2020-03-08 - Nothing But Death

The wind off the water isn't quite so biting now that the season is threatening to finally start giving away to Spring, Cris having invited Ruiz to the docks to have a cup of coffee and brood at the water together, or whatever tends to happen when the two of them are together. Coffee just a thin guise to checking up on the Captain less because it's his job and more that he got some disturbing updates when he was in Seattle as to the man's welfare and little indication as to how things may be better or worse at Tibs the other night.

He stands waiting, leaning against the railing with his paper cup in hand, another setting on the bench to his right for de la Vega.

He was already in the area, so it doesn't take him long to show up at the docks and make his way up to the little lookout Cris is parked at. The off duty cop blends in with the locals somewhat, in that ratty ball cap, tee shirt and jeans, with a threadbare jacket thrown over top. But there's no mistaking that prowl of his, once he spots Cris. Hands shoved into his jacket's pockets, he heads on over, and people tend to get the fuck out of the way. "Hola," is his murmured greeting as he reaches for the other cup, and bellies on up to the railing next to the younger man.

"Como esta, mother fucker." Cris greets amicably enough despite his chosen term of endearment for the other man, giving him a slant of a smile before his gaze returns to the sea, his eyes the same stormy color as the water as if reflecting its image. "How this town managed to survive two weeks without my dazzling presence is beyond me. Heard you went through a rough patch. You dealing?"

Cris, and his dazzling presence are regarded sidelong for a moment as Ruiz lifts the cup to his mouth. Pauses, then tips it back with an audible swallow. "Mm," is a rather unintelligible grunt in his throat. "Dealing fine." Is he surprised the guy knew about this? Or surprised he came to check up on him? Maybe both; his expression's an odd one as he contemplates it. "They wanted to sow chaos, and they did. But I think I'm.. I think things are on the mend. How was your, uh, trip?"

"I'm officially divorced now after three years. So there's that." Cris responds as sort of nonchalantly as Ruiz did about his 'chaos', turning his paper cup in his fingers for a moment. "And Itzhak. How is his 'recovery' going." The air quotes are almost palpable, no doubt the younger Mexican having linked these two things together, at least in his mind as it may not have been done so by whatever third party made Cristobal away are de la Vega's situation.

A soft snort when Itzhak's mentioned. "He's got his leg in a brace, and he's refusing any help with it. I might have to call up Bennie or Finch and have them stop by while I hold him down, he keeps up the fucking whining." Cantankerous he may be about the man, but there's genuine affection threaded through every word he says. A pause, and then he tips his cup slightly toward Cris. "And congratulations. How's it feel?" This may be the closest they've ever gotten to a normal conversation.

Cris gives what sounds like a chuff of laughter as Itzhak's whining is mentioned, but he doesn't press further about just how the man's leg ended up in a brace. Yet. "Empty." He chooses to answer that question instead, even though the response is stilted at first until he get whet his whistle with a sip of coffee which loosens his tongue as soon as it's warmed. "I mean it was all over a long time ago, so there's no real emotion attached to it any more. It was just settling some final details now that the house sold, signing some papers. It was easier in the end just to give her everything and not fight about it anymore."

"Usually is, from what I've heard." Easier to roll over and concede. Not fight. He drains his coffee cup to about half, tips it to check the contents, then starts to dig out his pack of cigarettes with his free hand. He's going to need more than a little caffeine. "Still, having closure's.." What's the word he wants there? "Ayuda," he finishes quietly, and lights up. The pack's offered to Cris with a tip of one brow.

"At least it will be for them." Cristobal confirms, the plural indicating it's more than just an ex wife that will benefit from things being finalized. Cris' eyes get stormy for a moment, but the emotion building there gets blinked away when looks down to the pack of smokes and selects a filter from among the brethren, tucking it into his lips and leaning over for Ruiz to light it instead of risking taking the man's lighter and forgetting to return it, or he's not trusting enough of his fingers to hold it properly. Indeed, there is a little shake there that gets masked when he wraps both hands around his coffee cup.

The cop's lighter comes out to tend to his own cigarette, and then he leans in a little closer to the younger man to light his. Flick, flick until it catches, the cherry briefly illuminating his tattooed knuckles before his hand's withdrawn and the lighter shoved away. "You going to tell me what you're thinking, or do I have to pry it out of you?" he murmurs low, dark eyes on blue.

Cris takes a heavy puff off the cigarette, freeing his hand from its near strangle hold of the cup to draw the cancer stick away from his mouth and exhale. "That my daughter's soul is perhaps one step closer to being at rest." His eyes flick to Ruiz' face and then away, as if he knows how ludicrous the words sound as soon as they're said. "It's why I came to Gray Harbor, even if I originally left El Paso for another reason. There are rumors...rumors that some got visited on Dia de los Muertos here. Did you?" Okay, so they're getting a little off topic of Cris' original intent of checking up on de la Vega, but it seemed right in this particular opportunity, of when they're not slinging insults or fists, to ask.

Does Javier think what the other man just said was ludicrous? His expression says no. If anything, those words hit a little too close to home. A long inhale of smoke, and then it's blown away from the other man. He chases it with a sip of coffee, his swallow audible. "Como si nos estuviéramos ahogando en nuestros corazones," he murmurs abstractedly. "Como si viviéramos cayendo de la piel al alma." Ash tumbles from the end of his cigarette, and he glances back up at the other man. "Yeah. I did. I'm guessing you didn't?"

Cristobal has nothing to say to those words muttered in Spanish, perhaps not recognizing it or not feeling particularly poetic himself in this particular moment. He turns his back to the water, leaning the small of his spine against the sharp corner of the horizontally running wood railing. "I set up my ofrenda, I bought Roen out of every damn marigold he had, the candles, her favorite book. Her picture. Lit a candle for every lost soul and ...nothing. Not even so much as a rustle of the petals I laid from door to altar." His head bows slightly, taking another toke from his cigarette bitterly. "Here where the veil is so thin you can taste the other side. And nothing." He clears his throat, "Were you happy? In that moment? Did you have peace? Or is it like everything else in this town that gets twisted and morphed into something vile?"

Ruiz remains where he is, gazing out at the water and the boats in the dock, even as Cris pivots himself around to face the other way. There's no pity in his eyes as the other man speaks. Sympathy, yes. A twinge of melancholy that surfaces and then slides away. He drags off his smoke again, finishes the coffee, and crumples the cup in one hand. "It was.." Well, what was it? "He didn't actually.. talk to me. My father. He spoke to Finch, instead." As to whether it made him happy, he provides no answer. Instead, "Lo siento." For what, shouldn't be too hard to guess.

Cristobal's eyes return to Ruiz' face at the mention of Finch, stirred more by that than the knowledge that it was Ruiz' father that was the one to cross over. Of course he knows of their connection, it's his job to know, but it's the first time Ruiz has acknowledged her to Cristobal and it seems significant somehow. Perhaps because he was speaking of his own daughter just moments before. "So I'm staying. I'll try again come this October. Between now and then I have every intention of having every tarot card flipped, every bone cast, every prayer said to lead me on the right path to making it happen. I need to know...I need to know she's safe and at rest, and that her soul is not marred by the deeds I have done." He reaches out to slap Ruiz congenially on the back suddenly, as if forcing himself to break his own dark mood. "So if that means being nice to your surly old ass too, you're stuck with me. So is there anything I can do? Help you out with this current pickle?"

His mouth twists in what's ostensibly amusement, when Cris mentions he's staying. And will be continuing to keep an eye on him, to boot. He outright scoffs though at the offer of help, and mutters, "That's not necessary." Does Cris remember throwing him around his hotel room, once, while trying to make a point? He sure as fuck does. "And there is no fucking pickle. I'm fine." He thinks for a moment, then his dark eyes tick back up to Cris's, tonguetip pressed against the inside of his cheek. "Dante Taylor. Why the fuck is he sniffing around me? Did you send him?"

The bark of laughter from Cristobal is sharp and sudden, a single. "Ha!" Of incredulity as Dante is mentioned and in that context. "Like I'd send my cub into a lion's den. No. Not only no, but fuck no. If he's doing any sniffing, it's because he's a writer of the strange and unusual and you fucking exude it in spades, my friend. He likes...flames, to which he is most assuredly a moth. Or maybe he just has a thing for broody Mexicans, huh? If I have any card to play with you, I'm slapping it down on that one. He doesn't play rough like the rest of us. Hurt him, and I'll scorch your earth. Fucking him though...well that's up to him and you."

A brow goes up at flames and moths, and men with a thing for broody Mexicans. One last drag off his cigarette, and it's flicked away, and he pushes off the railing to regard the younger man levelly. "I don't have even the slightest desire to hurt him, Cruz," he replies, still with that lingering amusement. "Nor to fuck him." He leans in a bit closer. Close enough for Cris to feel the heat of him brushed up against the bouncer's body. "Not my type," he enunciates slowly, an inch away from a growl.

The hair on the back of Cristobal's neck rises with a smatter of goosebumps at the proximity and those quietly growled words, unable to slap at the feeling with annoyance when armed with a cigarette in one hand and his coffee in another, so he just has to endure his body's reaction with a grit of his teeth. "Prefieres un fuego que te pueda quemar a cambio."

The cop's laughter is warm and smoky, his breath washed along Cris's throat; his nose practically sifted into his hair, with how close the man lingers. "Something like that," he replies, pressing his teeth into his lower lip for a moment, then releasing it. After a glance at his watch, he curls his hand into a fist and gives the younger man a little nudge against his ribs. "I've got to go. I'll see you later." And then the heat of him, the closeness of him is abruptly relinquished as he turns and prowls off along the boardwalk.