2020-01-25 - Fix

At least Cristobal is dressed this time when Ruiz comes over, jeans and a waffle printed long sleeve thermal that fits so snuggly the slight bulge of a patch of bandage on his side is outlined against the fabric. "You just can't get enough of me, can you?" He leaves the door open instead of lingering in its frame, turning back into the apartment with a silent invitation for Ruiz to follow if he likes. "Don't worry, I locked up all the knives this time." There is amusement in his voice as he steps back into the apartment, bare feet padding over dark stains on the floor that lead from the kitchen into the living room, gone brown and soaked into the old floor boards as a lingering reminder of the last time Ruiz was here.

There's a cop on Cris's doorstep, all bundled into a ratty hoodie with the hood pulled up, and an even rattier bomber jacket pulled over top. Dark, fitted jeans stuffed into combat boots that he's sort of half-assedly laced. His head jerks toward the doorway when it's tugged open and the younger man appears in his thermal and jeans, and it's chased by a slither of his gaze along Cris's frame. Less checking him out, as making sure he isn't armed, perhaps. Not that there's any question what that bulky shape at de la Vega's ribs is, under his clothing.

"Me veo preocupado, Cruz?" he queries in a low murmur as he trails Cris inside, after thumping some snow off his boots. The blood stains are given a glance, but he doesn't let his attention linger. Instead, he angles to the side to let the other man shut the door, and shudders audibly as he tries to warm up.

Cris closes the door behind de la Vega, throwing the lock more out of a habit than any kind of foreboding, "You always look worried. It's just masked between a thin layer of brooding asshole." He responds in English, as if trying to get into the habit. Or he just wants to nettle Ruiz by not responding in Spanish in kind. "Let me see you." The younger latino declares, reaching to tug back Ruiz' hood and get a good look at the other man's face, perhaps searching for signs of jonesing or being already blitzed.

"Right, because you're such a ray of fucking sunshine yourself," Javier feels the need to point out, dark eyes creased at the corners with the slightest hint of amusement. If he's bothered by the other man responding in English, there's no indication. That, or maybe he's just accustomed to having his buttons pushed when around the guy. Got a problem, his text said. Mind if I stop by? Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what he's here for.

Nevertheless, a twitch of his head away when the hood's tugged off, which reveal glassy, bloodshot eyes with the pupils blown wide. That he's shaking slightly may be irrelevant, given the chill outside, but then again it may not. His teeth sink into his lower lip, right where it meets close-cropped beard scruff, and for a beat there it looked like he might shove the younger man away. "We can't go after Marsden," he explains after a moment in that low, scratchy murmur.

There is a slight rumbled, 'Mm' from Cristobal as he gets a good look at Ruiz, and for a very brief moment, his hand rests on the cop's cheek with a touch of sympathy before he's pushing against the other man's face to break their eye contact. "Yeah, and why is that? He onto you, or are things just too damn dicey to risk it." There's a bottle of Don on the counter, two glasses pulled down and set there as if in anticipation of Javier's arrival. "Let's get you warmed up, huh?" It won't cut that need that Ruiz has coursing through his veins, but it may just take the edge off to have a drink. Cris turns away towards the counter, padding over to pull the top off the bottle. Something unknown makes Cris smile as he stands there, pouring three fingers for each of them.

As is often their milieu, a vague and restless tension accompanies that touch to his cheek. Like he's never quite sure what to make of such things where Cris is concerned. Then the push, and it carries with it a grunt from the cop. And he doesn't move out of the entryway as the younger man wanders off. Not immediately. But if there's one sure way to Javier's heart, it's tequila. He slides his eyes to the closed door, then back to Cris. Slow, drinking him in like the predator he is. Then pushes off to approach in that prowlish, roundabout way he has.

"I shouldn't have asked in the first place, is why. Going after him's going to fuck us both up. I'm reasonably certain he's being paid off by Felix." That boyscout? He sounds distinctly irritated by this, and reaches past Cris to snag one of the glasses.

That little shove from Cris was likely meant to restore some status quo between them, lest Ruiz start to think he'd gone soft by showing even that modicum of concern as it bubbled up from the place of some better man than what Cruz deserves to be.

His smile slightly fades as he draws away from some thought as he stands at the counter, a gaze flicked up to watch Ruiz prowling over. He's not tensed for a pounce though he sets the glass down a little harder than necessary as he moves it closer to Ruiz. "That's a shame. I was sort of looking forward to coming up with some dastardly returned favor in the future, but who isn't in Felix' pocket these days."

No pouncing tonight. No outward sign of aggression. Claws retracted, only a flicker of his teeth when his lip pulls back in a quick little thing that could be a smile, but never really comes off as one. "Gracias," murmured before the glass is tipped to his mouth for a modest swallow. Knuckles follow, dark eyes still settled on the other man steadily. Or as steadily as he can manage in his current state. He weighs his next words carefully over the protracted pause that follows. Then, "I still need your help." His thumb slides along the rim of his glass, chasing a bead of the golden liquor. Then he sucks it off, swallows. "I'll pay, of course. Extra, you know, whatever you need to not.." Draw Felix's attention.

Cristobal's own glass stalls in its journey to his mouth, held just out of the reach of his lips as Ruiz confesses that he still needs Cris' help. He's trying to figure out just what that means, and his blue eyes seem to blaze sharper for a moment as the cogs in his brain start to turn, lining up pieces into a more full version of the situation. "You still need someone to score for you." In the end, no drink is taken from the glass, and Cristobal sets it down on the edge of the counter and starts toying with it, turning it around in tight circles. "And I'm the best choice." Neither of those things seem to be questions, but they draw the younger latino's jaw tighter as they're stated.

As that tension slides over the other man, Javier drags his gaze away again. Focuses on his own glass, and tosses back another mouthful of tequila. "Yeah." Someone to score for him. It sounds both better and worse than calling it what it is: a dealer. He needs a dealer. "Don't exactly have a lot of options on the table," he tells him, setting his glass on the counter and watching it still. What he means is, there aren't a lot of people the fucking police captain can go to, and not risk everything in the process. "I need your help," he repeats, husky-voiced, without a shred of temerity.

"So my choices are: say yes to to being your little drug mule. Feed your habit. Risk possession and distribution charges. Or." Cris leans his hip against the counter, affecting a lean that is all coiled muscle instead of relaxed lank, his glass of tequila plucked up again if only so he can motion to Ruiz with it. "Say no." He lets that sink in for a second as he takes a sip of his tequila, letting it roll over his tongue before it slides down his throat. "And risk you going off half-cocked to get it some place else, becoming a liability to both of us. That's a lot of risk either way and little reward." He points out, but at least he's not saying which way the scales are tipping.

His fingers are dragged along the back of his neck, and scraped through his hair slowly, not quite masking the agitation that's twitching just under his composed surface. "I'll do my fucking best to make sure nothing sticks, you fucking know that." The Chief's really the only one he has to worry about, and with him in Felix's pocket too, the concern becomes more about making sure it doesn't get back to Monaghan. At the say no, there's a swallow from the cop, fidgety fingers toying with his glass now, instead, then lifting it for another sip. Not a word more from him, just his bristly silence and the distinct sense that he'd gnaw his own arm off right now if there were a possibility of it taking the edge off.

'His best' isn't exactly reassuring right now to Cristobal who is looking irritated as fuck that he's even considering helping Ruiz out on this. He cranes his head away, pulling the web of his thumb and forefinger down over his mouth, fingers smoothing down the bristle of tight cropped goatee that surrounds his lips. "I think I have some party favors laying around here. That should hold you off until I can make a larger purchase. But this is going to be for you and for you only. You start showing up here with friends looking to purchase, I'll make sure you regret drawing a breath the next day. And if I go down for this, you're damn well better be sure I'm dragging your ass down with me."

"Oh, you can fuck right off, Cruz," snaps de la Vega, interjecting right in the midst of Cris's lecturing about not bringing his friends over. He tosses back the last of the tequila and pushes off the counter, a flash of heat in his dark, ferocious eyes. "Showing up with friends looking to purchase? Are you fucking kidding me? You're going to start making threats, I'll find someone else. I don't need this shit." The empty glass is shoved away, and skitters across the counter, wobbles, but thankfully doesn't topple over.

"Just covering my bases here, and my ass." Cris says in a lofty voice, "And we both know you're not going fucking anywhere, not when you know I'm already holding and you have ants marching through your veins right now. Making you itchy, making you twitchy. Maybe even making you a little bit desperate? Hell, not only are you not walking out that door right now, I'd bet you just about anything to take that edge off right now. Isn't that right, Javier?"

Of course he's not going anywhere. It's a pretty flimsy bluff, and the ragged little spike of anger that slides through him speaks to how close to the bone Cris's words are cutting. He jerks a glance away, then back again, jaw tight, bulky frame bristling with the desire to hurt someone. "Alguna vez dejas de correr tu puta boca?" he growls, scraping his fingers through his hair again, pacing away with that taut, liquid grace that seems entirely wrong yet thoroughly right on him. Then a loud crash as he savagely kicks at a chair and sends it toppling into the floor and slamming into a wall. "Just fucking give it to me," he roars, "tu hijo de puta!"

"You didn't complain about my mouth when it was shoved around your cock. Now why would you want me to stop using one of my greatest assets? That'd be like expecting Itzhak to cut the nose off his face or you to..." Cristobal's words do cut off however when Ruiz sends one of his chairs sailing across the room, leaving a ding in the drywall where it hits and comes to a stop. There's something in the air then, like a tension of the molecules becoming thick. Cris' jaw is tense as the table begins to rattle with it's pin legs vibrating against the floor boards and then the chair merely tilts back up into a righted position. It's a bit of a rudimentary use of glimmer, like it's not well controlled by its user. "Why don't you come over here and get on your knees and show me just how much you want it." Cris seethes the words out. Hit him all you want, but don't mess with his stuff, what very little of it he has.

Ruiz isn't even sticking around long enough to witness the chair right itself, tugged back into place like a puppet on strings. He hears get on your knees, and rage swells in him, consumes him, forcing out all rational thought and hope of restraint. Stalking back over to Cris, he reaches for a fistful of his shirt in one hand, and then takes a swing with the other. Inked knuckles on a collision course with that pretty mouth, and the fucker is not only quick, but hits like a freight train.

It's hard to say which bet Cris was hedging on, that Ruiz would be so desperate that he'd scrabble down and offer his mouth to Cristobal out of desperation, or that Cris would push his buttons enough to get clocked for the trouble. Either way there is a grunt of pain at being smashed in the mouth by those unforgiving knuckles, but Ruiz gets a smug, bloody mouthed smile for his trouble. "You really always gotta go for my money maker?" Cris attempts to get that grip released from his shirt, tussling with Ruiz and trying to find the pressure point in his wrist to get the hold to break to no avail.

Knowing Ruiz and his proclivity for iron fisted control, dropping to his knees was never an option. August has said that he's never met a problem his dick can't solve, but the reality is, his fists are generally his go to. So, when that first hit connects, he shoves Cris back and back until he's arched precariously over the counter, and takes another swing at him. This one a hook that cuts in from the right, the scrabbling grip on his wrist pretty much ignored. Messing with a man in the grip of the kind of jonesing he's contending with right now is a risky proposition.

Cris takes another blow, unable to get out from beneath the solid form of Ruiz much less fend off the abuse to his jaw. His split lip is bleeding, his teeth hurt and his jaw aches and is red where there will be bruises shortly, but now he's fighting to try and get control of hand that is delivering the punishment to try and pull it downwards. His hand slips away from his grip, frustratingly resorting to pat his injured side where the bandage lies beneath his shirt. "Aqui."

Somehow, through the haze of withdrawal and rage like dry kindling, waiting for the spark to light the inferno, Javier manages to back down. Maybe it's just the realisation that turning Cris's face into mincemeat won't help with the jonesing and definitely won't help with him helping. Or, maybe, the man simply has a shred of remaining self-control. Enough to have him shoving the younger man against the wall once, hard enough to make his head ring. His face inches away, the scent of him a mingling of cigarette smoke and bitter orange. Inked knuckles ground into the man's collarbone a moment, before he's released with a snarl.

"No." He sniffs sharply, rubs at his nose with those knuckles as he backs off. "The blow first."

"Fuck, like you're doing me a favor by beating the shit out of me." Cris mutters as he's released, sliding down from his uncomfortable back bend over the counter. He takes a step or two aside to spit at the sink, spattering pinkish red against the white porcelain basin and not bothering to rinse the blood down. "It's in the box next to the bedside. Get it and get the fuck out." He yanks open the freezer to start rooting around, fully content to just turn his back on Ruiz as he finds a bag of frozen corn and sets it to his face.

He doesn't even bother arguing that claim, though the desire to beg to differ is on the very tip of his tongue. Instead, a rough snort as he digs in his pocket for a wad of cash, tosses it atop the counter, and stalks off to the bedroom to rifle about for said box. Digging it out, he cracks it open, dabs a little on his finger in order to taste it. Then, satisfied that the guy isn't trying to fuck him over, collects the contents and shoves them into his jacket pocket.

"See you in a couple weeks," he mumbles, chancing a brief look askance to the other man. Then tugs his hood up and over his head, and throws the deadbolt before shouldering the door open.

"Pleasure doing..." The door closes behind Ruiz. "Business with you. Shit, Cruz." He turns around and flings the bag of frozen vegetables at the wall and it busts, little corn kernels going everywhere. He'll clean it up later.