobbles, not wholly sure where that lands her in regards to recovery, but that doesn't keep her from downing the rest of her beer. Yeah, she'll take another when the bartender's called over for shots.

"If it's up to me, everyone gets a Prairie Fire," says Dante with a wicked little grin. He ends up having to lean over the bar to tell the bartender what it is. The bartender double-takes, then nods dubiously. He shoots a sharkish grin to the others. "Wait to dub me your best friend until after you've had a shot," he says to Sparrow. Then the shots are lined up and he slings an arm over Elias. "Happy Tibb's Eve, which is a tradition I learned by way of my ex." He makes the cheers motion with the shot glass, then tosses it back.

"My family's celebration was yesterday," Elias says to Sparrow with a grin, "So I can get as fucked up as I like, as there are no family obligations for me henceforth." When Ruiz offers to buy the next round, he raises his glass toward the man, glancing at the ink with the sort of idle interest of one who appreciates the artistry of tattoos. Then he raises a brow at Dante and says "That does not sound like a very British drink at all," with an amused smile. "What /are/ you getting me into?" But he leans into that arm that is slung around him, and takes up the shot, examining it dubiously for only a moment before he tosses it back. The expression afterward is somewhat pinched. There's a pause, and an uncertain sort of look, and then the burn kicks in and he shakes his head once. "Oh, god.. that is.. something else." Then he laughs, reaching for his empty rum and coke glass and sucking an ice cube from it into his mouth.

Sparrow's warning gets naught but a dimpled smile from de la Vega. If that was meant to be threatening, well, he's duly.. threatened. Or amused. Definitely amused. "Unos pocos disparos hacen que cualquiera sea un buen bailarín," he demurs to her, voice warm and smoke-roughened. The call for prairie fire has him giving Dante a dubious look. But beggars can't be choosers, so he clears his throat, slides his tequila away, and reaches for a shot dutifully. It's tipped a fraction so he can study the contents and steel himself for it, then tossed back all at once. His eyes pinch briefly shut, then flutter a couple of times. Yep, that is definitely something. "Fuck, that's even worse than it looks," he proclaims.

Speaking of slumming it. There's Joe, in his pea coat and jeans. Apparently he can't deal with a night spent in a bed that's too still, or drinking alone wondering if he can feel his mind eroding like a sandcastle as the tide comes in. So, drinking in public - at least it's noise and music and light and company of a kind, even if there's no one there he knows.

Or so he assumes, only to pause when his gaze nearly lights on Ruiz. He lingers a beat too long in the door, fending off memory. This is far classier than a military dive in Bahrain, and there's twentyfive-plus years and millions of miles rolled away since, but.....here they are.

Sparrow clucks her tongue at Dante's suggested caution. "Where's the fun in that," isn't a question. No one tell her where the fun in assessing a situation before rendering judgment might be. She definitely does not want that. The way she eyes Ruiz all low-lidded, with that crooked smile? Yeah, no room for caution here. "I have no idea what you said, but feel free to keep saying things at me, yeah?" But shots are being lined up for the four of them, and there's drinking to be done, danger to be faced. The way she lifts her glass before downing the shot suggests she's toasting to something even if it doesn't find voice. The glass comes down harder than she might've meant, accompanied with a rough cough which tries to spill into giggles a couple of times without quite getting there. Still, the, "Shit," she hisses seems delighted. Nevermind the red in her cheeks. That'll pass. The look she angles toward Ruiz might be a plea for mercy, though, a bit of kindness in the selection of the next shot.

"Fuck that. It's delicious," insists Dante, with a jab of a finger towards Ruiz. "And honestly you should be impressed that mister..." he motions to himself, "...home of boiled food can actually handle a few shakes of tabasco." He smiles sharkily at the assembled, then orders another G&T. "Someone ordered that shot for me on m'birthday one year, and I've been paying it forward ever since." Then he leans over, heedless of anyone who may be watching and plants a little spicy kiss on Elias.

Elias squints a little over at Ruiz as he tries to figure out what he said, "There's little difference something about being a good dancer?" Yeah, his high school Spanish is all but gone. He chuckles at Sparrow a little bit and says, "Between that and Dante's accent, I could just sit here and listen to the two of them talk and be content." He motions toward the bartender for another rum and coke. Then he grins over at Dante and says, "Fine, I will give you props for being able to take a shot of tabasco. But that makes it no less terrible," he says just before Dante leans in to kiss him, and he grins against the man's lips, returning that kiss, "Well, okay, maybe it's not /that/ bad." He steals another, for good measure, just to be sure.

"It's an abomination," Ruiz corrects, wrinkling his nose and nudging his upended shot glass toward Dante. "Don't blame it on your bland fucking food." He's probably teasing; his lingering smile, and the fine crow's feet around his eyes suggest as much. He's about to respond to Sparrow when a glimpse of a familiar face enters his peripheral vision. Joseph gets a lazy glance at first, then a subtle little double-take, tonguetip pausing, just barely visible, at his lower lip. "How about a Screaming Orgasm?" he suggests, and if there are no objections, tips his chin toward the bartender to make it happen. Elias just gets a wink for his comment, gaze sliding away a moment later. Now he's studiously ignoring Joe, as is probably wise.

The sailor takes his cue, in turn, letting his gaze slide right past Ruiz. He takes up a stool at the bar a ways down, shrugging off the peacoat. For once, he's stepped up from the usual t-shirt, and is wearing a French blue dress shirt. Not up for fielding the usual looks at the scars, perhaps. When the bartender gets around to him, the evening's poison is something called a Four Horsemen.

"Right?" Sparrow concurs with Elias. There might be more to that thought, potentially pertaining to poetic recitations, but she falls rather contentedly quiet as she shamelessly watches the affection exchanged between Dante and Elias, that argument plainly well-made. She only provides some scant semblance of privacy after the pair of kisses are concluded, looking back to Ruiz to catch the look angled toward the recent arrival. Though her brows pitch upward with some shallow measure of curiosity, she doesn't ask. Maybe because she's distracted by the latest shot called, eyes rolled without any objection made. "Always down for one of those," she quips dryly, grin skewed to the left.

"Abomination!" echos Dante to Ruiz' statement. "Fuck me, that'd be a great name for a shot." He laughs, baring teeth as he does. He happily steals the second kiss from Elias, then slings a hand around his waist. "Do you want to steal me for a dance before or after the Screaming Orgasm?" he says, with a wicked glint in his eyes.

"I love a good screaming orgasm," Elias says, though whether he means the shot or not is left purposefully ambiguous, no objections registered to the drink, though he also takes a sip from the rum and coke in front of him, perhaps to wash away the tequila and tabasco taste a bit more. He doesn't seem to mind Sparrow's observations, noticing her watching after the kiss breaks and giving her a little wink. Though he laughs at Dante's question and says, "After, since the round was just ordered, though perhaps before, as well, depending how the evening goes."

The cop scoffs quietly at Dante's exclamation of a great name for a shot, but doesn't kvetch any more about it. If tequila sullied with tabasco is the worst thing to happen to him tonight, he's having a pretty decent evening. Another flick of his eyes to the blonde fellow who's seated himself a couple of stools down the bar, then he summons another smile for Sparrow. "I'm sorry. I said that a few drinks makes anyone a good dancer." He speaks with a slight accent, but one he's clearly put some effort into smothering over the years. Rolled r's, softened consonants and a cadence to his speech that occasionally puts the accents on the wrong syllables.

Then his requested round of shots arrives, and he pushes hers over before snagging one for himself. Down the hatch, glass turned over and brought down atop the counter with a clack. "Another Screaming Orgasm for him," he instructs the 'tender, hitching his chin toward Joe without looking at him.

Bemusement is writ clear on his face, as Joe glances over. There's a temptation to refuse - he hates sweet drinks with an abiding passion. But the gesture is...at least nominally friendly, and he's too uncertain to just demur out of hand. "Don't mind if I do," he says, mildly, drawl as lazy as ever, utterly out of place. Apparently he's still getting the bourbon onslaught that is a Horsemen, but it's neglected in favor of the Screamer handed to him. He even manages to get it down without looking like a kid being dosed with cough medicine.

"One day," Sparrow teases sweetly to Elias in the wake of that wink, her smile bright and easy. Shaking her head at Ruiz, she tells, "I didn't need a translation," which probably goes for the apology as well, untroubled as she is by all of it. Her own accent marks her local. Very local. Like she's been here her whole life. And maybe just a teensy bit tipsy, though she hasn't noticed any slurring. "And I'm pretty sure this--" She takes up the newly delivered shot glass. "--puts me past 'a few.'" Down it goes, a whole lot more smoothly than the last, eyes rolling back in a contented flutter for all that creamy sweetness. Sure, her tummy's gonna be mad as fuck tomorrow, but tonight? Who cares. She probably shouldn't take up that dark pink beer again, but it's right there...

With another flicker of attention toward the guy a few seats down, a second or three spent considering Joseph as the shot's sent over his way, she asides to Ruiz, "You're under no obligation to keep me company just cuz I smiled at you all pretty, handsome."

In fairness, it's not like the tequila was top shelf. The tequila on offer here is probably Jose Cuervo. Sully is probably a harsh wod in that case. But Dante is hardly one to argue. But he does toss back the Screaming Orgasm, and he pulls a face. "Ugh, blegh. That's vile. Far too sweet for my tastes." He smacks his lips. "The only thing good about that is it was over quickly." Then he tosses a wink at Ruiz, and tugs Elias towards the dance floor. "Come. Let me embarrass myself terribly with my English dance moves."

Elias takes his shot when it arrives, tossing it back with a little less face-making this time around. "It's a little sweet," he agrees, "But I'll take that over tequila." He's definitely not a tequila drinker. But then he is being tugged toward the dance floor and he gives a little wave to those at the bar, grinning over at Sparrow at her comment before he is lead away. There, he doesn't seem to mind at all how very English Dante's dance moves may be as he collects that dance he'd been asking for, and then another, though eventually they do collect their coats and slip out.

She didn't need a translation, but that's what Sparrow damned well gets. Because Javier does what he wants. Including drinking vile, overly sweet drinks for the singular reason that they're named screaming orgasm. Not that he was trying to get under anyone's skin with that one. But if he was. "I don't keep attractive, interesting women company out of a sense of obligation," he tells Sparrow, slanting her a look askance with those dark, hooded eyes. "Besides, I've been wondering how you know Rosencrantz?" Joe, he's perfectly aware of sitting over there by his lonesome. And seems to have no intent to do anything further about it. He bought him a drink, which is practically BFF territory for the surly Mexican.

And Joe, for his part, doesn't seem disposed to press the issue, or try and insinuate his company in with that pair. In terms of the charms on offer, pretty college-age girl vs shopworn veteran, the contest isn't one at all.

As if to wash that cloying sweetness out of his mouth, he's taken a slug of his other drink and resorted to the usual refuge of electronic distraction, his phone. Idly paging through something, by the way he's swiping it.

Sparrow watches Elias and Dante disappear onto the dance floor with decided delight, though she hardly pays them enough mind to actually determine if the one she's never danced with might be a good dancer. She's simply not curious enough to keep watching when Ruiz is over here being all interesting. Dark lashes dip in a manner which might seem coquettish if not for the left-leaning grin that goes with it, that little tease of interest which suggests she's giving him a proper look over for the first time. When her eyes lift to his, they flash a little wider, though it seems more confusion than recognition. "Guildenstern's BFF, yeah? Tried to take Hamlet to England, but got killed by pirates instead?" The one Ruiz means? Definitely not clicking for the redhead. "Not the Shakespeare guys usually go to after calling me cute, but." Color her curious.

The pair whose names he still doesn't know are watched until they sort of melt into the crowd, lost to the churn like glittering fish to the undertow. Clearing his throat lightly, Ruiz shifts his gaze back to the candy-haired girl seated beside him. Drinks her in, in that way that he does. Quiet, intent; his eyes are a washed out slate grey in this light, rather than the black they might appear at a glance. "I, uh.." His features soften slightly with a smile, gaze ticking away to his glass of tequila. "Rosencrantz. Itzhak Rosencrantz. Though I can see why you might be confused. I saw you at his Hanukkah party." A beat. "You're also too young for me." He keeps his eyes on his glass, then ticks them across to Joe, with a little twinge of muscle in his jaw.

Why is he here? He doesn't seem to be on the prowl for company, or waiting for someone specific to show up. Only working his way through the drink, neither nursing it to make it last, nor charging ahead like he's trying to plunge into drunkenness as fast as he can. There's only that sharp profile, illuminated by the blue-white glow of the screen, glinting off the lenses of his glasses. Joe's expression is faintly intent, like he's not happy with whatever he's reading there.

Sparrow's quiet the contrast to the quiet intensity seated beside her, the glittery green of her short dress catching the club lights and the neon-hued hair decidedly loud, her manner energetic and easy. When he smiles, even that little bit, she smiles all the brighter for it, curiosity not abating for that brief distraction. Realization clicks as the explanation is offered, her head already shaking before that last comment is tacked on. That gets a snort of laughter and a lift of her chin, one eyebrow quirked in challenge. "S'alright. Not everyone can keep up." Her grin flashes sharper for a second, but she's quick to circle back. "But it was the Kellys' Thanksgiving where we met. I know the twins. Joey and I do good work together, and me and Jaime are even better." Her smile dims as she gives her beer a little wobble and adds, "Theoretically. He's my guitarist. Not yet publicly tested."

Ruiz's drink is tipped to his mouth, a long swallow that drains it to half, and bobs his adam's apple briefly. He nearly chokes on it when she talks about keeping up with her, but manages to finish swallowing and dabbing at his mouth with those tatted knuckles before murmuring with rare self-deprecation, "You're probably right." Then his tequila's finished off with a flourish, glass knocked away with his fingertip, and another directed the 'tender's way. "Fuck. You're right." The Kellys. "Which one's the guitarist, Joey or.. Jaime?" He's not familiar with the man, judging by his hesitation with his name. Another glance Joe's way suggests he might be considering addressing the older man, but he seems to opt against it. For now. Not enough liquor in him.

Offering him privacy, as much as one can in a busy bar - the sailor, at least, doesn't buy that line about 'too young' at all. He's spent too long exploring certain moral and ethical wastes with the cop to buy the appearance of a lone scruple as anything other than a mirage, like a lake in the desert. Still working through that drink with the absentminded air that suggests he's not tasting it all. Considering some of the drinks he's had in his life, his tastebuds may have flamed out like overcranked engines ages ago.

There might be a little glimmer of pride in Sparrow's eyes at that reaction to her challenge, but she doesn't watch Ruiz's recovery directly, taking an opportunity to sip at her odd-colored beer instead. Watching that call for some more tequila, she concedes, "Looks like there's maybe some ways I can't keep up with you, so." That leaves 'em even, right? She flicks a look toward Joseph again at that glance sent over, but it's fleeting curiosity, followed by a longer scan of the club. "Jaime. The objectively less hot one. Per recent ruling." By jello wrestling. Via proxies. Not everything has to make sense. When she looks back to Ruiz, she wonders, "How do you know Joey Lee?"

The veteran cop may, or he may not be bullshitting when it comes to Sparrow being too young for him. But he makes no attempt to touch her, to meet her gaze, to buy her drinks beyond that equal opportunity round, or to dance with her like he'd briefly threatened. In short, he appears to be behaving himself tonight. Which, for de la Vega, may just be unheard of. "Jaime's his twin brother, yeah?" Now he remembers where he's heard the name. "The one who got naked with him at the Cabaret." Doesn't even make him flinch, to say that. "I'd wager, objectively speaking, they're identical." His eyes crease with a smile as he flicks a glance Sparrow's way. Briefly. How does he know Joey? "Work out at his gym sometimes." Definitely not the whole story there.

Who are you, and what have you done with Javier? Not that Joe's anything but a ghost of his old presence, all but vanishing into himself, like one of the magician's tricks, the boxes folding in on themselves. Only the bartender's pointed comment has him glancing up from his phone, then down and aside at his drink, as if it were an importunate kitten he's been ignoring. "Uh, sure, I'll have another." Maybe he is reconsidering boarding the train to the land of bad decisions.

"Genetically temperature equivalent," Sparrow replies dryly, a tiny smirk tugging at her lips. It's been mentioned a time or three. "Guessing you skipped Jello Fest?" The question comes with a little wiggle which sets her sequinned dress to shimmering for a second, though one would have to actually look her way to notice or to catch how her anatomy might shift beneath all that glittery green. For her part, the redhead has no problem whatsoever flat out staring at Ruiz, eyes narrowing for that answer. "See. If I weren't such a nice girl? I might call bullshit. Not cuz I don't think Joey's the kind of guy who would just invite over anyone and everyone if he thought they needed a little more food and family for the holidays, cuz that's pretty much exactly the Joey I know, but because one? You weren't out of your element there at all. And two? Don't much look like the need the kindness type. But." One shoulder shrugs up as she lets it go. "I know how to play nice." In direct contradiction to that statement, she finally asks, "Who's the guy you're doing a shit job ignoring?"

"Jello.. Fest?" Going by how he says it, he probably missed it. Doesn't seem like his scene, truth be told. The redhead and her glittery, sequin-y dress most certainly does, but he is behaving himself tonight. Studiously so. The nice girl comment gets him to smile, dimples and all; another pull of his drink, and his phone buzzes in his pocket, ignored. "Maybe I was horribly out of my element and faking it well." Another pull of tequila, the glass is almost empty; the guy knows how to put away his alcohol. "Joe," is his succinct reply to Sparrow's question. Nothing special about the name; plenty in how he says it.

Naming calls, as it always does. And there's finally a slant of blue eyes towards the pair again, as if all that talk about a 'Joey' weren't enough to have been tweaking his ear the while. "'s me," he agrees, lazily. He's got enough liquor in him now that there's a faint flush streaking itself over the stark cheekbones. It hasn't rendered him chatty, however, that slur and monosyllable is it for overtures.

Itzhak never comes to the Firefly--not that anybody would notice, exactly, but the Twofer and the Pourhouse are a lot more his scene. The Firefly? He studiously avoids it, because reasons. But all that said, tonight he's rolling through the door, sauntering hips first like he expects everybody in the room to admire him when he shows up. Does he make a beeline for the bar? You bet he does.

If anyone is watching the door, a quick glimpse of Cassidy tossing a cigarette butt out into the street like she's thoroughly annoyed with /it/ can be seen before it's her briskly walking in. She wears a tight blue dress (that is not revealing) save to perhaps show off some leg, and a leather jacket. Her hair is clearly done up for the night and the make-up done perfect clearly took some time. But whatever motivated that effort has clearly gone sour. She squeezes herself into a position at the bar to place an order.

"You're buying me a drink, Ruiz," and that's seemingly final. She shouts for a kamikaze. Then it's looking around at present company... A couple blinks... "Who are your friends?"

Sparrow may well tuck that dimpled smile away for future consideration, but it gets little more than a faint brightening of her own for the moment. While Ruiz disappears his tequila at a remarkable pace, she's slowed a bit on her beer, sticking to sips instead of swigs, hoping she might be able to keep her feet beneath her whenever she tries to stand again. She concedes a quiet, "Maybe," to his counterpoint, even if she doesn't look the least little bit convinced. She'll allow it. When the guy over there is given a name and answers with confirmation, she turns that wide, red-lipped smile his way and lifts her drink. "Hi, Joe!" Pointing to herself, she introduces, "Phil."

But there's no invitation, no further inquiries. Maybe because the bar's suddenly a bit busier and that busy-ness includes an unfamiliar blonde who gets an unsubtle look over. When asked after, the neon redhead in green sequins turns a low-lashed smile toward Cassidy and offers, "Philomena. But you can call me Sparrow."

Time was you couldn't shut this guy up in a bar. But Joe returns the greeting by lifting his newly arrived drink in amiable salute, and intoning, "Pleased'a'meetcha, Phil." Watching her focus shift instantly to Cass only makes him smirk, very faintly. Itz gets an upnod, but no verbal greeting. The musician's not here for him.

De la Vega's on his third glass of tequila by the time Cassidy rolls up to the bar, and he's looking a good deal more relaxed than his usual slouch-shouldered snarl. So much so that he gives her an actual, honest-to-god smile instead of one of those wolfish flashes of teeth that most are privy to. "Only if you're drinking tequila," he murmurs, pronouncing the word with the Spanish inflection, of course. Sparrow takes care of her own name, and he's not about to call Joe his friend, so he stays mum on that one.

Round about then, he happens to spot Itzhak, of all people, strolling on in like he owns the place. And watches, for a long moment, while he downs his drink.

Itzhak scans around the club like he's casing the joint, eyes narrow, a troublesome arrogant lift to his noble-nosed head. A violently redheaded girl he doesn't know, that woman who made Ruiz sing with her at karaoke (still amazing), and Ruiz himself. Nice. Then he detours from his trajectory to swan over to Joseph and offer him a very serious dap. "Cavanaugh, how's by ya."

"I'm not drinking fucking tequila, Ruiz. That's not how buying someone a drink works." Cassidy huffs with abundant haughtiness. The bartender arrives with her shot. "Besides, I already ordered...." - "It goes on de la Vega's tab."

But the blonde is all smiles after the shot is pounded down and the glass back on the bar with a thud. Smiles for Philomena. "Sparrow? Like the bird, huh? What about just 'Mena'? Can I call you 'Mena'? "

And Cassidy is not one to let her questions go unanswered. Those cold blue eyes settle on Joseph. "And /you/ are?"

Joseph obligingly taps knuckles with Itz. "'s a'right," he says. For once, booze has made him sleepy, it seems. At least, there's that betraying droop to the lids. "Saw you at that coffee shop, other night. You're a damn good fiddler," he approves, drawl slower than ever.

Only then does he let his attention drift to Cassidy, and he considers her mildly for just a few beats longer than is polite. Not the usual checking-out one expects of a man confronted with a lovely young woman in a bar, but something almost remote. "I'm Joe," he says, and leaves it at that. Does he charge by the word?

"Like the bird," Sparrow confirms. Her beer--if that magenta liquid in her pint glass is, indeed, a beer--gets a bit of a wobble for the proposed alternative as she half-lies, "Usually gotta get to know a person better before I let 'em call me Mena, but." That uneven shrug suggests she might be willing to make an exception. She looks back to Ruiz briefly, tracking how he's handling the changing dynamics around them before tracking over to Joe. And then Itzhak. Who she clearly doesn't recognize despite the earlier line of questioning. When she goes back to her beer, it's a heartier swig this time rather than a measured sip.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" No, Javier. No, she is not. "If you ordered some pink girly shit with an umbrella in it, I'm not fucking paying for it." There, that'll show her. Ruiz is too buzzed to bother scowling at the blonde, so instead, he polishes off his tequila and merely nods when the 'tender asks him if he'd like another. Wavering on that very fine line between tipsy and drunk, he takes to watching Sparrow as she introduces herself to the ADA. Dark, hooded eyes trace her profile absently while he leans against the bar with an elbow, fingers scruffed through his close-shorn hair.

"Thanks, man." Itzhak's a little unsteady. He might be on something already. "You know the Pogues? The real weird shit is that Shane MacGowen is still alive. If you call that living."

She doesn't respond to Ruiz. Nope. Cassidy's been around the clubs and the pubs (4 years college plus 3 years at Harvard) and she knows how this works. It's a dismissive wave in Ruiz's direction, behind his back, where the bartender can see, and a finger pointed at her empty shot glass as she mouths the words 'another one'.

"Well /hello/, /Joe/." Cassidy says with a grin. She gives Mena a head tilt with the 'awww thanks' look.

"Shit, yeah, loved the Pogues ever since I went to college in Boston, got introduced to 'em by my first room-mate," Joe confirms, a little more animation in his face. "That Irish punk stuff is the best. Yeah, I've seen pictures of him not long ago - he looks like twenty miles of hard road, don't he? C'mon, sit down, lemme buy you a drink, if you drinkin' tonight. You know that song they did about the poet Lorca?" Of all things to kick him into life, but then....music hath charms, etc. And with a surname like Cavanaugh...

Cassidy gets an absented tip of his drink, but it's clear Itz has him on a particular hobbyhorse already. There's a hint of the garrulous pilot Ruiz used to have to try so hard to shut up.

"You need someone to buy you pink girly shit," Sparrow croons to Cassidy with a little lift of her own weirdly pink drink, leaving the actual offer implied. Though there's a flicker of interest toward the conversation about punk and poetry, she doesn't interject, instead keeping her focus on the pair closer to her. Though her gaze settles on Ruiz, something about the tilt of her head, her tone, suggests she's addressing Cassidy when she wonders, "Out to do a little dancing..." Her gaze slips to the blonde, the high arch of her brows toward her neon bright bangs asking the question that she doesn't, the introduction as yet unreciprocated.

Ruiz keeps half an eye on Itzhak, chatting up Cavanaugh over there. Does he approach them? Not a chance. He's got tequila to drink, and nobody's making him talk just at the moment, though the bartender's probably getting close to cutting him off. A glance at his watch confirms that, yes, he's been here a couple of hours and should probably square up on his tab. Including Cassidy and her stupid ill-gotten shot. He digs his wallet out and pulls out a couple of crumpled bills before tossing them on the bar. He glances up briefly at mention of dancing, then away again, expression contemplative.

Cassidy holds her newly filled shot glass about a fist's distance away from her mouth. Her eyes flick to Sparrow and her brow goes up. Her head inclines forward just a touch and she gives a saucy shake of her head and saucy response, "Yeah. Duh." Then down goes the shot. This is followed by a slap on Ruiz's shoulder, "Thanks big guy."

Itzhak answers Joseph in song, tossing his head back and filling the place with a startlingly loud voice. "//The killers came to mutilate the dead / But ran away in terror to search the town instead / But Lorca's corpse as he has prophesized just walked away...//" He trails off, like he suddenly realized perhaps this isn't the most appropriate song for the setting. "Yeah I know it." He hangs on the back of a chair. "Sure, I'd love a drink, lemme get you back too." Dancing is mentioned and he looks over at Ruiz, eyebrows up in what he thinks isn't a hopeful expression. He thinks he's being smooth. He is so wrong.

There's that crooked grin from Joe, the blue eyes lighting. "You got good taste, son," he says. "Nah, I'm about done drinkin' for the night." He motions with the now half-empty glass, as if to demonstrate. Then his gaze follows Itz's, before he quickly glances away. This he doesn't even want to see, it seems....or is making another of those attempts at granting Ruiz privacy.

Sparrow snorts a quiet laugh for Cassidy's answer, but she doesn't press further to either get a name or offer an invitation. When the bartender comes by to pick up that cash and make change, she offers up a card to cover her own tab with a soft-spoken thanks. For just a second, it looks like she's about to ask the bartender another question, but she waves it off and gets back to her drink, gaze skirting about the edges of the club as she falls quiet and sets to finishing her beer.

Javier's absorbed in his phone when that hopeful look from Itzhak, tailed by the not-glance from his wingman are turned his way. Tonguetip tucked into the corner of his mouth, his expression is intent as he replies to something with a swipe of his thumb, then smiles when it buzzes again. Downs another slug of tequila, and scratches at his beard before responding again. "You headed out? Need me to call you a cab, or something?" That's to Sparrow, his dark eyes alighting on hers for a beat. Then Cassidy passes by with that slap to his shoulder, and he grunts something incoherent in response.

"No. I'm sticking around for a bit," Cassidy tells Ruiz - because as far as she's concerned anything within earshot is direct at her. She turns away and bends over the bar so she can be heard by the bartender and shouts, "Can I have a water please!?"

After a cute smile is flashed for the server, she's back to rights at the bar and turns to lean against the rail with her back as she flips her phone out of the pocket of her leather jacket.

It's a good thirty more seconds before she floats some words in the general direction of Sparrow, without looking up from her phone, "I'm Cassidy. Cass or Cassy is fine." Followed by a quick narrow-eyed look at Ruiz (but playful), "Not for you, though." Then she looks back to her phone.

"Fuck yeah I have good taste," Itzhak says, grinning lazily like he knows something everybody else doesn't. "Pogues, Dropkick Murphys, Flogging Molly, that shit is my fuckin' jam." He didn't get the response he wanted from Ruiz. How dare he be busy! So Itzhak, who seems like he might be two and a half sheets to the wind already (and thus rudeness AND bad decision making are on fast forward), holds up a finger and saunters over to the guy, shoulders up to him, and makes sassy eyebrows at him. "Fancy meetin' you here."

Yeah. Ruiz may have mellowed, but.....Joe's memories are older. This he doesn't stick around for. Oh, he's left enough for Itz to get a drink, but other than that - he's got the peacoat on and his phone in his pocket, and he's out the door with almost unseemly haste. Like someone who knows he needs to get out of the blast radius before the fuse burns down.

"Pretty sure I can manage that on my own," Sparrow assures Ruiz with a tease of a grin and an uneven arch of her brows. "Unless you're offering to share?" follows with a glance toward his most recent refill. She holds up her empty hand with four finger, guessing at the count. But the bartender returns with her card and gets another, "Thanks," while she handles the signature and tip. When she straightens, her gaze flits from Ruiz to Itzhak and back again in a span of second or two. "Cassidy," gets her attention next, even if the blonde's still looking at her phone. "Like the cowboy." Not a question. Though there's still a little left in her pint glass, she sets it down and slips from her stool with one hand set to the bar to keep herself steady as she can. A little bit of teetering's to be expected. Just a few seconds, and her center of gravity will correct, right?

"Wasn't fucking talking to you, Cassy." Yes, Ruiz makes a point of using the name that's verboten for him to use. Because it's Cassidy, and this is how they roll. He does shove his phone away when Itzhak saunters on up, like there's something on that screen not fit for the lanky mechanic's eyes. "No mires ahora," he murmurs low to the man, over a sip of his tequila, "pero creo que tu compañero de ala te abandonó." Sparrow just gets a throaty chuckle in reply to her suggestion they might share a cab. He isn't even going to attempt to respond to that. Instead, "It was nice to see you again." Nice. Is a good, safe word.

"Love ya hair," Itzhak says to Sparrow, with requisite fingergun. Like an asshole. He upnods at Cassidy, but he's looking a little concerned when Sparrow stands up, like she might not stay standing up. He squints at Ruiz. "I don't know what that means," but catches Joseph making a quick exit and makes a face. "Well, now I gotta buy him a drink." Then he bumps Ruiz again. "I heard someone say dancing."

Cassidy furrows her brow at her phone screen. "Cowboy?" Then she gets distracted by the arriving water and it is again beautiful, feminine smiles for the bartender. She takes a sip and sets the glass down.

"So suave. So rico." Cassidy mutters. "Thanks for the shots, de la Verga. Don't fucking forget where you parked."

It takes a moment or two, but Cassidy realizes that neither she, nor he, are in the process of leaving. After that she just shrugs and says to Itzhak, "It means your punk rock friend just left."

Acting like nothing happened, she looks to Sparrow. "Oh. Are you leaving?"

"Thanks," Sparrow chirps to Itzhak with an easy wink to answer the fingergun. She's entirely steady right where she is so long as she keeps her hand on the bar. How she fares away from it is yet to be seen. "Thinking about it, Butch," she offers to Cassidy, an attempt to answer both questions at once. "Maybe after I get in a little bit more dancing. Cuz Mr. Tall-and-Musically-Literate over here has the right idea." Looking to Ruiz, she ventures, "Might be nice to see you again," without offering any means of making that happen. And, with that, she ventures out, away from anything she could reasonably brace against without offering apologies, with a reasonable degree of steadiness, angled toward the dance floor.

Did Itzhak just toss a fingergun at someone? Who does that. Cassidy he thoroughly ignores, and opts instead to tell the guy unsubtly hinting that he should dance with him that, "It means your friend bailed on you." His gaze slides toward the dancefloor, trailing the girl with the fire engine red hair, a flicker of something in his eyes. Then he checks the time on his watch and pushes to his feet slowly. Still doesn't quite hit Itzhak's six feet and change. "Actually, I think I need a smoke. Welcome to join me." Looks like he is leaving. The other man's shoulder is jostled lightly, and then he prowls for the door while patting himself down for his smokes.

Itzhak does that, apparently. "Yeah, I noticed," he mutters in response to Cassidy, with an air of 'and for what?'. He follows Ruiz's gaze as it follows Sparrow, and then he narrows his eyes at him. "She's cute. Who you texting? Huh?" But is he not going to go out for a smoke with him? No. No he is not.

"Mmm!" Cassidy exclaims behind her water. She takes a swallow and sets the glass down. She finger-waggles after Ruiz while leaning a bit toward Itzhak, "Byeeee Captain...." she calls out.

Then she watches after the red head who has gone to the dance floor. "Did she just call me Butch?" She looks to Itzhak who apparently has just been elected as the night's bff. "Do I look like a Butch?"

Ruiz doesn't answer that question. He does, however, slide a cigarette out of the cellophane-wrapped package, and waggle it invitingly in Itzhak's direction. Then a dimpled smile in parting, and he shoulders his way out while lighting up. Cassidy might, if she's lucky, get a grunt in farewell. Because he does actually need to face her in the morning. And preferably not at 4am, via text message, while he's trying to sleep.

Itzhak outright glares at Ruiz and his waggly cigarette. That's a sulky look that says many things and on the top of the list is 'jerk'. He takes it, though he does so with a bitchy flair that makes it clear Ruiz isn't getting away with this that easy. Then, puzzled, he looks at Cassidy and takes her question seriously, eyeing her head to toe. "...Nah, you seem pretty femme."

However unsteady Sparrow may or may not have seemed as she teetered toward the movement on the dance floor, it's pretty clear she's still got some bit of mastery over her own body by the time she's found her spot out there, her sense of rhythm still on point despite inebriation. While a familiar song plays, the neon redhead in glittering green dances by herself with eyes closed, hips swishing and arms lifted, in her own little happy world for the moment.

Cassidy presses her lips together and smiles endearingly at Itzhak. Her head is slightly canted and she touches his shoulder. "Aw /thank/ you." She bats her lashes, then, and picks her phone back up to stuff into her jacket. She orders another drink.

Then she's back to Itzhak. "What is that he smokes, anyway? Pal Malls? Something cheap and gross, am I right?"

Itzhak gets his shoulder touched, blinks. "I mean, it ain't a compliment," he says, cautiously, trying to work out what Cassidy's angle is here. "You're just not a butch. You're girly." He turns the cigarette over in long calloused fingers. "Yeah, Pall Malls." Then snorts at 'cheap and gross'. "You give him a hard time. It's hilarious."

Ping goes Itzhak's phone. He digs it out, checks it--turns red, claps it face down on the bartop.

When Cassidy finds out it wasn't a compliment her face falls. "Oh." She takes the new shot and shrugs. "He deserves it."

The blonde slides away from the bar with a finger-waggle to Itshak and makes her way to the dance floor as well at this point.

"Yeah, he sure does," Itzhak mutters, and jerks his chin at Cassidy in a silent seeyalater. His phone chimes again. He picks it up, smirks at it, then tucks it in his back pocket and saunters out.