2020-02-05 - Portents & Promises of Pie

The Ace of Clubs Tavern in Hoquiam is the unassuming sort of neighborhood place that might rightly qualify as a dive. A clean and well-lit one, but definitely casual, low-brow. And open later than damned near everything else in town, as is only right and proper for a bar. There's music playing overhead, a few guys playing darts toward the back, a short line for six-pack take-out... and a familiar face with neon red hair settled at a table not too far from the entrance.

"You're fucked, Dusty," Sparrow calls all too cheerfully for the college-aged kid collecting his coat and backpack and making for the door. She's got her own bag on a chair next to her, open to reveal the edges of textbooks, a suggestion of a study group that ended some while ago if the glasses not yet cleared from the table, all shoved up to the side, are any indication. Hers is still half-full with some sort of golden brew as she picks up some cards with pale blue rorschach-pattered backs while grinning to herself, all pleased and rosy-cheeked.

Dusty is indeed fucked. And the way he's looking at the redhead shuffling her cards into a tidy pile, like he thinks it's her fault. There's a grunt for her commentary, and he pushes out the door just as an older fellow's coming in. Dark-haired, ball cap and battered bomber jacket, doesn't return the tight smile the kid gives him on his way out.

The bar's his immediate destination, in the off chance they can pour him a, "Tequila." Smoke-roughened and scratchy, that voice; kind of unmisktakeable. A slight tinge of Mexican Spanish in the softened consonants and warm, lingered-upon vowels. His hat comes off so he can scruff his fingers through hair barely long enough to do so. Then happens to catch sight of the candy-apple redhead and the remains of her study group. And watches her for a while, as he waits for his drink.

"Lemme get some of this out of your way." It's the server that draws Sparrow's attention up from her cards as she tucks them into the rainbow-colored drawstring pouch they came from. She flashes the woman a tipsily flirtatious smile that's answered with, "Can I get you another?" The redhead doesn't hesitate to nod, that confirmation offered before the low, "Please," finds voice. She demonstrates not one little lick of shame--or possibly even self-awareness--as she watches the woman with the armful of empty glasses go, brown-eyed attention decidedly angled at denim-clad ass.

She's smiling to herself when her attention strays to take in how much of the world has changed since she and her study group first sat down, finding herself now left alone with the late night crowd. And a familiar face? Sparrow straightens, blinks. She's seeing who she thinks she's seeing, right? The wide grin which crosses her mulberry lips says she hopes she is. "Javier?"

In the flesh, as it turns out. The sodden flesh; rain's soaked into his jacket and left his ball cap soggy, and he doesn't seem in any rush to tug it back on. Nor does he look away if the girl happens to find his eyes. A lopsided curve of his mouth in answer to her broad grin, crow's feet sketched in deep grooves from the corners of his eyes. Then the 'tender's got his drink, and he turns to collect it with a murmured, gracias and a crumpled bill tossed atop the bar.

He should probably mind his own business, given the givens. But he does no such thing. After a sniff to clear his nose, he pushes off the counter and approaches her table at a slow prowl.

The table's got too many chairs around it. Easy to imagine a crowd of chemistry nerds gathered around it, steadily losing focus on studying as their alcohol content increased. There's no mistaking that the redhead's done her fair share, the way her cheeks maintain a steady pink that has very little to do with either the waitress whose ass she'd been considering or the cop whose approach she's shamelessly appraising. Her comfortable slouch leaves the very large red-irised eye in the center of her long-sleeved black tee staring ominously up at Ruiz, a creepy third eye joining in on the observation.

"Hey." No 'handsome,' this time. No verbal flirtation to back up the lascivious look she's giving him, some degree of restraint demonstrated, lines respected. "I, uh." Gravity creeps into her features ever so faintly, the slightest shift toward seriousness. "Sorry about the other day. Answering when you knocked." And seeing what she saw.

It's easy to imagine, if that's been your reality some time in the past decade or two. In de la Vega's case, it's doubtful he's ever seen the inside of a textbook. Let alone taken it seriously. He drinks in the red hair, the blush that's starting to match it, and then the creepy ass tee shirt Sparrow's wearing with some bemusement. And then, he's inviting himself right the hell on over. A chair's nudged out with the toe of his boot, and he sinks into it while being careful not to spill his drink. Precious, precious tequila.

"Hola, chiquita maravillosa," he replies with a wink. Restraint, apparently, only applies to whom he's sleeping with; flirting seems to be fair game, at least where he's concerned. "Why're you sorry?" His gaze doesn't shift from hers. Easing back in his chair, he tips his glass toward his mouth for a sip. "I was the one who went looking. Are you all right?"

"Maravillosa," Sparrow echoes inexpertly, delightedly, enjoying the sound of it, the feel of it. Even if she can only guess at what it might mean. Her blush darkens at his question, but she only manages another, "I, uh," before the waitress is back with another beer to go with the one she hasn't quite finished yet. A warm smile, an easy nod, and they're left alone again. "I'm alright," sounds sincere. Not the pissy bullshit she'd been spewing the other day at the diner. "Something good went bad and then got weird and just..." The eyeroll goes well with the shrug, communicating a couple different degrees of I dunno all at once. She's not gonna dwell on it. Or answer his question about what she was apologizing for.

Instead, she arches her brows and smiles across the table at him. "Your good thing serenaded me the other day. Payment for services rendered." She taps a couple of fingers to the cloth bag with the tarot deck in it indicatively. Whether he noticed what went in there or not. "Really lovely human being. I like him."

"Mm. Not bad." Her pronunciation, he must mean. He doesn't give a translation, though he does look incrementally more pleased, the more she blushes. Which he manages without quite smiling; it's all in those dark, complex eyes. "I hope things are better now," is all he offers on that subject, since it's clear she doesn't want to go into it. Another day, a few more drinks, he might press. But tonight? Is not the night for that.

Instead, a flush of unexpected warmth creeps across his features when she mentions his good thing. "Did he." A sip. "And what services were those?" Not hard to tell how he feels about the guy, with a look on his face like he's got right now.

"Nah," is all Sparrow offers on how things are now, though the comfortably casual tone at least suggests she's not bothered by how bad whatever it is might still be. It's just not important. Especially when there's that color coming to Javier's cheeks, inspiring a proud smile in answer. She did that. Not that her self-directed delight lasts all that long, swiftly softening as she stares, as she enjoys finding that bit of softness beneath the smolder and teeth. Asked after her services, she pulls the bag over and open, drawing the deck of cards out. "I usually charge at least a slice of pie, but." She's already starting to shuffle. "Lemme look. You don't even gotta ask a question if you don't wanna. And you don't have to tell me what it is if you do. Three cards." Beat. "S'il vous plait?"

He's certainly not one given to wearing his heart on his sleeve, this man. So the glimpses of what sits beneath his prickly surface tend to be few and far between; fleeting, like the gleam of some iridescent fish slipping through the shallows. He returns her gaze evenly, not seeming bothered by her staring. "Well, I don't have anything worthwhile to barter in exchange-" Like the ability to serenade her, he means. "So a slice of pie it is." His eyes remain on her face as the cards come out. Glass tipped to his mouth, he drinks long and slow, catches a bead of liquor that tries to escape into his beard with the tip of his tongue.

Finally, "I've never done this before." Tarot. "You'll have to tell me what to do. I need a question?" He looks very slightly amused. And more than a little intrigued.

"Sounds almost like a date," Sparrow teases with a little waggle of her brow that skews a bit more cheesy than properly flirtatious. When he doesn't turn her down outright and instead seems willing to let her try, she straightens up in her seat and shakes her head. "Nah. Not if you don't wanna," she answers of needing a question. "If you do have one? Kinda focuses it a bit, provides context. If you don't? We'll just see what the cards have to say." Whether he's thought up a question or not, whether he means to share it with her if he does, she sets the deck in front of Ruiz and instructs, "Cut. If you wanna," sounding ever so slightly more serious for this bit of business. Much as she can while tipsy like this, not quite pulling off professional when she downs the rest of her warmer beer in one hearty swig before drawing the next one over into its abdicated space.

Properly flirtatious or not, the eyebrow waggle coaxes out a small smile from the man. He continues to watch her for a while, like she's a puzzle he's intent on solving. Inked fingers rest over the rim of his glass, the knuckles scrawled with symbols and letters, and at least one stylised fish. Perhaps to match the trawler adrift in churning waves that decorate his right arm. Currently hidden, of course, by his jacket.

"All right," he informs her finally. "I've got a question." Which he's apparently not going to share. Dark eyes drag off the girl finally, and he reaches over to cut the deck as instructed, before downing a sip of his tequila.

The smile almost certainly reads as agreement to Sparrow, if that flicker of delight in her darkly lined eyes is any indication. Her make-up tonight is fairly muted, the dark hue on her lips beginning to fade and the faint dusting of some shimmery neutral hue on her eyes only faintly evident, but that cateye has yet to dim in its crisp-edged perfection.

"Alright," she echoes, accepting the unasked question without any curiosity or concern. When she draws the deck back, they square up in her left hand while her right flips them onto the table where it's driest, cleanest. Three cards, laid left to right: the Five of Cups, reversed, depicting an upside down owl in a nest with three hatched eggs, two yet whole; the Five of Pentacles, also reversed, featuring a woman in beige and bright pink with three discs haloing her head, one hand on her stomach; the Ace of Wands, with blue flowers and a pale fox twining around a wand shaped of negative space. She can't help the pensive frown which forms when she takes it all in, when she flicks a quick look up at Javier. "Lotta uncomfortable in-between places. Loss."

Tapping the table in front of the owl, she says, "Bad, too. But that's the past. Says you lost too much. Like what coulda been saved wasn't. And this one?" She slides her finger over toward the other upside down five, though she keeps her gaze on the man across from her now. "A reflection of that. The past echoing very directly into the present. Like maybe something's catching up with you."

They're taken in one at a time, these little details: the shimmery shadow, the stain on her lips. Catalogued and filed away, though they go wholly uncommented upon.

Finally, his dark gaze tips toward the cards as they're revealed. He doesn't seem to know what to make of them, largely because, as he'd said, he's never done this before. So her frown garners a crease between his brows. Curiosity and cautious interest, his jaw tightens when she speaks that word. Loss. As if he hasn't had his fill of it. But it's what follows that has the tension sliding into his shoulders and narrowing his eyes a fraction. "I.." He doesn't actually believe this, does he? "That doesn't fucking help."

"Doesn't it?" Sparrow quickly counters. It might read more like a proper challenge if she didn't keep staring for a few curious seconds as if genuinely interested in why or how. Maybe the card will tell her, because she looks back down to consider the woman in the middle once more. "I dunno. She's telling you where it's coming from, but maybe you already knew. Kinda hate calling it karma, but." That's the easiest translation. How it's a bitch when it comes back around. With an arch of her brows, she ventures, "Might also warn that the structures you might expect to be there to support you when everything goes to shit can't be relied on, but." That feels like fishing. She's not sure on that one.

With a tap in front of the last card, that fox among the flowers, she looks up and notes, "But there's hope here. Potence. Some new spark to provide a new path, a new possibility." With a shrug, she admits, "Fuck if I know what that is, but you can ask whatever questions you want, and I can pull more cards."

His expression says he doesn't understand. The woman in the middle, where it's coming from, any of this. Though his gaze is drawn back to the five of cups, like there's something about it he can't shake from him. Then that comment about things going to shit, and structures not being there to support him, and.. "You sure it's not talking about something that's already happened?" Because the prospect of having to face this.. again. Well, he looks discomfited.

"Okay." He scratches at his beard with a thumb, then indicates the last card. "What the fuck's that one about?" He miiiight be a tetch agitated.

"I mean," Sparrow begins on the point of timing. "This--" The first five with the owl. "--is the past. And this--" The second five. "--is the present. Now. And the two are tied like whoa. There's something from then that's back to bite you now." Her shoulders go up, held as she reminds, "But I've got no context for this, handsome. I can only tell you what the cards tell me. You've got the hard job of figuring out what it means for you."

But yeah, she heard the question and looks down at the ace, flipping a fourth card over to slightly overlap it. Her lips immediately purse with wry humor at whatever she sees in that Page of Pentacles, set upside down to her, the woman in blue stockings and little else entirely upright for Ruiz. "Right," she quips dryly at the card itself. "We already got that much." Looking up, she clues him in with, "It says it's something new. Duh." The new thing is new. So helpful. "I mean. She's usually about dreams made manifest which--" Oh. Her expression darkens as she hears the words, as it clicks. Then the actual, "Oh," crosses her lips. "I, uh. Shit. I don't know. I'm sorry. I see where it's saying hope, good stuff, power, action." That's the ace. "But I haven't found any of that in the, uh. Manifested dreams..." The thought isn't finished, but she just runs out of words, leaving it right there, all awkward and strange.

That much, at least, seems to make sense to him. The past and present, inextricably tied. He watches those cards, then watches the girl's eyes again. A twinge at the corners of his mouth when she calls him that. Handsome. "Right," he murmurs, then, "Lo siento." The last of his tequila's knocked back, hat slid off his head again so he can scruff his fingers through his short hair before replacing it.

Then, oh. And his look grows circumspect again. And another oh, and he frowns slightly. "What?" A beat of silence between them on the heels of that awkward nothing, and then he nudges his empty glass aside and reaches across the table to snag her hand if he can. Weathered, inked fingers sliding roughly over her much smaller ones. "Tell me. What."

What? is a harder question to answer than Sparrow would like, even while ignoring the very obvious complication of way too many nice normal people at this nice normal bar. It's not until his fingers snag on hers that she looks up, expression caught somewhere between spooked and amused, that she makes some real go at it. "I don't like what it's saying. But that's just me. I know other people have other feelings about this shit, but." Her brow furrows as she leans in, as her fingers squeeze his, not letting go of his hand now that she has it. "I know how it looks to me. Going from wands to coins, from passion to matter. Dream to reality. If I had to guess? Something you need to get started in a new direction and break free from that bullshit?" She nods toward the other cards, probably referring to the five, but the gesture's really nonsepcific. "You're gonna find it in a Dream. Capital-dee dream." And she sounds apologetic as fuck about that, even if it's not her doing.

He's stilled by her words, the snarling beast in him quieted. Lurksome, his eyes dark and hooded as they regard her from across the table. She could probably pull her hand away if she really tried; his grip is insistent but not unbreakable.

Finally, a slow nod. He glances from her, back to the cards. Studies them for a few moments more, like they might reveal something beyond the riddles she's told. Then her hand's relinquished, rough fingers slid over her knuckles, and away entirely. A Dream. Of course. "Entiendo. Yo pienso." He's quiet a moment more, then draws a breath. "Thank you."

Sparrow answers, "I'm sorry," for that gratitude, her hand lingering where he left it for a few seconds yet, fingers curled to squeeze at nothing. "I wouldn't--" she starts without finishing right away, drawing her hand back as she slouches back, as she shrugs. "They're just cards, yeah? I wouldn't put too much faith in 'em." The delicate furrow between her brows as she tries to brush the reading aside reads pretty easily as concern, as pleading, asking him not to go chasing any solutions in There. Whether he has more questions or not, she starts picking the cards up, stacking 'em all on top of the deck which, in turn, goes back into its pouch, all without further word from the decidedly unsettled reader.

He's not in any great hurry, it seems, to get the fuck out of here. There's a flickered smile that doesn't touch his eyes, when she tells him they're just cards. But he must be feeding off her concern, because he looks discomfited as hell. There's also the matter of him being a reader of no small skill; there's no telling just what he's skimming off the surface of her mind right now. "Thanks," he says again, quieter. Glances at his watch. "You need a ride back to town, or?"

Sparrow shoves the cards into her backpack, in one of the front pouches, then zips the whole thing back up. Like she might be sealing those cards away, jailing them for being bad and talking about stuff she doesn't want to think about. When she sinks back into her seat, she nods, a faint hint of her grin trying to resurface and not quite getting there. "Could use a ride," she confirms. Of course, she's also still got a mostly full beer right there. Not that she reaches for it as she asks, "You heading out now?" like she might be willing to just pick up and leave this weird mood behind, like it might cling to the table and not be carried with them.

The backpack and its contents are pointedly ignored. Fucking cards. What the fuck do they know. Except, maybe, everything, given this town and its proclivities. You're gonna find it in a Dream, she said, and it's still rattling around in his head, even now. "Whenever you like," he murmurs with a twinge of his mouth that creases a fleeting warmth into the corners of his eyes. It's distracted; his mind is thoroughly elsewhere. His gaze, eventually, slides toward the nearby window to note the quantity of rain falling in silvery sheets. That's going to be fun to drive home in.

Sparrow's beer comes up for a way-too-big swig like she might make some attempt at chugging the whole damned thing in one go with the intention of getting out of here right quick, but she leaves half of it behind as she pushes up to her feet. She sucks on her upper lip as she shrugs on her coat, her backpack, showing no particular concern for the downpour. Maybe because she doesn't have to drive. Maybe because staying here just sounds like a less pleasant prospect than navigating the rain. There's a mutter of, "Sec," as she makes toward the bar to settle up, paying with card rather than cash.

Then it's out into the wet weather, the college kid following the cop. Could she identify his car? Definitely not in the rain, in the dark, while more than a little bit tipsy. She has to rely on his guidance to get her where they're going, head ducked out of habit to keep the rain from her make-up. "Appreciate this. Sometimes get some real creeps on Uber."

The cop squares up for his own solitary drink with a crumpled note tossed atop the table, and then his ball cap's tugged back on, and the brim pulled low over his eyes. He's an unlikely companion for the redhead, with her backpack and college student vibe. But he's got manners enough, at least, not to walk too close; he holds the door for her but doesn't quite touch her back on the way out.

"Right hand side," he instructs, since she's stepping out first. And this time, he does touch her; a glancing contact of fingertips to her arm to steer her the right way. A set of keys is jangled out of his jacket pocket then, and a chirp as he taps the fob, prompting a set of headlights to flash once, twice, three times. The car is a mean-looking slab of American muscle, slapped with a set of push bars on the front and that look cop cars have when they're trying to pass under the radar. "Here we are. Tu carro, cariño." The passenger side door is popped open, and he favours her with a slight smile.

The perpetual flirtation machine must be in power-saving mode, because Sparrow doesn't play up that going-home-with-an-older-man thing that she might otherwise get a kick out of, nothing even a teensy bit untoward as they head out. Not until he's got the door open for her, anyway, but there's no one watching by then, no one to catch the way the redhead dips closer quickly in the hopes of landing a quick peck to Javier's cheek as she slips her backpack off. In and out, whether she succeeds or not. The backpack is dropped between her feet as she sinks in, a few seconds spent fussing with her hair and dabbing beneath her eyes where mascara might've begun to run before she bothers to pull on her seatbelt. By the time Ruiz makes his way around to the driver's side, there's a very good chance she has her phone out and is texting someone to issue a rough ETA.

He must be off his game tonight. Or supremely on, because the kiss finds one of his scruffy cheeks before he's had a chance to pull away. The smile increases a notch, and he watches her for a long moment before slamming her door shut. Then nothing for a span of seconds while she fusses with her hair and fixes her mascara; nothing but the hiss of rain against the windows, the swish of a car passing them by on the street. Then the driver's side door is popped open, and the older man swings inside, bringing with him the scent of cigarettes and tequila, leather and cordite. He unholsters his sidearm before he's even got his door properly closed, and reaches across Sparrow's lap to pop the glovebox with his thumb, and slot the weapon inside. After he's checked the safety and unloaded the clip with the ease of one who's far too familiar with such things.

"What brought you out to Hoquiam today?" he murmurs, sliding a look toward the girl, then away as he keys the ignition.

Sparrow doesn't look up until Ruiz is leaning in, tipping her phone toward her as she follows the arm invading her personal space up to its source, less interested in the man than the weapon. She's still staring when his attention turns her way, a softer smile than she usually manages still in place, her whole energy muted and subdued in the wake of that unsettling foretelling. "School," brings out a bigger grin, that one word readily emphasizing their age difference. With a tip of her head back in the direction they came from, she appends, "Study group tonight. Which got way off-topic. Which probably isn't fair to the rest of 'em, but." She doesn't seem all that bothered about their academic fates or worried about her own. She returns her focus to her phone to finish off her last text, clicking the screen dark once that's done, allowing her undistracted attention to fall fully upon the man driving her home. "What brings you out here? If you're stalking me--" She definitely knows he isn't. "--I can just forward on my schedule. Make it easy on ya." Ah. There it is. All flirtation systems fully functional again. Brow-waggle engaged.

Depending on how much - or how little - she knows about guns? It'll either be obvious that it's a Sig Sauer P226.. or simply a rather nasty looking piece of work. Whether this makes her feel more or less safe in his presence likely depends on how much she trusts him, though.

"School," he repeats, with a warm, scratchy-soft chuckle. "Chemistry, right? Is that what your study group was about?" He picks his words carefully, like he's afraid of tripping over them. Then with the car started, he shoulder checks and pulls out onto the road with an aggressive snarl of those eight cylinders eager to move. As for himself, "I meet once a month with the Chief of police for Hoquiam and Elma. We rotate which town hosts each time." And this time, it must've been Hoquiam. Then the tease about stalking her registers, and he looks amused again; soft creases form at the corners of his eyes, barely visible in the streetlight-strobed dark. "Do still owe you a slice of pie, if you have some idea of what your schedule looks like the next few days or so." Two can apparently play at that game.

"Chemistry," Sparrow echoes, a snort of laughter following. "Theoretically what the study group was about. Think it's a sign that everyone's just fucking done that they let me pick the place." A bar, she means. Instead of a coffee shop, pizza place, library. Anywhere more appropriate for productive study. The fact that she doesn't spare a glance for the road as they start off into the rainy night says a whole lot about her level of trust, how comfortable she is in his company, not at all worried he might get them killed between here and home. Her nose scrunches faintly for the perfectly reasonable answer to go with her own, both of them playing at some degree of responsibility this evening. But there's the prospect of pie.

"Well." Such a sweet little syllable, like she might be weighing just how much she wants pie as she takes in those subtle shifts in his profile. "I've got labs and kickboxing tomorrow. My long day. So unless you're looking for some late night pie..." which has a certain salacious ring to it, the way she says it. "Then Friday, I'm flying out to Tempe. Won't be back until late Sunday, so." Brows pitch upward as she poses, "Kinda a now or next week sorta thing," as if that whole four days of waiting may well mean 'never' and isn't there a diner or something on the way?

Late night pie very much does have a salacious ring to it. He looks over when she says it, and one corner of his mouth ticks up in something resembling amusement. Then back to his driving, the swarthy Mexican's brutish profile offered up once more. That nose looks like it's been broken three or four times, and there's a healing gouge along his jaw that may or may not leave behind a faint scar in its wake. His car navigates the rainswept streets fairly well; the handling's tight, though even in the passenger seat it's obvious the thing is heavy. Which is probably why it needs such a thirsty engine, to make it move like it does.

"You're a busy woman," he observes mildly, hands eleven and one on the steering wheel instead of the more textbook ten and two. "Or you're playing hard to get." That is a tease, given his tone of voice; a low, warm purr. He doesn't give his answer right away, though. Whether it's going to be now, or next week. He merges onto the highway that takes them out of town, feeds the beast of a car more gas, and it responds enthuasiastically, with a little pop as they're nudged back in their seats.

"Easy to get didn't work," Sparrow teases right back with a decidedly leftward skewing smirk that promptly spills into a giggle when he hits the gas given that straight stretch of highway ahead of them. That giddiness slipping out unintentionally brings a bit of color to her cheeks as she steals a glance forward to the road ahead. Then actually spends a moment looking the interior of the car over while her thoughts wander elsewhere. If he's still listening, any mental feelers out to keep tabs on her mood, he might catch the tangle of more complicated emotions that she lets slip past, excitement and irritation bundled up around something a bit more dense that she just lets go. "I really am busy, but. Pie's worth waiting for, right?" With a sidelong look that grows into more direct attention for the driver, she asks, "What kinda pie d'ya like?" in a manner which suggests it might be metaphor beneath the thin veneer of innocence.

The streets are wet, and the rain's slanting in hard and fast, muddling visibility and making driving more of a challenge than usual. Javier's no street racer, but he does know his car, and just how much he can float it into a turn, or whether he's got enough traction to accelerate safely. Predictably, they make short work of most of the other vehicles on the highway; the engine growls its approval as the needle edges the one hundred mark, and while it's possible he's showing off for a pretty girl.. it's equally possible he's just enjoying the opportunity to let loose a bit. How restrained this man needs to be in his everyday life, kept on such a tight leash by all these rules.

He smiles again, slight, at her first words. And he's aware of her checking the car out: the rifle rack above their heads, the laptop on a swivel between them, currently closed and locked into place. The bank of dials and switches that activate different types of siren and light combinations. "Key lime," he supplies after a long while. "Sweet, but not too sweet. A little attitude to balance it out." Is he talking about pie, or? "Dense and complicated, something that needs to be eaten slowly." His tonguetip skims his lower lip, then disappears.

There's something comfortable about this kinda quiet that's not all that quiet at all, filled with the growling engine, the rainfall, the road disappearing beneath them, the woosh of wind and water with every car passed. With a slight turn of her hips, a little lean into her shoulders, Sparrow faces Ruiz more directly, shameless watching him--or the dark, soggy world out his window--even as the conversation dips into its intermittent silences. It might be compensation for the lack of contact, for how still she keeps her hands on her lap despite all these interesting buttons she could press.

Were she a more subtle and sultry creature, she might manage to play it cool at his description, at that tease of tongue in search of citrus. But she's not, and she doesn't, instead erupting in a bell-bright laugh, profoundly pleased with his pie preference. "Who doesn't like a bit of bite?" Her smile remains wide as her lashes dip low. "Think I can find something fitting the occasion."

There's plenty comfortable about it, this quiet. And Javier's not the sort of man to try to fill it with conversation; he seems perfectly content to sit with the silence that isn't quite silence. A relaxed ease enters his bulky frame, which is often brittle with tension in anticipation of danger both real and imagined. This, this is where he finds peace. At the wheel of his car. "You might be surprised," he murmurs, dark eyes ticking over just in time to spot the broad smile juxtaposed with the dip of lashes. His gaze lingers a beat, two, then drags back to the road ahead with a slight tic in his jaw. "Entonces tendré que confiar en ti," he adds even more quietly. Rain hits the windows sideways, the road a blur under the tires; in the distance, a large sign by the roadside. Welcome to Gray Harbor.

Something about the ease with which Sparrow settles into the passenger seat speaks to familiarity with... well. Some of this. Some part of it. Some little piece of her own idea of home found here despite unfamiliarity with the details. "Maybe," sounds more like a no. "Maybe I just don't find myself in close quarters with those kinda people." One shoulder lifts in a half-serious half-shrug. Her attention strays long long after his does, in time to catch that sign which can easily seem equally forboding as comforting to those who know the town. "Sometimes, I imagine you're saying absolutely filthy things to me. Wholly inappropriate. The kinda stuff that might make even me blush if I understood it. Other times? Complete nonsequiturs. Just to make me think you're coming onto me." It's not a question, none of it, not one lick of curiosity in her tone as she remains happily oblivious.

He's not going to tell her which it was, it seems. Non sequitur or something ferociously filthy. He learned his lesson with that one already, and seems to know well enough to assume ignorance is bliss, where Sparrow's concerned. "No voy a ti," he rumbles softly. Teasing her now, perhaps. "Pero en cuanto a algo sucio.." And a grin splits his face, lighting up that normally severe expression with something bordering on mischievousness. "Tu boca debe dar a los hombres sueños húmedos." His eyes flick toward her, then back to the road as they blow past the welcome sign. "Women too, I'm sure." That part, intentionally, in English.

Sparrow is keeping that. The way she watches Ruiz as that barest hint of impishness creeps into his features might give it away, how she's making a point to commit that look, viewed mostly in profile, to memory. Hers. Something nobody else has seen quite like this, in this specific context. It's delicious. And she's keeping it. A bit of recognition glimmers at that third line as she catches a few familiar syllables, the similarity among romance languages helping her out a little. Her mouth. Men. And she lets him know, too, when she tilts just a little bit closer to murmur, "Les femmes aiment particulièrement mes doigts," in a tone which belies any innocence she attempts with those big brown eyes. "You remember which one's mine?"

It's hers. Freely given, graciously received. And it's gone a heartbeat later, as if it was never there at all. His face is all hard lines and severity, their secret stowed away. He makes a low sound in his throat, amusement, when she tips in to speak softly to him. And the look on his face; the subtle shift at the corners of his eyes, the tug of muscle at his jaw, tells her how pleased he is to hear this.

Once they're off the highway and within the town proper, he drops his speed to something more sedate. Something more reasonable. Like there's anything reasonable about this man. Does he remember which one's hers? "I do." Tick, tock, tick, tock goes the signal while they wait their turn in an intersection, then a more subdued growl of the engine as they peel left on Oak. "You let me know when you're back from Tempe, yeah?"

When Sparrow sinks back into her seat, out of that flirtatious lean, she leaves behind a hint of honey and rum, white musk and brass, all bright and sweet and flirtatious. And faint. It doesn't linger long, this late into the day, this damp from the rain. She keeps her eyes forward for the rest of the ride, her smile just a touch smug, pleased. "I'll let you know," she confirms airily, like it might take her a while to get around to it, even if it's not at all difficult to pick out that it's a lie, that she's very much looking forward to sharing this pie. "You pick the place. Whatever you like. I'mma dress for key lime."