2020-03-01 - An Understanding

As Easton has started to emerge from his boozy haze the staff at TwiBS has come to a realization. They were not prepared for sober Easton. Suddenly promises of events that never happened are happening. Specials and talk of how to be the best goddamn tourist trap they can be start their shifts. There are staff dinners. There's perks and a strangely perky boss helping them scrub toilets or clean out behind the fryers. It's a shift for sure, and some days are more intense than others. Today was a delivery of the night shifts favorite coffee drinks from Espresso Yourself. The effort that Easton might once have put into being a damn leader is showing itself in different ways. There is a freaking management book on his desk in the office (written by a former Marine naturally).

But somethings aren't quite as changed as Easton would like to believe. And so at the end of a shift he's a more than a few beers deep. More than he meant to be.

It's a good thing it's still the off season and the bar is only open until 10 on weeknights, because otherwise he'd be even further behind by the time the customers thin out. As is the usual tradition the last call lasts just a touch beyond what the hours on the door say and Easton is still pulling a beer for a local when the last of the kitchen staff gives him an upnod and heads out.

Right as the last busboy heads out, another patron shoulders his way in. Despite the fact that it's 10:08, and the bar is very clearly done for the night. The police captain is fairly unmistakeable with his dark hair shorn close to his skull, knuckle tatts lending him a certain brutish milieu. His battered bomber jacket's spattered with rain, and he's just shoving his cell phone back into a pocket of dark, faded jeans as he ambles on inside. And spots Easton over at the bar, up to his eyeballs in beer he's not supposed to be drinking.

Wordlessly, he goes and settles into a stool opposite his erstwhile friend, elbows on the counter, dark eyes intent on the other man.

Carl is minding his business, just settling into his beer and not planning on going anywhere soon. But it doesn't come as a great surprise when Easton comes over and says something quietly to him. Many might be gentle or kind, Easton instead goes with, "Hey, can you fuck off? I'd appreciate it." Carl having not paid for his drinks is all to happy to take the hint and hightail it out of there. It's one of the perks and dangers of staying past close at the bar, Easton gets real fickle at the end of the night.

With Carl noisily gathering his jacket and making his exit in what seems like slow motion, Easton grabs his beer, a bottle of Patron and a glass. He sets the latter two down in front of Ruiz.

"You all done being batshit crazy?"

Itzhak texted him, so there's no confusion about the state that Ruiz is still in, but Easton still feels the need to broach that topic carefully and with the tact of a hammer. At least he's pouring him a drink, that kind of softens it.

Carl and the remnants of his pride are ignored. It seems de la Vega's got more important things to spend his effort on tonight, and he's hardly the sort of man anyone's going to appeal to for help, when he's not in uniform. Take off the badge, and he's just a snarly looking Mexican who seems like to bite if provoked.

"Gracias," is murmured for the tequila. Two, perhaps three fingers poured before he collects the glass and tips it back. "Sure as fuck hope so." His gaze doesn't so much as flinch away from the other man's. "I said some things that I.." A twinge at the corners of his mouth. Not to smile; the emotion is denser, darker than that. Self-recrimination, amongst other things. "I'm sorry."

"Me fucking too." Easton smiles at hoping that Ruiz is free of the unwanted influence. He is immediately shaking his head when Ruiz starts in on the apology. He even mutters out a "no" before Ruiz actually apologize.

"Fuck your sorries." It's a refrain Easton gets a lot of usage out of in this town. People always apologizing for things they had no control over or sometimes even part in. It's meant not as an a reproach for apologizing but for beating oneself up about the reality of this place or life in general.

"I wasn't under anyone's thumb and I said shit." There is no apology there per say. Just a statement of fact. "You can apologize all you want to others. I don't require it Gunny." Not doesn't want, but genuinely doesn't need.

He hesitates for a moment before starts, "But..." he lets out an annoyed breath and clenches his teeth just once before he asks, "How did you know about Tom?" He stops himself from asking 'About Jenny?' because that might have just been a good guess. A REALLY good guess, but a logical enough one to make, especially when you know Easton. Clearing those thoughts away he continues, "Because I don't go yabbing about him, and I sure as fuck don't appreciate others doing it."

Okay, maybe he's not as over it as he wants to believe he is. But he meant it about not needing an apology.

The fuck your sorries gets him to pause, at least, a bristly sound as he rubs his thumb through recently-trimmed beard, then reaches for his glass again. And chortles before drawing a sip. "You sure as fuck did." Might be he's still stinging from that little parting shot. Not that he seems liable to admit to it mostly sober. And on that note, his drink is polished off and another few fingers poured. "About Tom?" His brows furrow slightly, gaze flickering away like he's trying to bring something to mind. But can't quite seem to find it.

"I.. I don't know," he admits, after a long, tense pause. "I don't fucking know. I guess you told me about him. Did you tell me about him?" His voice wavers a touch, uncertain. "When we went shooting." Shooting.

Easton's stern face wavers and he coughs out a laugh at the comment about what he may or may not have fucked. He can't quite hold back a smile when he says, "Hey, we both agreed that was a drunken mistake." He takes a sip and adds, "A very fucking hot one."

He clears his throat again, as if to signal that they are changing subjects and not dwelling on things they agreed to not dwell on.

The confusion isn't what he expected. He expected ... something else? He's not sure. He expected Ruiz to have taken it out of his mind somehow. To have violated something that he holds very near and dear. But the confusion and the fact that he's no longer got any reason to deceive Easton cause him to shake his head. "I don't.." He tries to think back, he remembers the shooting, the punching, the uhm.. rest, but nowhere does he remember saying anything about Tom or Jenny.

"The fucked up part? When you started asking about being out of the Corps I thought..." Another pause as he looks at Ruiz, "I thought I judged right. That you got it."

Got what, it isn't specified. It. You know, it.

The corners of his eyes crease softly when the drunken mistake is dredged up. Yeah, that mistake. The hot one. The one he quite possibly holds dear for reasons entirely unbeknownst to Easton. It's a minute before he speaks again, clearing his throat before that husky murmur's heard over the rim of his glass. "I've lost.. things. Stupid shit, some of it. Like where I keep the coffee in my kitchen. Whether I'm supposed to turn left or right on Bayside, to get to work in the morning." He sips finally, releases a shaky breath.

"Other things, I can't fucking figure out where they came from. It's fucking with my head, lo siento, lo siento por haberte hecho esto." A noise in the back of his throat, agitated. And then Easton's talking about it, and the cop squinches his eyes up in confusion. "Got fucking what?"

Easton's face falls into a look of concern when Ruiz starts talking about having lost things. More than just their trip to the Asylum that Easton thinks happened. Probably. He shakes his head and finally comes up with, "Shit. That sucks. And even little shit.. it's... important." Alexander talks about names as changing people, but taking away their memories? That is literally changing people, taking away bits of who they are.

Easton's eyes narrow in an almost wince when Ruiz expounds about things showing up. But he catches the 'siento' and he may not know Spanish but he can recognize sorry. "Muy fuck your sientos." As if to reinforce that he doesn't speak Spanish, he butchers it for Ruiz.

Got fucking what?

Easton looks annoyed at the question. Annoyed at himself for bringing it up. Annoyed that it needs explaining or talking about. "Exactly. I thought I wouldn't have to explain to someone." His teeth set and he realizes he sounds like he's being willfully obtuse, but he honestly isn't.

"I thought you fuckin' understood."

Shit that's not any more clear. He stands there starting to shake his head, the frustration coming off him in waves.

"You don't need me fuckin' getting all squirrely right now. You just got through some shit. Ignore me."

He pulls out a cigarette and lights up. Yes, in the bar. But it's better than other things he could be reaching for right about now.

That it sucks, de la Vega does not argue with. That it angers him, that it feels like the intrusion and assault that it is, he doesn't expound upon. The emotion sits there beneath the surface, a living thing that he's well accustomed to keeping contained. Smothered only superficially with a pull of his drink. And pretty soon, he needs to pour himself some more.

"For the love of all that's holy, just spit it the fuck out, Cap," he growls at his fellow ex-Marine. "Or so help me god, I'll beat it out of you." His tonguetip flicks across his lower lip, and those ferociously dark eyes slide up to meet the younger man's. "And enjoy it, too."

Easton can sense the anger. Finally. He's not great at emotions to say the least. But slowly he's waking up to the fact that he's got an awareness of others, even if he can barely get a grip on his own. He pushes the bottle to Ruiz so that he can keep his glass properly wet.

The look of annoyance on his face when Ruiz tells him to spit it out is ruined when he talks about enjoying beating it out of him. A smile threatens to break out and he can't contain it when he asks, "You sure he didn't make you forget how to throw a punch? The last time you tried was sloppy as fuck." Easton is a truly sensitive friend.

But he attempts to spit it out.

"It. Me. Fuck all of it."

He gives Ruiz a meaningful look, and maybe without realizing it he attempts to open up his mind to him. The way Isabella showed him.

"You want to go a couple rounds, be my fucking guest." His eyes crease slightly at the corners with amusement as he takes a slug of the tequila. "Always more fun when whoever I'm hitting, hits back." That's offered in a low, smoky growl. Then his empty glass is slid back onto the counter, inked fingers finding the bottle that's pushed closer. His dark eyes drag from Easton, to his glass. He pours, then pauses at that little brush of contact, without looking up. Bristles slightly. It stands to reason, though, that he's a little tetchier than usual about being mentally linked with someone, after what he's been through.

If they've linked before, then Easton may remember what form the guardian of his mindscape takes on: a wolf that burns like a pyre, white-hot flame buffeted from its massive frame, bright golden eyes and teeth like long knives. It seems wary but not overtly aggressive, and there's the visceral sense of being stalked by it as Easton connects with him.

"I'm not going bare-knuckle with you again, that's for damn sure." Easton loves a good punch-up more than most of the 'next guys' but even he isn't anxious for another round without gloves.

The hesitation at the brush of first contact gets a slight tilt of his head. Easton gets that this isn't exactly kosher after what Ruiz just went through but he's asking anyway. Well, kind of asking.

And while Ruiz and others may have avatars of beasts, Easton's mindscape is altogether different. He invites Ruiz inward, into a Marine encampment that is tense with action. There are squads of marines moving at a clip, briefings and even those not moving perfectly emulate the tension of waiting for the next thing that Ruiz would know so well. The only difference from past trips others have made into this space is that the marines now have visible faces. They are Easton. All of them Easton. Some younger, more fresh sure, others more grizzled and older looking than the man those in Gray Harbor know.

There are clearly those in the camp wary of the giant burning wolf in their midst, reaching for weapons, communicating throughout the network. But a commander comes up and silences the men with a look.

"This way Gunny."

The tension of the camp. The barely constrained need to act but waiting for the right time is part of the 'it' for sure, but apparently that's not everything?

There is more to Ruiz's mind than the wolf, but large swaths of it seem to be.. hidden on purpose. Like a fog of war; the suggestion of colour and form, but the details are thoroughly obfuscated from view.

The wolf, however, approaches at a slow prowl when the man with what looks like authority steps in. Its bright eyes slide over this version of Easton, ears flicked forward in a show of curiosity as it allows him to lead on. Where it walks, the ground is not burned; instead, it flourishes with greenery and brightly coloured flowers.

The hanger for briefings doesn't actually fit the encampment but the shifting logic of the organization make it seem like it belongs. As the commander leads Ruiz into the space it's clear that there are misgivings among the camp. There are suspicious eyes still, despite the 'official' 'order' to allow this. The tension in the camp ramps up and the sound of gunfire can be heard as if there were a live fire fight happening.

Easton's adrenaline is spiking, and the reality of his mind is reacting as normal.

And when the hangar doors shut behind them, the lights also drop. And projected up on the wall at first is a single scene, obviously from training school. It's Tom and Easton running alongside the rest of the would be officers. There is nothing extraordinary about it. But slowly it's joined by other scenes on other walls. Lighting up like home movies projected by old film projectors. There are firefights and boring scenes of paperwork. There are rowdy nights at bars and painful runs the morning after. There are hookups and scenes of Tom and Easton together, just glimpses of a shower or a beach and then subsumed into another. All of the audio for all of these scenes is happening at once, a caucophony of shouting and gunfire and swearing and laughing.

And all of the noise from all of this fights and competes with one another.

The commander tries to say something but it's all drown out.

And suddenly the noise cuts out and it's Easton's voice clear as day yelling <<I'M FUCKING DROWNING>>

Before contact breaks.

It's a lot of information. Too much. Too much, and it starts to get jumbled and overwhelming and drowning. Drowning. I'M FUCKING DROWNING.

The link is severed violently, the wolf tearing free with a rip of teeth and claws and guttural snarl that's as much fury as terror.

And de la Vega's leaned forward heavily, with his face pressed into his hands and his fingers sifted through his hair, wheezing as he tries to pull in a gulp of air. His brain needs oxygen, and he had no idea he'd been holding his breath for the last minute and a half until his vision starts to dim out. "Tom," he murmurs, a little roughly. "Why.. why did you show me this? No entiendo." He drops his head, scraping his fingers through his close-shorn hair, jacket crackling softly with his movement. Beside him on the counter, the bottle of tequila and glass drained nearly to empty.

The cigarette between his lips is pulled on, ironically, like it's the only source of oxygen left in the room. Easton glares at Ruiz in frustration that even in the link he's not able to communicate.

Why did you show me this?

"Because I don't have the fucking words Javier." A rare departure from his usual Gunny or De La Vega. He shakes his head and says, "And everytime I try to explain shit to anyone here, they get this look like they understand but I know for damn certain they don't. And I have fuckall I can do about it because whenever I talk about it I sound like some shithead fuckup who can't string two words together."

The beer is drained and Easton literally grips the counter in frustration to stop himself from reaching for any of the other bottles.

A little quieter he tries, "I say one word about Tom and I suddenly got Itzhak going on about being queer. And I say anything about fuckin' combat and I can literally see them checking for PTSD. And if I have a goddamn beer they fuckin' whisper. And .. "

It's not fair to his friends. He knows that. Bennie has been more than patient. Geoff puts up with more than his fair share of shit, like a good husband. Itzhak, Isabella, Alexander, Roen, the rest. He knows he's not clearly representing them. But that's not the point.

"I put this shit on you. And I get you didn't ask for it. I just thought, here's an Operator. And I saw something, that I recognized."

He stubs out the cigarette and admits, "I talked myself into thinking you saw the same."

"I was wrong"

He's not bitter per say, this is more of an apology. A uniquely Easton apology in that it admits wrongdoing without saying he's sorry.

He might not be much of a talker, but he's a hell of a good listener when he wants to be. Only silence from the former sniper as he lets Easton get things off his shoulders that he's probably been holding onto for god only knows how long. And of course he understands not having the right words for things, even when it matters most. Especially when it matters most. The look in his eyes isn't pity; it's understanding.

Dragging his fingers out of his hair, then along a scruffy cheek, he eventually reaches for his glass, and downs the remains of it in a single swallow. He's going to need it, for this conversation.

"I think, before you start fucking assuming things about me, and what you fucking think I see, you need to make sure we're on the same goddamned page." His glass is left alone for the time being, smoke-dark eyes steady on the younger man's. "I haven't gone off on you about being queer. I've never given you a hard time about the PTSD. I don't fucking whisper, but I sure as fuck will try to help you in any way I can, if I see you backsliding. So don't you give me this shitty apology and expect me to accept it, because I fucking do not." There's a flash of his canines there, his whole bulky frame slivered with irritation.

"Why the fuck do you I called you up that night?" Texted, whatever. Either way. Easton asks when Ruiz talks about making sure they are on the same page.

"Oh god dammit. No. You have never done those things. That's what I'm saying. Because you wouldn't." He tries to keep the question mark out of that statement and mostly succeeds. The fact that Easton is actually the one who threw around some derogatory language about Itz and Ruiz's relationship causes him to wince momentarily.

But his face is still contorted in the frustration of not being able to communicate well.

"That's why I called you that night. Because I needed someone who fucking got it, who knew what any of that, all of that might be like. Who understood what I was going through without me having to butcher it with fucking words. And I was apologizing because I realize you didn't ask for the goddamn buddy system. And you have your own shit going on and sure as fuck don't need my problems."

"The fuck I know!" barks Javier in sudden agitation, throwing his arms out wide and shoving his face a bit closer to the other man. As if he needs it, to appear bigger and more intimidating. "Fuck's sake!" He shoves off his stool and starts prowling off like he's going to just walk right on out. Then prowls back again, and leans right in close once more. They're both Marines, they know how to get in peoples' faces and bully the shit out of them. Because that's what their job required, once upon a time; total dominance.

"I. Fucking. Get it. What more do you want? What the fuck more do you want from me?" He smells like cigarettes, tequila and cordite, along with the distant acridness of an electrical fire.

The 'argument' as it is isn't all that surprising to Easton. He watches Ruiz get up and fully expects him to storm out of the bar, silently swearing to himself that he won't be goaded into yelling some insult after him, even though he knows he would probably lose that bet. He gives only the slightest hint of confusion when Ruiz turns and gets back in his face.

The intense glare of a person who has trained to have people yelling in his face and not bely a single emotion serves him well. He lets his eyes search Ruiz's face for only a moment at the very end of that last outburst.

"That."

It was hardly what most would call touching, but Easton lets that mask fall as he closes his eyes and it's obvious that it did mean something to him.

He shakes his head in a mix of relief and maybe a bit of self-loathing that he's what he would deem needy.

"I have plenty of people who are trying their best to be supportive and helpful. I get that I'm a selfish ass for wanting more. But then I look at you and the shit you're going through and I thought that maybe, just fucking maybe someone else might understand exactly what it's like. And I know we're not the same. I do. I'm not trying to say shit about knowing your life."

He pushes back from the bar, needing some space finally.

"I just needed to know that someone understood mine."

That? That? Ruiz's eyes go all slanty, heavy crow's feet fanning out from the corners as he squints at Easton from up close. Well, at least until the other man tries to disengage by taking a step back. The surly Mexican half looks like he wants to climb across the bar and get right back into his personal space, but he stays put. For now.

"Wanting more.. what?" Yeah, de la Vega can be thick as a board sometimes. Mostly when it comes to people. And feelings. And-

"You wanted someone to take Tom's place? Is that it?"

Easton at first looks exasperated when Ruiz is asking what he wants. The whole point of what he's trying to communicate being the desire for someone who understands what he's been through and is going through in regards to his service, his loss, his demons and this place without having to try to express those things in words. The more words Ruiz asks for the more frustrated that Easton becomes. Not just at Ruiz, though a good deal at him, but because the more Easton talks the whinier he sounds, the weaker he sounds.

But that changes when Ruiz asks if he's looking for someone to take Tom's place. Easton's head snaps up to stare at him with intensity of a man who routinely needed to bring alpha-male killers in line. For a moment his body tenses like he actually might launch himself over the bar. He only needs one good leg to jump off. Instead he goes still and just continues to glare.

"Do you fucking honestly try to be the shittiest person in the room? Because there's only two of us and you don't have to try that damn hard."

The glass brings itself up out of the bar and Easton turns to pour the whiskey before returning to point at Ruiz.

"No. No, I don't want you to take Tom's place. What I fucking want is another Marine who understands anything about this but I can't call up any of my men because I'm the goddamn Captain. I don't get to pull that shit. And yea, maybe I got the wrong idea cause we fucked, but this ain't about Tom. He's fucking dead. I'm the one who's trying to figure out a life."

Well, there's plenty of exasperation to go around tonight, that's for damned sure.

But then Easton's head comes up, and he gets that look in his eyes. The one designed to put people down and establish dominance. The only problem is, he's facing off against a fellow Marine, who knows that look, and knows it well. He rolls his jaw to one side, lips parted a hair, and meets Easton's gaze with his own smoke-dark greys. Like, if you move a fucking muscle, I'm going to rip your arm off.

Nothing, however, comes of it. Tension, and a godly amount of it, in both of them; but it ends in a detente, and a low sound in de la Vega's throat, before he goes to pour himself more tequila. Easton's little trick with the whiskey bottle is either ignored, or goes unnoticed. Silence for a while in the wake of the other man's words, and then, "I thought I was already giving you that." His adam's apple shifts when he swallows, lashes lowering as he takes a long pull of his drink.

It's not like Easton actually expects Ruiz to back down. But as things escalate between them that's the go-to mode that he has honed over the years. Easton takes a sip of the whiskey as he watches the tension in Ruiz slowly dissipate.

I thought I was already giving you that

Easton face is still in a scowl when he nods and then says, "Okay." And he pauses there for a moment, almost as if that's all he has to say on the topic.

But then out of nowhere he adds, "Because I swear if one more well meaning person in this town tells me I'm a 'good guy' I'm gonna flip shit, stab a ka-bar in their throat and piss down it." By now he's not actually angry enough to sound like this is a reality, it's more the fact that he wants to communicate the anger and the frustration at that recurring proclamation. His posture likewise relaxes and he leans back against the bar cradling the glass of whiskey in two hands at his waist.

It's probably just one in a slew of thoughts he feels the need to get out there, but can't really talk about. Geoff would probably get it. Bennie might. But frankly he doesn't want either of them looking at him differently.

Silence settles between them for a little while on the heels of that. Just the sound of the rain picking up again outside, some sort of storm rolling in off the ocean. The low, rough rasp of Javier's breathing, brows furrowed while he thinks, then smoothing out again once he comes to a decision.

"You're not a good guy." Sip. "Neither am I. Had plenty of well meaning people try to convince me of that, too, and I'm fucking over it." He sniffs sharply, scratches at his nose with his knuckles, dark eyes ticking back up to the younger man. "We both know what we've done. And I mean, we can try to come back, and have normal jobs, and pretend we're fucking good guys, but.." But they've been at the sharp tip of the spear. They've been beaten down, broken down, disassembled and made into weapons, and there ain't no real coming back from that.

"I don't.. I'm not good at this, Cap. You're going to need to cut me some fucking slack, because I'm seriously really fucking shit at.." He waves his hands to encompass all of this. Talking. People. Relationships. "This."

You're not a good guy

It sounds odd, but it's a relief to hear him say it. Easton nods solemnly and takes a sip of the whiskey in his hands. The whiskey he knows he should put down but that's not happening at this point. He scoffs and says, "We could try." at the thought of pretending, of having normal jobs.

"Well obviously I'm the fucking champ at it." Easton laughs a little at himself, and how piss poor he's been up to this point at trying to get any words out on the topic.

His cool gray eyes watch Ruiz for a moment.

"I thought I read you wrong. Like I made any understanding shit up in my head." Hence the need for the verbal confirmation, when he had previously just assumed it. It's sort of an explanation, or the beginnings of one. "I ... " He breaks eye contact to look up at the ceiling, before coming out with. "I didn't expect you and Itzhak. I mean, as more than a hookup. I mean, I get it" He says of why someone might hookup with Rosencratz. "But the whole gaying up my bar thing, and you there.. and a couple..." He winces when he says couple ".. and I thought I just mis-read everything. And I get that makes me sound shitty. And I swear to God if you make this out to be some jealousy shit, I will slam this glass upside your head so hard it will replace your tequila addled brain."

"So I'm sorry. It doesn't change shit. I just... I wasn't sure."

It's an actual apology, and in Easton's mind a very much warranted one. Even if he maybe didn't explain why it was so warranted as well as he might have liked.

The whiskey, Javier continues to not comment on. Sure, he could summon up some scruples and point out that the guy's meant to be sobering up. And this ain't what sober looks like. He could try for a minute to be a decent person. But he's also gone through half a bottle of tequila, and it just doesn't seem terribly relevant right now.

There's a snort when Easton says he thought he read him wrong. His lips twitch like he might smile, but in reality, there's nothing particularly amusing about it. Then he downs most of what remains in his glass, jacket crackling softly as he leans onto his elbows, and watches Easton's profile as he looks away. "If it helps you any, I didn't fucking expect it either. I told him.." This time, he does look amused. "I told him I don't date men." That he's still conflicted about that, is pretty damned clear. "That I'm not fucking queer." There goes that word again.

He jabs an inked finger in the other man's direction. "And don't start on me about that gay night thing. He didn't tell me what it was, either. I thought we were going out for drinks together."

Easton is at least taking his time with the whiskey and not drinking it straight from the bottle or a pint glass, so that's a plus.

The explanation is listened to now not as an angry Marine, but as a bartender. Someone who listens to countless people tell him all sorts of things, including many things they should probably keep to themselves. But this is something that Easton is relieved to hear. No, he couldn't say why. He has no stake in this. Literally. It has nothing to do with him so why the hell does he give a flying fuck? And when the q word comes up Easton just nods. "Yea." The agreement is quick, almost a visceral reaction opposing that term.

The jabbed finger doesn't piss him off this time. Instead he has to stiffle a laugh, "That's a dick move." There's no heat behind it, and he does at least try not to laugh about it but there's a little chuff of breath and shaking of his shoulders that betrays him.

He takes another sip and narrows his eyes, considering Ruiz before just nodding in apparent satisfaction at something.

"You know I could maybe make some damn money off this bar if I just got my shit together and charged you. Pretty sure you could cover payroll."

It's as close to a retreat as exists in a friendly conversation, an escape to safer, more congenial waters.

He snorts again when the dick move is mentioned, and toys at the rim of his glass with his thumb. "Yeah, I.. I don't fucking know what I'm doing. Where I think this is going to go." With Itzhak, he means. Where can it go? "He'll probably marry one of his girls at some point. I might get to be the cool uncle, if I'm lucky." There's some melancholy there, smothered with another sharp sniff, and the last of his tequila finished off. His speech is starting to run together a little; his accent's a bit more pronounced. Like that dirty little Tijuana street rat is still hiding in there, waiting for his guard to come down.

"You know, when we-" It comes out right as Easton starts talking about charging him, and pretty much obliterates whatever he was going to say. He chuckles, taps his empty glass away, and scruffs his fingers through his short hair. "Yeah, well, I'm not holding my breath on you getting your shit together, Cap."

Easton shrugs as if to say maybe that's not important, when Ruiz confesses he's not sure what he's doing or where it's headed. The talk of Itzhak marrying and Ruiz being a cool uncle gets a slight wince. He considers making a crack about it but decides not to. It's probably best he's only on his first whiskey, otherwise, that reserve wouldn't be there.

Easton grimaces as he talks over something. Something that sounded important. He smirks at the crack about not worrying about it. He would laugh outright, but he's distracted by what Ruiz was about to say.

"When we what?" He prompts him and looks at him, with eyebrows turned up, "Seriously, I just managed to vomit out words. When we what?"

He takes a sip of his whiskey and waits, expectantly. Well aware that he might have ruined any chance of hearing this.

The remainder of the tequila bottle is considered. But he seems to have some shred of restraint remaining, his own self, not to drink himself into oblivion tonight. So it's pushed away, and he climbs to his feet. His phone's dug out again, this time so he can call himself a ride. Not a chance he's driving, with how much liquor he's got in his system; he looks like he's having a bit of trouble just standing.

"Nothing," he mumbles to the request to finish his thought. "Doesn't matter. I'll see.. I'll see you later, yeah?" It takes him a couple of tries to get that out, and there's a flash of his sidearm, holstered under his jacket, as the phone goes away again.

"Alright Gunny."

Easton leaves it there. It's more of a resolution than he was expecting to get out of this night even a few minutes ago, so he doesn't push.

"Stop by. Anytime."

He looks down at the glass of whiskey and is glad he has it, but even more excited that for once he doesn't feel like crawling into the rest of the bottle. Maybe he can stop himself at one. Maybe.

Just a grunt from the older man, a flinch like he might smile again, but it fritters out before it can reach his eyes. Not one for goodbyes, he offers nothing else as he turns and prowls for the exit. Just the scent of his cigarettes, soap and cordite, and perhaps a touch of ozone that may or may not be entirely in Easton's imagination.