2019-12-29 - What's the Point?

It's oh fuck thirty on a frigid evening in late December, and Cristobal Ybarra Cruz has a visitor. A visitor bundled up in a battered bomber jacket (not the leather number the cop usually dons), dark jeans, and a hoodie with the hood drawn up and over his head. He bangs on the door a few times with the side of his fist, police style. Then waits, shoulders hiked up to his ears, prowling a slow circle like a caged animal.

The light next to the door pops on moments after the banging, Cristobal looking like he was disturbed from his post-Club shower because the door is swinging open to him in nothing but a towel with hair all disturbed from a recent scrubbing. That glitter shit gets everywhere, and even the bouncer isn't immune. "What the actual fucking fuck, Javier. Ever hear of a telephone? It's that little pocket sized computer you carry around that's not just good for a calculator or Porn-on-the-go."

Well. That's not what he was expecting to be greeted by, but you shows up unannounced, you gets the half-naked bouncer. He misses only a beat before grumbling, "Move out of the fucking way and let me in, it's fucking cold out here."

"Yeah, no shit, it's winter I'm wet and in a towel. Doesn't take Spidey senses to figure that out, Sherlock." But despite his grumble, Cris is stepping back from the doorway with one hand clutching the towel closed against the breeze that's let in as well. The door clunks shut after Ruiz steps in and he's moving towards his bedroom area to snag a pair of gym shorts off the edge of the mattress before ambling towards the bathroom. He doesn't bother closing the door, stepping into the other 'room' is as close as he gets to modesty. "This a late night booty call, Javi, because I'll need to limber up." Of course it's not, but that's not going to stop Cris from lobbing those words out.

Javier might be rolling his eyes from the other room, but Cris at least is none the wiser. Just the meandering thud of his boots on the floor, and perhaps a glimpse of him snooping around the kitchen while the bouncer takes his time in the bathroom. "You know why I'm here, so drop the fucking act." He doesn't even address the booty call comment. A cupboard is opened, its contents visually scanned, then bumped shut. Then the next one. His hood's still up; he looks like a thug in that getup, and with that spare prowlishness he moves with.

There are a few things Cris hid before Ruiz and Sutton came over that one time that he hasn't had time to tidy up with the unexpected house call. A stack of novels on his bedside table all written by Dante Taylor for one, a guitar in the corner that has childish bright stickers stuck all over it, and a photo of his daughter back when she was healthy and had a full head of hair on the kitchen peninsula. The cupboards hold standard dishes and the goods for a primarily mexican based cuisine, but rather unremarkable. "Came for your fix then, didja. You're practically crawling up the wall. Calm your tits and I'll get it."

It's that photograph of his little girl that the older man is studying intently, by the time Cris rolls back out. He's holding it in one hand, dark eyes hooded and distant. And nearly drops it when Cris speaks, suddenly nearer. "I just need enough to tide me over. Where's.. who's your supplier, anyway?" The photograph's replaced, his head turned fractionally toward the source of the other man's voice. He does look jumpier than usual tonight. And he's armed, which is lovely; the bulky shape of his gun is visible under his jacket.

There is a tight frown on his face when he sees Ruiz with that photo, but doesn't comment or otherwise draw attention to it. As the cop comes closer, Cristobal raises a hand to pat the other man's cheek. "No, what you need to do is get off the shit, before the wrong people catch wise of it, but I'm not running a fucking rehab. You start scoring from my guy, that'll get marched right up and it'll get used against you in Big Bad way. Consider this your only warning." Cris is turning away to move towards his bedside table and apparently where he's stashing it.

The contact meets with a shudder of tension on the cop's part, stitched right through his shoulders and into the brutish line of his jaw. His focus is shot, and though he tries to maintain eye contact with the bouncer, his pupils won't contract and his gaze can't seem to settle. It's not obvious, unless someone knows what to look for. "Save me the fucking lecture. I.. I can't. Right now." He prowls in slow, not hot on the man's heels, but trailing him nonetheless. His hands are jammed into his jacket pockets, voice low when he speaks again, "Who's your fucking supplier. Sumpter?"

Cris flops onto the bed, legs going akimbo for a second before he settles with the bounce of his mattress and grabs a little carved box off his nightstand. "Point of fact, Greg is a dealer, not a supplier. But no. Nice try. Just calm down, I got what you need right here, Papi." One would almost expect a crotch grab there, and he might be sorely tempted but no, he's sorting through the contents of condoms and pocket change and other assorted miscellany until he comes up with a small zipper baggie of white powder.

"The fuck I didn't come here to argue fucking semantics," snarls de la Vega, broad shoulders shadowing the doorway in a manner that could be menacing. Should be, but he's so damned fucked up right now, it probably wouldn't take much to bring him down a notch. It wouldn't take much at all. "Give it to me." He stalks in to where the other man's sprawled, and goes to snag the baggie unless prevented from doing so.

I mean. It's Cristobal. He's going to toy with Ruiz just a little. "Ah-ah." He says, flicking it just out of Ruiz grasp with two fingers. "How do you know you're good for the money? I didn't get this out of the charity of my own heart. Six grams, that's two hundred, my fine fiending friend."

Tweaking on cocaine withdrawal he may be, but Javier wasn't born yesterday. He did bring cash, much as he wants to put his fist in that smug mouth just on principle. Lip curling in a silent snarl, he digs in his pocket for his wallet, flips it open, and counts out a few bills with a crisp snap, snap, snap. They're piled together and held out scissored between two slightly shaking fingers, dark eyes on Cris's bright, bright blues.

There is a bit of a smile from Cruz, a wicked thing where it curves his upper lip into a partial sneer. In that moment, clearly it wasn't about the money. Cris probably has more than that rattling around in the bottom of that box at his hip. But the coke is lowered between his forefinger and middle just as he snatches the bills away with his thumb and pinky. "Pleasure doing business with you. You want a razor and mirror or are you just going to do the lines off my ass?"

Of course it wasn't about the money. Has it ever been, with Cris? The baggie is snatched, the bills relinquished, and then just like clockwork, his other fist comes crashing into the man's face. It's his left hand, to be fair, and he is so off his game tonight it's almost painful to watch. But he still hits like a fucking freight train.

Cris, in his right and sober mind, might even see the punch coming, because he leans back out of it and only takes a wallop to the shoulder but banking on Ruiz being off balance with it, wraps the other man up and pulls him down onto the mattress with him, throwing a leg around the man's thigh to lock him up. "Now, now. If you wanted to roll around on the mattress, you should've just said so."

He's a sturdily-built man, and much of it's muscle. Not all; he's long ago lost his washboard abs to indiscretions with break room donuts, but it's still 190 pounds of grumpy Mexican slamming into the mattress. He stumbles, collides with Cris, tries to roll off and his leg is fucking trapped. Which pretty much just makes him madder. The baggie's shoved into his jacket pocket, and he takes a couple of swings at the guy with his right hand while trying to scrabble for his throat with the left.

"Oh piss off." Cris hisses as Ruiz just gets wound up more instead of calming down in the vice like grip of the net of his frame around the cop, unravelling himself just to give the man a hard shove off that hopefully rolls him away if not off the end of the bed. "You're worse than a cat with their tail in the fire when you're jonesing, you know that?"

Well, that was completely ineffectual. Ruiz's fist hits bed instead of bouncer, and then he's being shoved off entirely.. and contacts the floor solidly a moment later with a crash that was probably felt throughout the house. "Fuck you," grumbles the jonesing cop, who now has a headache to add to his list of shit that sucks about tonight. He picks himself up slowly, grasping the edge of the bed as he climbs to his feet. A look's shot Cris's way, smorgasbord of feelings there, but chief amongst those, fury. "We squared away, then?"

Cris just casually rolls up onto his elbow, his wet hair sticking out at odd angles now and his hand goes to ribs still cracked and bruised from his recent stint at fight night. There's a wince in his eyes from the tousle but he's trying to hide any other indications of pain. "Yeah, we're square. You wanna do a line, it wouldn't be the first time my sink's seen a powdering. Help yourself."

Ruiz notices where the other man's hand goes, how could he not? He knows too, probably, that there was another bake sale at the gym recently. One he notably did not attend, this time. He sways back toward the door, dark eyes riveted on the man lounged casually in his bed, remnants of that brittle tension still strung through his frame. "You want to tell me what's happening with Monaghan, while we're here?" His tongue slides slow across his lips, and he swallows. "Club had a whole new lineup of staff the other night I was in there, and Andre manning the office door like a big drop was about to go down."

"Man, you're hurting so bad right now you don't even realize how much I'm putting my ass on the line for you, do you?" Cris pushes up a little more gingerly until he can get to his feet, padding into the kitchen as he talks. "I'm supposed to be watching you, not doing you fucking favors, bastardo desagradecido." Ungrateful bastard. "But it ends. You wanna shoot me in the back, fine." He even offers the target, arms splayed out to his side, presenting Ruiz with a clear shot to his Torro tatted back. "Be a lot better than what Monaghan'll have done to me if he finds out I'm covering for you."

He scrubs his palm over his eyes, fingers sifting into his damp hair, and resting there a moment. His hood's been jostled loose from his head by all the tussling, and his hair is perhaps a touch shorter than when Cris saw it last. He moves finally, tracing after the bouncer, a few paces behind. And despite the taunt, his gun remains firmly in its holster. For now, anyway. "I'm plenty grateful." The words are difficult to get out, his voice rough and scratchy. "I'm plenty fucking grateful." Another step closer, his fingers fidgeting with the baggie in his jacket pocket. Like its mere presence is reassuring. "Not asking you to fucking cover for me, either. I'll pay for any information you give me. You name your fucking price, Cruz, and I'm good for it. Pero no me llamas jodidamente desagradecido."

"Grateful? You call this? Any of this grateful?" Cris turns back to Ruiz only to make a motion at the mattress. "And you think this is just about the drugs? Trust me, it's a big fucking part, but I know about you and Itzhak. I KNOW that you know what Itzhak does for the organization. And I'm choosing to sit on the information. For you. For him. So next time you two are playing house, think of what I'm giving up to make sure the two of you can continue spooning or whatever the FUCK it is you two do behind closed doors. And now you're going to bribe me to feed you information? Or are fists how you show how fucking grateful you are?"

Itzhak's name is mentioned, and a knot of something not at all unlike fear twists in his gut. Of all the people to have the down low on them, this is possibly one of the worst. There's a tic of muscle in his jaw, and he prowls closer again; dark eyes transfixed on the bouncer, pupils blown wide. How quickly could he reach for his gun? He didn't bring the silencer though, and- "Monaghan's a fucking two-bit thug who thinks he knows how to play the game." Another step, his knuckles slid along the kitchen island. "Name your fucking price and quit fucking acting like you're doing this out of the goodness of your heart, Cruz."

"Do yourself a favor, Javier. Do a bump and then get the fuck out of my home." Cristobal says so quietly it's like all the fight has completely gone out of him. "I've got some reading to do." His shoulders slump downward as he turns his back on Ruiz again to give him that ample target once more, if only so he can jerk open the door to the fridge and fish out a beer.

The trouble with Javier, is he's never been particularly good at doing what he's told. So he neither does that bump of coke - despite the fact that it's burning a hole in his pocket, and his body's screaming for it - nor gets the fuck out. His head turns to track the other man's movement toward his fridge, and he waits. Patiently.

Cris can absolutely feel the lack of movement behind him, so when he turns back around to pop the top off the bottle on the edge of the counter, he's not surprised to see Ruiz still standing there. "What, man. Still not enough? You gonna help Felix tie the noose around my neck too? I already fucked things up with Dante because of this shit, what else do you want from me? Want me to open a vein too? Fine." He slams his beer down on the counter, causing a little plume of liquid to shoot out of the top of it so he can yank out a drawer and pull out a keen edged chef's knife that he sets blade to forearm.

He's a cop, and as such, has been called out to plenty of domestic situations. Ironic thing is, he's often the guy they pull when there's a rookie losing his shit. He's a firecracker when unmoored, but as steady as they come when he wants to be. When he tries to be.

Softly, "Por favor." Then, "Por favor no lo hagas. Quiero hablar contigo." He doesn't move, neither to approach nor retreat. Just the low, scratchy-soft thrum of his voice, untouched by Glimmer; though the potential for it simmers at the very edges of Cris's perception. "Por favor," he repeats, seeking to catch Cris's gaze with those dark, ferocious eyes.

With a jerk of his hand, Cristobal draws the knife hard across his forearm and then stands there for a moment, breath panting as blood wells quickly in the trough he just carved. "That actually really fucking hurts..." He sort of stumbles forward into the counter, his knee banging the cabinet loudly as things all get a little woozy. "...they don't tell you that in the movies."

That last second before the knife slices across flesh, Ruiz looks like he might try to beat Cris to the punch. Shove off the counter and knock the thing away, but he's too slow or Cris is too quick, and suddenly there's blood. Lots of it, and he knows he's missed his window of opportunity.

The next few seconds pass quickly: his jacket's shucked off, and his hoodie follows, tugged off his arms and then his head. Then he steps in quickly to slide his arms under the other man's, and ease him toward the nearby couch. They can worry about getting the blood out of it later. "I'm going to need you to keep talking to me." His knee sinks into the couch as he tries to lower the bouncer and his not insignificant weight against it. Then bundles up his sweatshirt, and wraps it around that arm while maintaining firm pressure.

Cristopher stumbles along with Ruiz as if he's suddenly drunk, the knife falling away from limp fingers. As he is helped to the living area, he leaves a steady patter of blood droplets on the floor in his wake, smeared by the clumsy progression. Cris flops back into the couch, his eyes losing focus. "Oh just stop, Javi. Think about it, you let go and your secret dies with me. Tempting, isn't it?" He gives a little snort of delirious laughter as the sweatshirt is bundled around his arm. "Not like we can call an ambulance is it? I go to the hospital, Felix finds out and does some digging. Finds out my little old landlady saw you coming up here. Pooof. Dead anyway."

Javi. How long has it been since someone called him that? The nickname summons a visceral reaction in him, but he tamps it down, and adjusts his sweatshirt so it's wrapped more snugly. Then his phone's dug out of his jeans pocket, and he flips it on. His thumb hovers above the '9' while Cris tells him he can't call an ambulance. Can't go to the hospital. His dark eyes flick from it, to Cris's face, and it's just the two of them. He could fucking let him die. Let him bleed out, his prints are all over the knife, but the coke's in Javier's coat pocket. If he brings the authorities in, they're both going down.

"No," he murmurs, swallowing. "No, it's not tempting. That's not the kind of person I am anymore." Anymore. He doesn't explain it, but does switch to his contacts list, and bring up August Roen. Taps it, and waits as the call tries to connect. "Keep talking to me," he instructs Cris evenly.

(TXT to August) Ruiz : Roen. I need your help.

"Mm." Cris noncommittally purrs the sound as Ruiz says it's not tempting. But what is tempting is to lean his head back against the fancy pants couch cushion he bought on the advice of Dante, the leather butter soft against the back of his neck. "Good news is, it doesn't hurt anymore." He wiggles his fingers to demonstrate, which of course isn't helping to stave off the blood flow.

(TXT to Ruiz) August : (The distinct sound of August running a hand over his face.) "As long as it doesn't involve Finch or her phone, okay. Shoot."

"Hold the fuck still. And keep talking to me." Javier keeps his hand on the sweatshirt, firm pressure applied to that forearm. And a dirty look for Cris when he wiggles his fingers.

(TXT to August) Ruiz : I need you to come out to 42B Elm Street. Immediately. Got a guy who's going to bleed out here, won't go to the hospital.

Cris barely registers that Ruiz is on his phone, not sure if the line is open or if the man is just texting but he raises his voice as if he can be heard either way.

(TXT to August) Cristobal : (Cris' voice rises up in the background) Don't play with knives, Kids!

(TXT to Ruiz) August : (A long sigh and the sound of keys being grabbed.) "Shit." (A door opens and shuts.) "Good news, I'm at Eleanor's, won't take more than a minute to get there." (Another door, and the Outback's breathy turbo.) "I'm sure you know the drill, just keep him awake." Then he hangs up.

Ruiz is indeed on the phone. It's a mystery who he's talking to, but doesn't sound like dispatch. "Don't make me fucking finish the job," he grouses at the man. And, "Tell me how you're feeling?"

(TXT to August) Ruiz : Yeah. See you in a few.

Not so much a mystery! He greeted whomever it was with Roen, but Cris doesn't really have the two brain cells to put together right now to recognize the name or even try to. "Like I'm floating on a sea of regret right now. And I'm kind of thirsty." He blinks heavily but it's getting harder to keep his eyes open. "Grab my beer for me?"

"No," is Javier's flat reply to the question asked, once he's hung up on his call and shoved the phone into his back pocket. There's blood on his hands, and a little spattered across his bicep and cheek, but his focus is on making sure he keeps pressure on that wound until help arrives. Once he feels it start to seep through the sweatshirt, he shifts to tug off his tee as well, and bundles that up, pressing it against the man's arm. "Keep talking. Tell me about Dante. Get you a glass of water once Roen gets here, yeah?" There's a good deal more ink scrawled across his upper body, though Cris may or may not be in a frame of mind right now to notice it.

As August promised, he's there in just a few minutes; Eleanor's only a handful of blocks from Elm, and at this time of night August can run red lights and stop signs with relative freedom. (Well, 'run' them; he's in studded tires and has to use low gears, working through snow and avoiding the hell out of ice.) He gets out of his car, shivering against more than just the night cold despite being in a turtle neck with that green and bronze knit scarf Dove made him. He's half way to the door when Cris' condition hits him.

He grabs the railing by the steps to keep himself upright. An ugly memory tells him how to fix this, and he half listens. This isn't a careful healing by any means, not his usual thing. It's a 'everything is fucked, FIX IT RIGHT NOW' methodology, and for Cris it's a bit like being zapped with the world's biggest syringe full of 'I don't fucking think so' juice. He doesn't coax Cris' body back to health so much as drag it from the back of a car.

"Well you see, when a boy and a boy really like each other..." Cris starts off, apparently this is how he's going to tell Ruiz about Dante, by butchering the birds and the bees speech and inserting a whole lot of innuendo about butt sex, but he doesn't even get to the juicy parts before he's suddenly sitting bold upright from the couch with a huge intake of breath like he's just been shocked by the world's biggest defibrillator. "Querido padre que estás FUCKING en apuros!" The first line of the Lord's prayer is spanish with a good old F bomb thrown in there for good measure.

Ruiz's expression there is one of, well, I should have expected I wouldn't get a straight answer out of him. Fortunately, he's got bigger fish to fry right now. Like keeping the prick from bleeding out. So when that surge of power pings his senses in that hard to pinpoint way.. and then Cris sits up suddenly like he's been shocked. Well, he's no rocket scientist, but he's smart enough to put two and two together and figure out what's happened. The clothing's unwrapped slowly from Cris's arm, his gaze dragging down to find the flesh has neatly healed itself back together again. His phone is slid out of his pocket, just in case there's a message from August that he missed. Seeing none, he texts him with thanks.

August sags down into the snow, sitting heavily and leaning his back against one of the posts. He works on things like not throwing up and not passing out and whatever else is relevant. (Breathing, not falling asleep out here and freezing to death...God this list is already too long, surely one of these things isn't that important.)

His phone pings, which catches his attention. He pulls it out, grunts at the message, texts back, yw. He thinks about texting more, decides the energy is better spent getting back into his car. He drops his phone into his coat pocket, gives himself a second to focus on breathing.

Cris's eyes are suddenly bright and very aware, taking in everything from the bloody clothes held to his arm, to Ruiz looking a little spent and shirtless to the trail of red leading from the kitchen to the couch. Damn, his sexy couch. "That wasn't you, was it?" He asks, swallowing thickly as he realizes how close to possible death he was because he lost his shit when pressed too hard by Ruiz.

(TXT to August) Ruiz : You're okay?

Another quick text is sent, then Ruiz's phone is shoved away once again. It's suddenly rather cold in here, and his skin starts to break out in a fine smattering of goosebumps. "No," he confides quietly in answer to the question. It's clear that pressure on the nonexistent wound is no longer needed, so he tugs his bloodied clothing loose, and uses it to mop up the worst of the mess on the floor. "Going to need to borrow a shirt from you," he murmurs.

August's phone pings again as he's just managing to stand up. He glares at his pocket, pulls it back out. He sighs at the question, vetoes the first half dozen responses just because he knows as a tired and cranky old man they'll all be ill-advised. He swipes out a response, starts picking his way back to his car with care. For all that he rushed over here, he's going slow on the way back. And then he'll sleep for a year.

(TXT to Ruiz) August : I'll live. kick him for me. no idea why he was that far gone and refusing an ambulance. deserves a psych hold for that shit.

"Does an edible arrangement cover: thanks for not letting me die?" Cris hangs his head for a moment, low between his knees. It's not like he's nauseous, he's not even thirsty any more and even his ribs feel marginally better. But he is still just as screwed up about this whole nonsense as he was before he tried to prove his point with a knife's edge. No amount of glimmer is going to fix that. He scrubs his hands through his hair, not bothering to finger comb it back into shape. "Yeah whatever." He makes a vague gesture to the hanging open-air system that's across from him, clothes hanging from a series of pipes and folded neatly on wooden shelves or tucked in the drawers beneath. "Look, will you just stop?" He asks of Ruiz and his attempts to tidy.

(TXT to August) Ruiz : You probably don't want to know. anyway, thanks. I'll stop by later, yeah?

(TXT to Ruiz) August : yeah I expect I don't. warning, eleanor woke up and she might, you know, give you a piece of her mind.

The question posed by Cris is left unanswered; instead, a slightly irritated look sent to the man as Javier's tee shirt is wadded up and tossed atop the kitchen counter. It probably speaks to how much fucked up shit he's seen, that the quantity of blood doesn't even seem to bother him. "You need some company tonight?" he murmurs as he pushes to his feet. Wearily, blood spatters dodged around on his way to the kitchen sink, so he can wash up. His phone buzzes, and he checks it once he's dried off his hands, and sends a quick reply. Suicide watch, he means. It probably wouldn't be the first time. "I can sleep on the couch."

(TXT to August) Ruiz : I thought you were still at Mallard House. I'll check on you in the morning, then. get some rest. Tell Eleanor I'm sorry.

"Why would I need company? I was trying to prove a point, not fucking kill myself." Cris hoists himself up to his feet, but instead of going to his clothes to pick something out for Ruiz to borrow, he's moving to his bed and grabbing a pillow to fling it over to the couch. Seems he's taking Ruiz up on that offer anyways, because while Ruiz might be fine with the sight of all that blood, it's Cris' blood, which is a touch unsettling. "This so you can grill me for information over breakfast?"

(TXT to Ruiz) August : no, soon as I could move I went back to ellie's. dove's got enough on her plate. and I will.

August sighs, shakes his head. "No, I flailed my way back to my lady," he mutters as he swipes a reply, "who is probably going to handcuff me to the bed as soon as I get back, so I stay put." Which if he were feeling better wouldn't be a bad thing, really. But that's the whole problem.

The wind gusts and he shudders, begins moving back to his car. When he gets in he cranks the heater to max. In the apartment they hear that mid-voiced turbo kick back to life, then the crunch of snow as August meanders his way back to Eleanor's place at a snail's pace.

"Prove a point?" Javier turns, and fixes the other man with an incredulous look. "Prove a fucking point? By taking a knife to your fucking artery? The fuck is wrong with you, Cruz?" All roads in him lead to anger, eventually. If he's feeling something, and he doesn't like it, chances are he'll wind up either running his mouth off or cracking someone in the mouth. As for grilling him for information over breakfast, he simply flips him his middle finger, and prowls off to find his own damn tee shirt to borrow.

They seem to be countering each other around the small apartment, Ruiz stalks into the living room to grab something to wear, and Cruz, still just in his gym shorts, moves to the kitchen. To snag up his abandoned beer. "I'll answer that question as soon as you look in the mirror and ask it of yourself, camarada." He pulls out a plate from one of the cabinets and sets it on the counter before hopping up ontop of it, reaching down he digs through his junk drawer and comes up with a box cutter and a fast food straw still in its paper wrapper. After cutting it down to size with a quick pull against the plastic between his thumb and blade, he slides out the casing and removes the razor.

The cop returns, in the process of tugging a faded number of Cris's over his head, after giving it a quick sniff to make sure it's clean. A few smaller spatters of blood on his throat and in his dark hair, but he doesn't seem to care at this precise moment. "Are you going to keep speaking in fucking riddles all night, or do you think you could answer a question straight for once? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Eyes narrowed, he takes a lean against the counter to watch Cris futz with a box cutter and.. straw?

"The only reason you give a damn about me is for your score, or for information on Felix. Or maybe as a punching bag once in a while. Fine. Whatever, I'm an ass." The plate, the razor, the straw. When he assembles it all, it should be pretty clear he's setting it up so that Ruiz can chop the powder that's tucked away in his pocket and draw it into lines. "You want it straight, fine. I don't tell Felix about your coke habit, I don't tell Felix I know that the fucking Police Captain has knowledge of Itzhak's little chop shop, and he finds out I was sitting on this information? I'm dead. So think about that next time you want a favor from good ole' Cristo, and wonder why he finally says enough is fucking enough."

It's pretty damned clear, after a few seconds of watching this little ritual. If there's any shame in the man, it's been tamped down well beneath that staid, impenetrable wall of his. The one that some mistake for a lack of emotion, but is in truth, anything but. With a breath that nearly softens into an anticipatory shudder, he pushes off the counter, goes to liberate the baggie from his jacket pocket, and prowls in closer. Cautious, like a mean old dog circling a, bigger, younger, and potentially more dangerous one.

"You know that's not true," is offered almost too quietly to be heard. A soft crackle of the baggie being opened, and a little of the contents tapped onto the countertop. "Monaghan knows full well about the coke," he admits finally, and focuses on the task of grinding up the powder with practiced little slivers of the blade. "Why the fuck do you think I'm doing his dirty work?"

"And he knows you're planning on scoring a half kilo so you can cut out the middle man, or are you the middle man?" Cris' legs dangle from the counter, his heels occasionally tapping back against the door but other than that, this younger dog isn't making any aggressive movements. He idly watches Ruiz move the cocaine around into neat little uniformed lines, "You get hooked when you were undercover? That's why you have all those gang tats, isn't it? Because you reformed bangers usually don't make Captain." He snatches up a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. It's clear from the lack of smell in here it's not a habit he's given over to frequently, normally stepping outside, but it's fucking cold out there.

The sound of the coarse crystals being chopped into a fine, inhalable powder is.. oddly soothing. He's clearly done this a good number of times before, to the point where it's basically muscle memory now. To the point where his hands can do their work by rote, and he can listen to what the other man is saying. And stop, abruptly, when the bit about getting hooked while undercover pops out of nowhere. Silence is carved between them like a wound, only the rasp of his breathing as he stands there, tense-shouldered, not looking anywhere near Cris's face.

Then he swallows, glances at the blade in his hand like he'd briefly forgotten what he was doing with it, and sets it aside. The straw is retrieved, and his other hand braced on the counter. Then a sharp, quick inhale to pull a line of the stuff in quickly. Efficient, no hesitation. "I don't mind if you smoke," is not what's clattering around in his head. But that's what he says, on a rough exhale.

After the sharp silence, the younger latino man mutters. "I'll take that as a yes." Cris asks, his head tilting slightly as he takes in the ritual. Of course it's one he's familiar with, but it's another thing to watch Ruiz, of all people, partake in it. "Funny, I don't remember asking if I could smoke in my own house." With the unlit cigarette still pinched between the knuckles of his off hand, he puts his right index finger on the plate and sort of sliiiides it over to him. If this is happening, de la Vega has to share.

It's definitely not the activity one wants to see such a high-ranking LEO engaged in. But there's an element of something, not quite shame.. something perhaps a little closer to Cris's own withered little heart. Self-hatred. He does this because he can't not. Like the ourobouros, eating its own tail.

Still no confirmation or denial on how he got hooked, which means Cris is likely correct in his assessment. "You ever get tired of trying to drive people away with your bullshit?" he wants to know. One more line, two, and then the straw is offered over as he leans back against the counter. Eyes closing slowly, lips slightly parted, head tipping back. He's half here, and half drowning in sensation.

"The minute I feel that way, I usually throw it into overdrive." Cris stops talking long enough to pick up the plate in one hand and take the straw and pinch one nostril shut with the other, hoovering up his own line before his head snaps back with a sharp gah sound as it slams into him like a mack truck. One line is enough for him, for now. "Case in point, I attacked Dante, because I thought he was hiding something." The plate clatters back onto the counter, some of the lines disrupted and scattered so they'll need to be pushed back into uniform again.

"And I thought I had the monopoly on fucking things up." It's murmured low, his voice that husky-warm scratchiness. "But you give me a run for my money." His head thumps against the cabinet, breath coming audibly, no more words for a time. He doesn't yet notice that Cris has messed up his very neat, orderly little lines. He will in a moment, no doubt. Eventually, "He didn't take kindly to being roughed up, huh?"

"Not everyone talks with their fists, turns out. Threatened to call the cops on me. I think I smoothed it over enough that he won't press charges, but let's just say I was all too successful at nipping off that little line of humanity at the bud. Something I convinced myself so hard I didn't deserve, I managed to ensure it. He deserves someone like the little bookstore boy." He swarms back at least enough to light his cigarette.

There's no response from the cop, for a good minute or two. A light sweat's broken out along his temple, the hollow of his throat, below his adam's apple, nearly lost to the scruffy beard. He twists his head to the side, curves his fingers around the counter's edge, makes an unguarded little noise before shifting to hunt down the straw again. "Maybe just.. just give it some space. He might." Might what? He keeps losing his train of thought halfway through. "I'm sorry," is whispered at last, and it actually sounds sincere.

Cris at least has the presence of mind to see the plight for another hit, so he's sliding the necessary bits towards Ruiz' searching fingers. "Forgive me? If he knows what's good for him, he won't. And if I know what's good for him, I'll not bother trying." Wetting the pad of his thumb he makes a smudge at Ruiz' forehead to clean off a speck of blood. "That's why if you're thinking of fucking shit up with Itzhak, just hold the knowledge close to your shriveled heart that if you do, my dick's going to be the first one swinging in that direction. That should be deterrent enough."