2020-01-11 - Come la Maldita Sopa

The kids got hurt.

That's what they said. Not that Ignacio isn't 26 and Finch isn't 23. They're adults but they are green as hell at it. Somehow, in spite of Gray Harbor being extraordinarily gray and harboring things, they've been making things work. Until that voicemail came in from Ignacio on Finch's phone; tired and with that hitch of fear in his voice saying 'Something happened. We're inbound to the house. It'll be okay.'

This, however, were not okay.

At the Mallard house in the several days of recovery a day and a half have gone by that Ignacio slept through entirely, with Miss Mags curled up on him as if somehow her 12 oz. of body mass was going to thaw her other human. The boyscout, while uninjured, was down for the count, but only after everything got taken care of.

When Ruiz does come by the Mallard House Ignacio's inert ass is tucked into the couch where Itzhak left him. One of the few times it pays to be a smaller dude; portability! He's awake. He doesn't want to be, but he is. It's not that he's tired and frozen that makes the difference. The difference comes that Ignacio is the guy that stood up toe to toe challenging Ruiz in his own office in defiance of his great and terrible will to press on him: Just give her a chance, and fought hard for that, and this guy? He's had the fight beaten right out of him.

It's been a challenge getting time off work to stop by, what with the combination of a mountain of unexpected paperwork and a string of domestics that required his intervention. But de la Vega does, eventually, turn up at the front door of Mallard House. A quick rap to announce his arrival, and then he tries the handle carefully. A pause before the thing's shoved open, as if in adherence to some old, ingrained habit of making sure the room's clear of unfriendlies.

Then he lets himself in with a shoulder first, still in uniform with a GRAY HARBOR POLICE jacket thrown over top, and a tupperware container tucked under one arm. Kind of ruins the whole surly cop vibe he's got going on. "Hey, de Santos? You in there?"

Ignacio is roused from feeling bitter on life and mad at himself. The knock bring attention to the door as he calls out, "Adelante." Hands push down to shove himself up to a sit out of maybe decency, and likely pride.

Look casual only goes as far as realizing there's crutches nearby, and mags is sitting up in the neck of his hood keeping her human warm by sitting on him. She's helping!

De Santos, on the other hand looks like an Iggscicle, but with an aloof casualness having not really spoken tho the man direct since they went toe to toe. Silk, thar tone iggs helpful, "Finch is with Gran. They'll be back. Stay a bit."

There's a pause when it's mentioned that Finch isn't here. Like he might just turn around and head back out again. But no, "Came here to see you." He runs his tongue along his lower lip, thoughtfully, as he takes in Iggy's appearance. Then tugs the door shut and kicks off his boots before prowling further inside. "Brought you some soup. You had Roen take a look at you yet?"

There's a long pause and Ignacio really could take that either way. Really withteh way this week could go it could be anything, but he seems willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt too emotionally spent to be paranoid about what ifs and the many things. They cut inions together. No one got stabbed. This leaves his look curious beyond his immediate thoughts not said, and over the din of the phantoms that live there, "Well you guessed correctly."

The question about Roen pulls a hiccup and there's a fall in his shoulders, his eye squinting with concern, and... disappointment? He's not always so great hiding some things. "We needed him to heal Finch. She was really tore up and whatever we caught passed to him." There's a pause and a long silence feeling the ice water of defeat run in his veins. Someone told him. This is- not disappointment, but shame. His hand comes up as if to punctuate a thought but drops into his lap. "Pensé que las cosas estaban mejor. Ahora empiezo de nuevo desde el principio. De nuevo." He shrugs and pauses now really curious, "Trajiste sopa?"

They did indeed chop vegetables and serve food together, and everyone's vital organs remained inside their bodies. It's a Thanksgiving miracle. "So you decided to play the hero and tough it out, huh?" is murmured once Iggy's explained things. Then a steadying breath, and he heads for the kitchen, to go warm up the soup and find a bowl and spoon for it. "Start over, how?" He barely knows the man, other than that he's from the so-called mother country, and has just enough of the Gift to get himself in trouble. "Si. Te ayudará a sentirte mejor. Más cálido, al menos."

Ignacio wrinkles his nose admitting his guilt, "Nah, more like she was critically injured and my pride's crippled... and I lied my balls off so it really didn't become a thing until the morning after." Pausing he looks up to the older man coming clean on that one, "I don't know rage and denial and a sense of priority constitutes heroics. I think it's just bitterness and a sense of common decency."

Looking up at the soup the attitude gets, well, stowed. Apparently he's got two modes: sincerity and aloof pain in the ass and is leaning on the former taking the soup. "Mucho gracias." First? First soup. "How? How what? We were caught in this big snowstorm and got pulled There. Alexander, Isabella? Uhhhh the fancy dude in the suit. Couple people I didn't meet before. I got trapped out in that thing. We came back congelado como un pingüino and I called you, Itzhak, and Roen. August met us here and healed her best he could. He ended up with the chill we ain't been able to let go of from the thing. The thing though? It tried like hell, it didn't hurt me, it tried to assimilate me. I dunno it'd have helped for Roen to try."

"You said you were going to start over from the beginning again." The cop settles in opposite Ignacio, once he's handed off the soup. Elbows on his knees, hands clasped together while he studies the younger man. "I was curious what you meant by that." His brows knit at the comment about the thing trying to assimilate him, but he doesn't comment on that. For now.

Ignacio sits up and is, for all of his moody bullshit, genuinely appreciative for the soup. Warm is warm and this tastes like someone who didn't have to came halfway across down with Tupperware to bring it here. And then the question brings up a pause. The spoon is slowly drawn back out of his mouth and set in the bowl idly stirring it around instead of answering.

"I, um, I wasn't always like this, roto. And... mistakes were made and things went bad. Then? Then they got worse." His jaw tightens not wanting to whine at the guy so instead he switches to his other go-to careful not to yell 'at' the guy, but there seems to be some reliance on cultural understanding.

He sighs looking to Ruiz just fucking soul-tired, "Think of me as you want, but I fought damn hard to get this far. I've had to bury two friends, one of whom es muerto, and had my god damn leg crushed by veil bullshit in Baltimore. I woke up after the first five surgeries. The other eight were a ton of fun, let me tell you and I spent six years so doped to the gills trying not to feel... anything."

The words quiet with a rage that haven't a volume loud enough and instead simmer him to stillness. His jaw tightens and his dark brown eyes look down at the soup, and then out to the muted daylight of the window; finger rubbing the side of his nose working damn hard to swallow that emotion and just. breathe.

Quieter he tries again looking to Ruiz, "I moved here to... I dunno. Run away. I stayed because I met this... amazing woman who some how made me want to love myself because she sees something in that and I'm not going to tell her she's wrong. She's smarter than I am and I... I don't want to let her down. And for a moment? For uno momento I thought I was doing really good. Maybe I'm actually getting better... and now I had to go back to the fucking beginning and relearn how to walk for a sixth fucking time." The emotion floats in his eyes with some bitterness, "She's my girlfriend, y mi esposa nunca me puedo casar she's not supposed to need to be my damn nurse. I'm so fucking tired of getting ahead to be set back. de nuevo. Desde el principio.."

He stirs his soup and defeated he shakes his head, "Lo siento. I'm jsut really tired of having all that work feel like it doesn't mean anything."

Silence from Ruiz, though it's of the peacable sort rather than the watchful intensity he often favours. He's still wearing his PD-issued jacket though, which doesn't help the feeling surely that Iggy's got a cop sitting in his living room. When the other man gets to the part about his leg being crushed, and having to go through multiple surgeries.. there's a twinge of sympathy on his features. Brows furrow, dark eyes slide away to examine his hands, then return to the Spaniard's face slowly as he tries to push down some emotion or another.

After a time, once all the words have been excavated and left there between them, and he could just decide this is too fucking much for a guy he barely knows, and walk right out. But instead, "Has pasado por el infierno. Te ha visto en tu peor momento, y todavía está aquí. El amor no es algo que sientes, es algo que haces." Then he clears his throat and glances away again. "You're good to her. And you're good for her. You keep doing those things, I won't have any problem with you." Protective? Maybe just a tetch.

The smallish Spaniard may not have physical prowess on his side but the glimmer around him sits intent with the emotional inertia of a gathering thunderstorm. To be blunt the usually glib and optimistic author's anger for days sits just below the surface. It seems to have no quarrel with anyone in the room unless that person's name is de Santos. This is a decided small victory for Them.

He is listening though. His focus pulling up from all things that are wrong and to the older man responding, "Es buena sopa." The acknowledgement takes the fight out of the storm. Finch. He's always been there since they met to make sure she can believe in herself, but he has the damnedest time to do it for himself... and that's where she comes in. Looking up to Ruiz he says, picking the words out, "They made me hurt her." Looking up to Ruiz the truth comes up by which he does not abide, "They hurt me deliberately to hurt her, and... I can't... I can't." Can't approve, can't allow it, can't accept it, can't forgive it. It's not a storm of defiance, but resigned.

"She will always be first for me." Taking a deep breath he slouches back cracking a grin to Ruiz, "Maaaaan, Mi papá no estaba feliz cuando le dije eso." The half-grin hangs as he eats his soup sharing that. Él dijo: 'Ignacio, muévete a casa'. Dije 'No puedo papá. Ella está ahí. Es donde necesito estar." Bittersweet victory but he offers, "He wants...what he thinks is best for me. I think all parents want that even if they don't know...what or how." He eyes Ruiz over the bowl. Lookin at you, man. Setting the the spoon in the bowl with a quiet *tink he pulls his head out of the miasma of wallowing to tell him, now without an audience, "Thank you. For... giving her a chance. For both of you, and... I really am sorry for what I did in your office it was..." His jaw sets and he hunts the words with a squint of his lower eyelids, "Unintentional. I just knew I had to protect her...and you too."

Rather than watch Ignacio while he speaks, while his glimmer crackles and surges around him, the man opposite studies his own hands thoughtfully. To be sure, he's aware and wary of Ignacio's power; how could he not be? But afraid of it? No.

"She's my daughter. I wouldn't be much of a man, if I hadn't." Given her a chance. To him, it was never an option. Never a possibility, to turn his back on her. A choice, but one that had already been made for him. "Look, I'd better get back. Got some shit to finish up at the precinct. Tú y yo estamos bien?" He looks up finally, trying to meet the younger man's eyes.

He's trying to keep a lid on it. Some people are very emotional based creatures and ass in that natural flare for strong emotions the Spaniard has and you have a battery charged up and ready to go. There's at least that attempt of mindfulness, and the admission that no, he doesn't really have direction or finesse with his skill.

A squint of one eye and he says, with al sympahty for the subject matter, "Well maybe teach mi papa that one. I don't think he got the memo.. and it didn't stop her ma from... doing what she tried to do so... Look I guess I'm saying...Lo que hiciste no es fácil de hacer. Gracias. Esto significa mucho para los dos, y lo apreciamos." Biting his lip he considers this and looks down at the soup offering, "A veces veo el partido de fútbol con Lalo. Deberías unirte y tomar una cerveza con nosotros alguna vez. Si a ti te gustaría?" An open offer but some small attempt to remind himself there's going to be life after this couch. There has to be, for everyone's sake. Still the offer left out there might be he first hopeful thought he's had all damn day.

It's a start.

Ruiz, of course, is aware. Aware of the emotions simmering under the surface, even if he doesn't come out and make mention of them. He pulls to his feet slowly, eyes on the other man, and pushes his hands into his jacket pockets. "De nada," he murmurs, flickering a smile that's as slight as it is sincere. And, "Sí, me gustaría eso. Avísame cuándo y estaré aquí." The smile shifts to a grin as he goes to shove his feet back into his boots. "Who do you cheer for? Barcelona? Real Madrid?" No shit talking. Not yet.

Ignacio watches and really there's a smile that lights up his eyes. It goes as far back as 16 years of trying to fix the fractures in his own family and failing, but for once seeing positive return. The resigned satisfaction and pride in the Spanish Peacock carries when he replies, "Awwww Real Madrid, baby. Soy de Toledo! How can I not?" He pauses taking a bite of soup holding up a finger, "I don' care if they're not the best team, but they're my team and Manchester can fight me over it." There. He tilts his head offering, "Lalo's a Cruz Azul guy, soooo if You're down for Mexico City they've been having a pretty good season. San Marcos de Arica ain't bad either. I got some love for Chile going on."

"Tiburones Rojos de Veracruz, si estamos siendo pedantes," replies the cop with a rough chuckle, and the sound of his jacket's zipper being done up. "But Mexico City has been having a good season." He hitches his chin to the younger man. "Let me know when. I'll bring some good beer, yeah?" And then, without so much as a goodbye, because it's never been his style, he tugs the door open and heads out into the cold.