2020-03-06 - Run-Ins

He's pretty much a regular, if he is anywhere. Nearest bar to both his apartment and his boat, and with that comforting view of the sea. Not that there's much of any damn thing to be seen, with the wintry mess that's falling, haloed by the lights of the dock and the boats.

So Joe's nursing what looks like rum, in lieu of his usual bourbon, gazing dreamily out at what at least looks like snow, for the moment. He's in a faded blue henley, old jeans, and looks sleepily content, elbow propped on the bar.

Cecil comes in with a gust of cold air swirling around his long wool coat. His collar is turned up against the damp, and a rain hat keeps his hair dry. He smiles as he sees Joe, and he meanders his way. "Room for another?" he asks. Under the coat, he's in a button-up and khakis. He hangs up his hat and coat on the back of his chair. "This weather almost makes me miss Texas, but it'll have to rage harder than this."

"Damn, right?" Joe says, looking over with that lazy smile. "Yeah, makes me miss Savannah....an' Houston, too. But I bet the summer's gonna make up for it. Houston's like the armpit of Hell come summer. Plen'y of room." He tips his head at the barstool nearest him. His coat and cap are hung up, but he doesn't have the air of being waiting for anyone in particular. Nor does he have his phone out before him.

Cecil orders himself a pint, then relaxes. "I'm going to love it here in the summer, I think. From everything I've heard, and it'll be nice to live by the ocean." He glances at the rum curiously. "Celebrating or trying to forget?" he asks with a twinkle in his green eyes.

"Reminsicin'," he says, lazily. "Wanted a change. Figured I'd hang out with Captain Morgan rather than Mr. Daniels, for an evenin'." By the flush on his cheeks, and the faint glaze on the blue eyes, it's already been a long stroll down memory lane. "Yeah, I'm lookin' fo'ward to the summer. I think I'll give in and stick a year or so. Got nowhere to be."

"This place certainly keeps me busy," Cecil says. "So I think I'll be sticking around." His pint arrives, and he smiles at the server amiably. "It doesn't feel like home, but it could," he says. "The weather is about right, anyway. It's lovely, even if the woods are too perfect for hiding bodies. Which, I guess, will keep me busy. I'm just not sure about going on holiday there."

There's an amused look at that. "Yeah. This place is kinna crazy. 'parently if you don't have the Sight, you just...." Joe flips a long hand negligently, "Reconcile with yourself, somehow. For those of us as do, well, it's a hell of a carnival. You go armed? If you don't, might consider it."

Cecil sits at a table with Joseph, and he's nursing a pint. "People notice what they want to," he says. "I'm not surprised they just resolve it someway so it makes sense. Eyewitness testimony on a good day is shaky at best." He considers a moment, then admits, "I've thought about getting a firearm, though I'm not exactly an expert marksman. These days, I just stick to town and my routine in the well-lit areas of the world."

"I'm no real kinna shooter, but I've already met a thing or two that made me regret not carryin' at leas' a pistol," Joe allows, after another sip of rum. "But yeah. The knowledge protects itself, or so I'm tol'." That sleepy droop to the lids - he's a little shadowed around the eyes. This might be something of hair of the dog.

Timothy feels like a pint, and definitely like getting away from the theatre for a little bit. He looks a bit older than he is, somewhat worn around the face, so he is unlikely to get dinged for ID, and even if he were, he is twenty six. His brown hair is in a business-like cut, but the rest of him is still in his work uniform, blue with a nametag that says 'Dolly', in this case. He comes in from outside, unzipping his puffer jacket, stomping wet boots at the grate, and cursing. With him is the faint double-edge touch of Glimmer, very faint, just a hiss of visual static and gone.

"The knowledge doesn't have to work very hard," Cecil says. He glances toward the door, his gaze lingering on Timothy for a moment. Then he looks back to Joe. "People are notoriously unreliable. But it's for the best, really. Keeps me working." He takes a drink of his beer. "And you're right, of course. It'd be smart to go armed. I'll see about purchasing a pistol."

"You look a li'l flat to really be Dolly, but then, I haven't heard you sing 'Jolene'," Joe can't resist teasing the new arrival from where he sits with Cecil. "Yeah," he agrees, with the scientist. "It's amazing how inertia works, when it comes to new knowledge, even without any kind of mystical force behind it."

"Listen, you don't know how fantastic my singing voice is," drawls Timothy as he collects his pint and eyes the both of them "Besides, I'm not the one sitting with a guy who looks like the physical manifestation of the word 'lacross'." He ends up leaning against a wall not far away from the two, and he says "People are very motherfucking reliable. You can rely upon them to fuck the hell up."

Cecil's brow knits. "I beg your pardon?" he asks. "I've never even played lacross." He purses his lips, then adds, "More than a few times." To Joe, he says, "I'm not very good at it. I was sick a lot as a child." Then, back to Timothy, "Who are you? Have we met? I don't think we have."

Joseph puts out a long hand, half for Tim to shake, half to beckon him over. "C'mon, take a load off, sit down," he suggests, grinning. "I'm Joe. This is Cecil." His accent's vastly out of place - Georgia's southern coast, a lazy, languid drawl. "And truer word were never spoke," he adds. A glint in the blue eyes. "I know I've seen you aroun'."

Timothy cracks a grin. His teeth could have done with braces "Were you now," he says dryly "How was private school, old chum?" Still, he pulls out a chair "Actually, yeah, we have. I recognise you," he says. And then he slings his work bag over to one side "I'm Tickets. I work at the theatre. Everyone's seen my sorry ass cleanin' up their popcorn spills." He glances at them, frowns just a little. Head tilted.

Cecil squints at Timothy. "That's not how schooling works in... never mind." He gives the man a very British look of disapproval. "Tickets," he says crisply. "Like Joseph here says, my name is Cecil. I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure of a cinematic experience since I got here."

Joseph's lips thin out, very much in the manner of a man suppressing a smile. Not that it does much good, the way his eyes light up. Someone, at least, has no kind of pokerface at all. "Figured. 's a neat place, that ol' theater," he says, pleasantly. "Tickets it is, pleasedameetcha."

"I see just about everyone, here and there," says Tickets, who adds "You photograph things around the place. You startled me like, a month ago, so I left, I dunno, some place I was in." Whatever that means. Though Tickets has been known to ignore signs like 'Keep Out' and 'Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted'. He craks his knuckles, and then he says "Hi. Yeah, it is. Except. 'The Customer Is Always Right'." Twitch.

"I've taken pictures all over town," Cecil says. "Wait, are you talking to me? I can't really tell." He looks to Joe again, to see if he's confused, too. "Er, photography is something I do for fun. It gets me out of the house and out into the world."

That makes Joe blink between them. "That's neat," he says, with a direct, boyish enthusiasm. "I didn't know you did that." Like it's an amazing people trick. "Tickets, what're you drinkin'? I'm buyin'," he adds, with a quick look between them.

"Yes, I am," says Tickets to Cecil, squinting at him. He looks up as a small group of people come in and he comments "Oh man, they always leave spills. All the charm of a cheese grater in your underpants, that lot." He shakes his head, and then he says to Cecil "Good. Sensible. We should all stay in our houses." And then he says to Joe "Samuel Adams, mate - thanks. You're the business." He might even pretend to smile, for beer "Hmm." Another look at Joe, too. Tickets is faintly awkward a moment, as if trying to pin down that whole weird edge that they both have.

Cecil grins at Joe. "It's just a bit of a hobby." He tells Tickets, "Getting out of the house is good, though. So I'm told. It seems kind of sad, don't you think? To go to work, come home, do nothing, repeat it again in the morning? Thank God for pubs and cameras."

"I dunno, depends on your work. I always loved my jobs, so even when it was some office work an' a lot of meetings, I was always pretty excited," he admits, without hesitation. But then....consider what he did.

He, by contrast, is utterly at ease, the lazy, indolent barfly, pleased with himself and disposed to be pleased by others.

Timothy looks stricken for a moment "Shit, man, that's my whole damn life," he says, and he adds "Thank god for smoking. Gets you outside. Well, eh, climbing places is good too, right?" He shakes his head, as if the weight of the world falls hard on him, and then he says "Well, I do see a lot of movies." A bit of a shrug, and he adds "I haven't been to this pub much. It seems good." Tickets does not have that relaxation. He is all faintly nervous energy, and then he polishes off his beer "Man, I've done so many different crap jobs. What do you do, Lacrosse?"

"Oh, I enjoy my work quite a bit," Cecil says, "it's just that a lot of it is leaning over a desk or sitting in front of a computer, and coming home to do more of the same isn't terribly stimulating." He eyes Tickets uncertainly. "I'm sure getting to see so many movies is a good trade-off." He takes a drink of his beer, then says, "Cecil. I'm a forensics scientist. Entomology is my specialty, though I do a little bit of everything, depending on what's needed."

"D'you climb rocks or mountains or buildin's," asks Joe, turning that blue gaze on him, curious. Then he nods at Cecil. "Yeah. You gotta get outside. I mean....I can't deal with a life spent indoors. Even when I was shipboard....but then, I was lucky, I had access to the flight deck."

"I like seeing the movies. I like weird ones," says Tickets, and he says "Huh. Okay. So you fight crime?" He puts his empty glass down "What's Entomology then? You're like from CSI?" And then he says to Joe "Buildings. I don't really have transport out to decent mountains." He raises an eyebrow "You're military?"

"I study insects," Cecil says, "and I help people who fight crime. It's not quite like it is on TV. It's not nearly that exciting. It's mostly paperwork, to be honest." He then says, "I'm sorry, isn't it dangerous climbing buildings? To the building, if nothing else?"

"I was. Retired Navy a few years back, medical discharge," Deliberately eliding that second career, though Cecil knows, already. "Been sailin' ever since I was healthy enough to do so." Joe's still nursing that darkly-tinted drink - rum, perhaps? "What's the tallest structure you ever been up?"

Timothy says, "It's not...ehhh. It's not just climbing? It's more exploring," says Tickets, and he pushes his glass around on the table "I like seeing things that other people don't. Or, you know, just checking out stuff. Anyway, I haven't ever heard a building complain." He eyes Cecil, and then he says to him "How'd you get into that?" Then he says to Joe "Oh, hmm. Right. I see. Me?" He has to think about it, then he says "Probably the top of the Casino. I mean, I went to that old saw mill in the forest, but that's way too easy to climb.""

Cecil frowns. "You shouldn't go out into the woods like that," he says. "It's dangerous. At the very least, don't go alone." He then shrugs a little and says, "I did well at science in school, and I always liked insects. It might seem macabre, but I would watch their progress when they broke down the body of a squirrel or bird or what have you. I was fascinated by their life cycles, and forensics was a good fit for that area of study."

"There's something really wrong about that mill," Joe's tone is more musing than warning,though. "I was....there not long ago. Using the wall of an outbuilding for archery practice, but ...." A shiver from him, and he takes a bigger swig of the rum. As if he needed the burn of the booze to drive away the chill.

"That's a neat field," he tells Cecil. "I wonder who the first one was to do it..."

"Is it dangerous? Plenty of wolves?" drawls Timothy, and then he says "Eh. Well." At 'don't go alone'. He shrugs, a little, hiding the fact he is not that social a person "Huh, so you dig like, reading. Shit. Books, I mean. Fuck. Sorry." And then Cecil explains he likes to watch bugs devour dead animals, and Timothy says "Rrr...Right. Okay. Uh. Well. Bugs can be cool. Like. You watch caterpillars?" He scrubs his chin with his fingers, and then he says "The mill does feel kinda wiggy. There must be like, old chemicals there, weird stuff you can smell, or something. On a hot day it's freaky." And as Joe wonders, Tickets says "Probably the first dude who realised they became butterflies."

Late night drinks needed to be a thing. And so they are a thing. Cristobal swung by and picked up Sparrow in his '66 Dark Blue Ford Fairlane and drove them to the edge of town in search of just that. He's still dressed from a night working the club, dark on dark outfit so he blends into the shadows of the Platinum instead of standing out from them. He's holding open the door so the young blonde can slip in before him and choose their seat. "Something about tits and ass and glitter makes a man hungry." Or it's just purely coincidental and he didn't eat a proper dinner, so bar food it is.

Cecil inclines his head to Joe, and he says primly, "Thank you. I'd like to think forensics goes back in some form to the first investigations of crimes, but it probably has more to do with the shift from spiritualism into science. Once people stopped believing in things like spontaneous generation." He actually looks somewhat abashed at Timothy and admits, "I was an odd boy. And yes, I suppose I like caterpillars.

Sparrow's a gloomy sliver of punk at Cristobal's side tonight. Rather than her usual bright colors, she's all in black and white tonight, from the short, dark skater skirt which cuts off at about mid-thigh to the black hoodie with large white stars all over it right down to the black eyeliner helping her bright brown eyes pop. The only flash of color on her is the neon green dusting her eyelids or the socks peeking out past her black Docs. Even her lips are a muted nudge gloss tonight, as if she knows how to be low-key. "You woulda been better off raiding my fridge, gorgeous," is spoken in tone that implies she's not entirely buying simple hunger as an excuse for ending up here tonight. Of course, their selection of drinks surpasses what might be found at her place. Probably. Maybe. College kids. You never know.

"I meant more....entomology as part of it," Joe specifies, after a moment of dreamy reverie. To Tickets, "If you're askin' me, yeah. I love books, always have." The pilot's sitting at a table with Cecil and Tickets, talking idly, and nursing what must be a glass of rum. A change from the usual bourbon. He's in a faded blue henley, old jeans, and looks sleepily comfortable.

A glance up, and a lazy smile for the newcomers. "Cristobal, Sparrow, hey," he says, straightening a little.

Timothy is sitting, drinking beer with Joe and Cecil. He is in his work uniform - dark blue. His nametag on his shirt admittedly says 'Dolly', but given the stubble on his chin and the narrow, not entirely well favoured face he is probably not a 'Dolly'. He says to Cecil "Well, the big secret is that everyone's a freak, right?" He picks up a coaster and flicks it with thumb and forefinger - it sails past Sparrow and Cristobal, as he misses his own table "Fucknuts," the man mutters. And then he says to Joe "I'm not much of a book guy. So etomology means bugs. Huh." He flicks his gaze at those entering in more detail now.

"Yeeeah, call me crazy, Paji, but hanging out in your dungeon sanctum is one thing, raiding the fridge of your live-in is another." Cristobal's hand reaches for a sprig of Sparrow's hair and gives it a playful tug before his sharp blue gaze surveys the room at the sound of his name. The corners of his eyes crinkle briefly as a wry grin turns his lips. "Boatswain." He greets across to Joseph, an up-nod given for his table mates as his paw of a hand reaches out to bat away the sailing coaster before it can thump into Sparrow.

Cecil glances at the newcomers with polite interest. "I think, in all seriousness, the earliest instances you'll find date back to the 13th Century," he tells Joe. "There's an account in a book about a murder it has been determined resulted in being attacked with a sickle, so all the harvesters in the village were brought to stand there with their sickles, and a cloud of blow flies settled upon one of them, drawn to the traces of blood on it." He then tells Tickets, "You're not wrong. No one seems to be normal."

"Little too familiar for you?" Sparrow teases as she tilts in toward that tug to her artificially pale hair. The wide smile she wears for him only grows when she catches the source of their names, "Heya, handsome," called over to Joe. Her study of Cecil, whose name she's sure she should remember, is interrupted by the incoming coaster. Or, more accurately, Cristobal's defense against it. Blink. "Is it ninja night? I can put my hood up." Like that could possibly make a stealthy creature out of her. With a tip of her head toward Joe's table, she arches her brows at Cris and mutters something quiet that doesn't carry. All ninja-like.

A funny, secretive glint in the pilot's blue eyes, at that, and he lifts the glass of dark rum to Tickets. "Truer word was never spoke," he intones, before hiding his smile behind the glass.

Then he's angling his chair a little, turning his body to include the newcomers, the better to make introductions. "Cecil, Tickets....that's Cristobal, and that's Sparrow," he clarifies, with an imperious wave of a callused hand. To the ones at his table, he adds, "Don't listen to him, I never was a bosun. I was an aviator. He just likes the sound of it." .....and the implication, but that's another story entirely.

Back to Cecil. "Really? That's fascinating. I'd no idea it went back that far."

"Ooh, fast," drawls Tickets as he sees his hapless coaster flick off into the rest of the building somewhere "I'm usually better'n that. I used to be able to get 'em to stick to the ceiling where I used to live," he tells Cecil "Enough mold up there, and thwip. They ain't going anywhere." And then he says "Gross. That's cool. Fuck me, I know. You should talk to the fuckers down under the bridge sometime. They seen some shit." He takes a paper out of his pocket and then a packet of loose tobacco and begins to roll a cigarette, slipping a filter in "It's always ninja night," he comments, then frowns "Man, I'm not wearing my hoodie." He lifts his hands "Hey. Tickets, yeah. That's me. Hey." His eyes linger on them both a moment, curiosity. He then claps a hand to his hip "I may have to take this call, it's my dude," he comments.

Cristobal only gives an unknowing shrug in answer to Sparrow's whisper, a hand going to the small of her back to direct her towards a nearby table instead of invading the one with at least the one familiar face stationed at it. "Boys." He greets further at the introductions as he pulls out the chair for his female companion, then leans over to give the back of Joseph's head a little smack. "Whatcha having, babe?" This, back to the female as he waves down a waitress, waiting for her attention so he can order a burger and a beer.

Cecil inclines his head to Cristobal and Sparrow. "Hello," he says. Then he smiles at Joe and explains, "I just remember that story from a class I took." His brows lift as he considers Tickets. "That's, er, impressive. I don't think I could do that." He takes another swig of his beer, then says, "Ah, well. Hello to your dude."

Sparrow breathes a quiet laugh in answer to the shrug, but accepts it without question. When they're closer, she mutters, "Right, Cecil," mostly to herself in answer to Joe's introductions. A bit more purposefully, she offers, "Phil. If you're feeling fancy," to append her own, a little dip of her hip to one side emphasizing the entirely imaginary fanciness. If anyone's paying attention, they might catch the odd smile for Cris when he pulls out the chair for her, somewhere between puzzled and pleased, but it doesn't last more than a second. To Tickets, she notes, "Might explain why your coaster game's off," of his absent hoodie. But her attention is stolen by an approaching waitress. "That lime and coriander gose you've got on tap? And some nachos?"

Joe snorts at the cuff to the back of his skull. "Hey, what was that for?" But the protest is entirely cheerful. His eyes are bright, and there's a flush on the high cheekbones. Only nursing the rum, but Captain Morgan might've come in only after Mr. Daniels, perhaps.

To Tickets, "Yeah, say hello to your dude for us." As if the dude in question might have any idea at all who they are, right? "Stories are what stick in memory, far more than facts or figures, right?"

Timothy mutters "I'll tell Mark all about you guys." Yep, sure he will tell his dealer. Never mind, up he pops "Clearly a lack of ninjitsu. Back later," says Tickets as he sidles on out. Hey, he got free beer and to meet a bug guy. Nights have been worse.

Cecil watches Timothy go and remarks to Joe, "What a strange man." He then says to Sparrow, "Phil, that's right, we've met. I think we all have." He nods to Cristobal to include him in this, too. He finishes his pint and sets down the glass. "Unfortunately, I just stopped in for the one. I've got to be heading home." He gets to his feet and shrugs into his wool coat. To Joe, he says, "Indeed, I always remember the stories better."

If it would ever fucking stop raining, or snowing, or whatever soggy mess is falling from the sky at this very moment, Ruiz would not require copious amounts of tequila to stay sane. However, the weather is still, in fact, shitty, and Easton's bar is still standing. So tequila it is. The guy is in that stupid ball cap, battered bomber jacket, tee shirt and dark jeans tonight, like he thinks nobody'll recognise him if he pulls the brim down past his eyes. Unfortunately, there are only so many Mexican cops in town who look like they're liable to take a bite out of someone. He bellies up to the bar, slides on in, and waits to place his order while he takes stock of who's here tonight.

Cristobal gives Joseph an absolutely innocent look of 'what was what for'? Before his smirk reappears and is slid to the approaching waitress. "Nachos, burger all the way, and two ..of those fancy ass beers." Sure, why not. Order given he slumps down into his chair, idly unbuttoning the collar of his shirt to give him some breathing room. "Yeah, that's right. You were in here the other night. I'd say you got a drinking problem, but it seems that we all do." He responds to Cecil before eyes go back to Sparrow, as if checking on her in the overly protective latino way, catching sight of Ruiz along the way. "Es bueno verte todavía respirando, Vato." He calls to the bar and the newly arrived man.

"Some of us are better with facts and figures," Sparrow contributes dryly to the conversation she's only peripherally part of. It might even apply to her if one doesn't count names among those facts or figures. She tacks a cheerful, "Thanks!" on to the order Cris gives the waitress and scoots a little bit closer to him, leaning in with a hand beneath the table almost certainly settling on his leg all casual-like. "Good seeing ya again," she chirps to Cecil as he takes his leave, her attention promptly sliding over to Joe as she gestures toward all the space at their table. Funny how that worked out. It's only when Cristobal calls over toward Ruiz that she notices him. And her expression shifts, a soft sort of concern creasing her features.

Cecil grins at Cristobal and says, "Oh, it's not a problem. Stopping in for a pint is an ancient British tradition. I'm merely making my ancestors proud." He puts his hat on, nods to the others, and says, "Have a lovely evening, all of you." Then he heads out into the inclement weather.

Oh, man. Too many opportunities for trouble. And Joe is just sober enough to decide that the better part of valor involves getting right the fuck on out of there. So he's taking care of tab and tip - the latter in a scatter of golden dollar coins, oddly enough - and gathering up coat and hat. "Not tonight, I've had enough," he informs them both, only faintly apologetic. An upnod for Ruiz, and then he's heading for the door at a pace a good deal faster than his usual languid amble.

"Esperabas algo más?" Ruiz fires back to Cris, amusement carving a feral little smile out of him. Crow's feet, too many of them, when he smiles. And then gone a moment later as he turns to order his drink - and catches sight of Joe passing him by. The upnod's acknowledged with a tick of his eyes, and then his phone's being dug out of his jeans pocket, and a message responded to while he waits for his tequila to arrive.

Cristobal's fingers rub the line of one eyebrow. "I guess you have your answer." He mutters to Sparrow before his fingers tick off in a sloppy gesture of salute to the departing Joseph. "More concerned with your balls, de la Vega. As in do you still have enough of them to sit with the apparent social pariahs?"

"Two down," Sparrow singsongs in apparent agreement with Cristobal as she watches Joe hurry on out, though the way her gaze flits toward Ruiz thoughtfully suggests she might have some inkling that she's not the sole cause for his departure. Nevermind that all three men who were here when they arrived have since fled. The former redhead mutters, mostly to herself, "I'mma have to pick up some Spanish at this rate, holy fuck." But it's all smiles for the waitress as she brings their pair of pints by, promising the food will only be a few more minutes.

A rough bark of amusement from de la Vega, and then, "Desde cuándo mis bolas eran de tu incumbencia, Cruz?" He tugs his ballcap off to scruff fingers through his dark hair, then pulls it back on when his drink arrives. A murmur of gratitude for the 'tender as he slides off his seat and prowls on over to Cris and Sparrow's table. "Hello, again," is for the younger woman, with a pause as he takes in her hair. Then a tip of his head, and finally, he toes out a chair next to his fellow Mexican, and settles in heavily. Smells like cigarettes and gunsmoke and rain. "You're blonde," might appear to be obvious. And it is.

Cristobal tilts his head towards Sparrow, his hand coming to rest on hers beneath the table where it resides on his thigh, "First I said I was glad to see he was still alive, then he asked if I expected something else, and now me pretty. Because I am." Okay, so the last was a gross mistranslation, but hey, who's counting? His grin widens as Ruiz drops into a chair, "To your bravery and your eyesight, may neither fail in your old age." He salutes with his newly delivered pint.

"Gorgeous," Sparrow agrees with Cris, tilting in to nuzzle her nose against his jaw in a little show of affection that doesn't hide her grin. As Ruiz draws closer to the table, she studies him like she's looking for something, though gods only know what. There may well even be some question in the crook of one eyebrow, but it's nothing that she goes out of her way to ask. With words, anyway. By the time he's greeting her, that curiosity seems mostly sated. Or tucked behind an easy smile, at least. "And you still owe me pie," she croons. "Good to see you again, Javier."

It doesn't take a sleuth of any great skill to see that these two have a little something going on. But colour Javier amused as he flicks his eyes between them, one to the other, and makes the obvious inference. "That's not what I fucking said," he tells Cris, mirth still settled at the corners of his dark eyes, and in the hazy warmth of his voice. Drink tipped toward his mouth, something Sparrow either says.. or more likely does, draws his attention. The glass is held there a moment, and he watches her unblinking, smile gone, brows ever so faintly creased in thought.

Then the motion's completed, and he sips, and sets the drink down with a thump. "I haven't forgotten. Es bueno verte también."

Cristobal tilts his head into Sparrow's affection, grinning against it and having zero qualms about doing so, even in mixed company. "See? There he goes again. He's going to make me blush at this rate." Further mistranslation services provided, at least vaguely, he sips from his beer. "Does that mean you did a reading for Javier here, or are you providing some other service I don't know about in return for sweets?"

Sparrow considers saying something more on the matter of that owed pie and how she'd tried to reach out, but Cris' translation earns a snort of laughter instead. "It's those pretty blue eyes," she tells him, peeking up with a low-lidded look which might not quite manage eye contact before her attention's on Ruiz again. And her beer. She takes that up, but doesn't yet drink as she answers, "My services, whatever form they might take, are provided in strict confidence. Even when paid for in promises of pie." She takes a swig of the sour beer... in part because she can't maintain the feigned disappointment she tried to turn toward the cop.

Ruiz's own drink, meanwhile, is polished off, and he flags down the waitress to ask for another. "Sure, hon," and a flash of a flirty smile as the girl saunters off for it. He doesn't even pretend to not be watching her ass in that short dress before she disappears behind the bar. He's also not going to comment on Sparrow's services, it seems, and if he's at all aware of what she's thinking of saying to him.. he gives no indication. "I've.." He's what? "It's been a difficult couple of weeks. I apologise." That seems sincere, as he drags his gaze from the curvy waitress, to the blonde seated nearby. "I'll make it up to you." A wink, just a hair shy of lascivious.

"Attagirl." Cristobal's hand squeezes hers briefly as she speaks of confidentiality, not that that quells the mild look of curiosity that are sparking in his eyes, but he doesn't press. "Good thing you must have the metabolism of a goddess. I start bouncing for sweets, and I'll end up a chub." His eyes flash to Ruiz at the mention of difficult weeks, and the younger man makes a sucking sound against his teeth. "How's Itzak?"

Sparrow's gaze follows Ruiz's toward the waitress, considering what he's considering for a few seconds with a crooked little grin of her own. "You say that like I don't spend the better part of the week on my feet running around campus." She tilts a look up at Cris as she adds, "And I take kickboxing twice a week. I work hard so I can eat hard." Blink. "Good. Well? Well." Whatever. She's not an English major. To Ruiz, she assures, "I know," with a resurgence of that off-center grin. "I'm not worried. Not about my pie." But with Cristobal asking after Itzhak, there's a tip of her head his way to indicate that the violinist might be among her worries. "He answered when I texted you when I got back in from Tempe. Came over for some cookies a few days later." She can't mask the emotion in her expression, how hard it was to see Itzhak like that, beat to all hell in a bad way. There's no blame with it, though. Only worry. Which very pointedly extends to Ruiz himself. "How are you?"

Ruiz's phone buzzes while Sparrow's talking to him, then buzzes again, insistently. With a slight frown, he digs it out to check his messages, and finds one - coincidentally - from Itzhak. After composing a quick reply, he tosses some cash on the table to pay for his drinks; the one he finished, and the one that hasn't yet arrived. Perhaps one of his tablemates can make use of it. "He's recovering," is offered a bit tautly. Concern, affection, tangled up with guilt. Misplaced or not. "And I'm.." He blows out a breath, pulls to his feet. "I've got to head out. Nice to see you again." A thump of his knuckles to Cris's shoulder serves as good night, and he prowls off for the door.

Cristobal chews on Ruiz answer about Itzhak as he takes his leave, apparently spurred by that cell phone, giving him an, "Adios." That sounds more like a purposefully anglicized version of the word, rather than the his native tongue, before he turns back to Sparrow. "New idea. Let's take our food to-go." He prompts with a twist to his mouth that suggests his hunger has moved on to something different now.