2020-04-11 - Cruzing for a Bruising

Firefly is thudding with its usual party atmosphere, the dance floor thick with bodies moving to the electric beat pumped through thudding speakers. Cristobal must've come straight from work, or he's felt the black on black buttoned down dress shirt and dark jeans seemed to fit his mood tonight. He's currently in a throng of people, dancing with everyone but no one in particular, a glass of dark liquid hoisted up over his head to keep it from spilling in the tight press of bodies.

Not everyone's dancing. Some losers prefer to hunker in at the bar with a glass of tequila while the crowd moves liquidly past, a veritable island in a sea of intoxicated movement. And speaking of intoxication, though that seems to be the plan for tonight, it's not yet the reality; the sturdily-built Mexican in question has his jacket off, copious amounts of ink on display, and is down about two thirds of his second glass. He's just getting started. A flick of dark eyes finds what might be a familiar face on the dancefloor.. but then again, maybe not. His brows knit, and he turns back to the message he's swiping out on his phone.

It's terribly thirsty work waving your hands in the air like you just don't care. A song later, Cristobal weaves his way through the crowd and exits the dance floor with a slight dapple of sweat on his forehead and making his shirt cling in one place to his chest. Glass empty, he heads to the bar for a refill and to check out the wall flowers occupying its length. With a smirk, he ends up beside Ruiz, passing his empty glass past him wrapped in a hand sporting recently broken open knuckles. "Buy me a drink, papi?"

There's a new arrival to the dance floor. A brunette with a short curly bob, in a little red dress and black heels, a black clutch in hand. She's been dancing for a while and doesn't look like she's about to stop. She's not what one would call a regular, at least not until the last month or two. Stephanie likes to blow off some steam sometimes. And sometime it involves alcohol and drinking. She's looking around, seeing if she can find anyone to dance with, a singleton at the bar maybe. But after some time of dancing, she heads to the bar to order nearby. Long Island Iced Tea. That's her drink of choice.

Ruiz needn't look up to recognise the owner of that voice. "Cruz," might be an indictment or an invitation. Most likely the latter, as it's accompanied by a hazy smile that barely creases the corners of his eyes. There's a brief glance to those wrapped knuckles, and then a tip of his chin to the 'tender, and a nod Cris's way. As if to say, whatever he wants, I'm buying. Stephanie catches his gaze, idly, while he waits for the drink to arrive, but he's nowhere near personable enough to greet a perfect stranger. Instead, to Cris, "Going to tell me what those are about?" The knuckles, probably.

Cris slaps Ruiz on the shoulder amicably, "Mi puto héroe," crooned near the man's ear before he orders, "Double Mezcal." As he waits for the drink to be delivered, he turns back to the crowd and leans an elbow back on the bar. His eyes tick over several people, lingering for a moment on Stefanie as he openly and lasciviously takes in Stephanie's little red dress like a bull being shown the matador's cape. "Dante." He explains of his knuckles, hand lifting in a little bob. "Trouble in paradise." He snorts at that statement, finding it far funnier than it should be, but perhaps he's got a head start on that drinking thing.

When Stephanie is given her drink, she looks up to Cris, whose eyes she'd been feeling taking her in, and gives a bit of a flirtatious smile. "Hope you're alone tonight, she says casually, "I'd hate to get you in trouble with the one you're with." She looks to Ruiz and nods at him as a hello, but her eyes are on the younger man in front of her who has peaked her interest.

Itzhak swans in a few minutes later, although he never comes to the Firefly. Well, hardly ever. He's not even dressed for clubbing slash dancing, wearing his usual beaten-soft snug jeans and steel-toe workboots and a long-sleeved burgundy t shirt made of a thick, soft material. (He likes everything soft, so sue him.) Sauntering across the room to Ruiz, and thus Cris, he upnods to them both. "Cruz. You stayin' outta trouble?" He glances at Stephanie when she flirts with Cris, and squints at her like he's sure he should know her.

When Dante's name is mentioned, an uptick of one brow, and de la Vega's tongue draws across his lower lip slowly. "That so," he replies, a glint of curiosity in his dark eyes. He waits for Cris to take a sip, then asks, "What sort of trouble?" Stephanie gets another, brief glance. Thoughtful, like he considers for a moment fucking with her, and with Cris, by pointing out that they're together. But the moment passes, and he tips his own glass toward his mouth with nary a word. Except, "Rosencrantz." Cue his shit-eating grin as the musician saunters up.

Cris gives Stephanie a wry smirk, which looks part sneer the way his upper lip pulls to the side like she's just amused and Elvis impersonator. "Didn't come with no one, doesn't mean I'm plannin' on leaving that way." But the eyeballing he's giving her is interrupted by Itzhak's arrival and question, giving the man a, "Fuck no," in retort. Turning back to get his drink with a nod of thanks to the bartender, he goes on to clarify for Ruiz. "A wall, I punched a wall. Because someone's put something in the goddamn drinking water around here. First Sparrow and now Dante. At least Joseph is wise enough to be MIA." But a glance at Itzhak and Ruiz says he knows exactly what's kept Joseph so tied up.

Cris' response to her comment about getting in trouble prompts Stephanie to smirk slightly. She could appreciate how open he was wit his intentions. "Stephanie," she introduces herself to Cris, extending her free hand for a handshake while the other was holding her drink, although it could be argued that the introduction as also for Ruiz and Itzhak, who upon giving the man a glance, Stephanie feels as though they've met before, but she can't quite place when or where.

Itzhak whaps Cris on the back. "Good man." Ruiz's shiteating grin gets a sly half-smile in response. "De la Vega." He slouches on the bar next to Ruiz with a distinctly insouciant air, and hikes his eyebrows at Cris. "Tell Tante Itzil all about it, bubbeleh." And kinda turns red when Cris gives him that look, but just sniffs and calls over the bartender to pour him some whiskey.

Ruiz looks from Cris, to Stephanie, expression faintly bemused. Damned if he's going to say what he's thinking, though. "You know," he tells the younger Latino, "walls don't fight back. It's far less fucking satisfying than hitting a person." He downs all but a sliver of his tequila, inked fingers resting around the glass as it's cradled atop the bar. And the even look he returns to the man suggests.. well, very little, as far as Joe's concerned. Unlike Itzhak's blush, which gains a long, devouring look from the Mexican.

"Estefaaania..." Cristobal rumbles the Spanish equivalent of Stephanie's name, taking the hand that he's given and, if permitted, kissing her knuckles instead of giving her a handshake. "In my language you name means corona, or crown. Tell me, are you a princess or a queen, Estefania?" Cris nearly spills his drink when Itzhak smacks him on the back, and he gives a laugh, "Ai, Tante Itzil. I'd be better off confessing to my Priest." He gives Stephanie a little wink and then half turns to Ruiz. "Neither does English." Pointing out the similarity of Dante and walls not hitting back before he downs his double with a delighted shiver and motions for another, this time pulling out his own money clip to pay for it.

Cris' flirting is met with a bright smile from Stephanie. It had been too long since she'd put herself out there like this. And with the Spanish she'd picked up from high school, she barely can keep up with Cris but she has a working knowledge of the basics. She allows the kiss on her knuckles, as she licks her lower lip. "I'm no one of significance to anyone," she mentions casually in response to his query, "Just haven't found the right Prince to make a Princess out of me." She pulls her hand away and keeps an eye on him as she's drinking.

Itzhak honestly can't figure out if Cris is insulting him or just saying words or what. This understanding-people shit is hard, okay? But then Cris is laying on all that Latino charm to Stephanie and Itzhak's face screws up funny. "Is this how normal people flirt?" he asks Ruiz in a meant-to-be-overheard undertone. His whiskey arrives, and he sets to downing it his own self.

The look on de la Vega's face, too, is one of utter confusion. Like, what the actual fuck is going on here? The kiss to Stephanie's knuckles, the words coming out of Cris's mouth that don't include either ass or dick. Yep, colour him gobsmacked. "I.. don't fucking know," he answers Itzhak, fingers resting atop his nearly-empty glass as if in some habitual relic of times past, and buddies who liked to prank him by dosing his drink with weird shit. "Necesitas que nos vayamos a la mierda?" he asks Cris, sotto voce, before finishing off his tequila. "O vas a abandonar este acto y decirme qué está pasando realmente?"

"Tsch." Cristobal makes a sound against his teeth as his eyes tick up and down Stephanie again, "Sorry, Princesa, I'm nothing but a stable boy. Only thing I can offer you is a roll in the hay or a good fuck in the bathroom." He turns to Itzhak, his mouth turned in a wicked grin, "Better?" Then to Ruiz, his Spanish this time less floral and likely includes words like 'ass' and 'dick' by his tone, "Mi mente está demasiado ocupada y la necesito para callarme. Así que lo callaré con alcohol y mi polla."

Stephanie can detect the macho banter all the way from where she's standing and she's amused by it. She doesn't know exactly what's being said but she gets the general gist of it. "If you want to get further than this conversation, maybe you should start by telling me your name," Stephanie suggests about halfway through her drink, a smirk on her face. It had been far too long but it doesn't mean she's not going to make him work for it.

Itzhak tips his drink and his eyebrows at Cris. "More honest, anyway," he says, about whether that was 'better' or not. He glances at Ruiz when the older man speaks Spanish, listening like he doesn't care what he says, he just likes listening to him, a little drifty, lost in the music of Mexican Spanish. Then he snorts a laugh as Stephanie pointedly makes that suggestion.

"Siéntase usted mismo," de la Vega murmurs to Cris around a sip of his drink, once a fresh one's set down. "Quieres hablar, con tus puños o de otra manera, sabes dónde encontrarme." Knuckles to the younger man's shoulder, enough to jostle him but little more, and then he meets Itzhak's look silently. Tonguetip between his teeth, a little bob of his eyebrows as if to say, want to get out of here?, and the way his sloe-lidded eyes go all crinkly at the corners when he smiles.

Cristobal leans a little closer to Stephanie, his pitch forward a little too sudden but he catches himself by shifting a foot to regain his center of balance in the face of alcohol. "El Diablo." He fills the blank of his name in for her, punctuated by a silent toast from his glass raised a little higher before he does the replenished shot of Mezcal. "Sorry, Princesa. I think I just got a better offer." He tilts his head toward Ruiz and all that Spanish he just spouted, giving her another wink of parting.

Stephanie looks unfused by the idea of Cris having received a better offer. She's not about to let that ruin her night. She orders a second drink and when it arrives, she takes it to the dance floor for more time on the dance floor. Because hell, nothing ever surprises her anymore. Not in Gray Harbor of all places.

Itzhak smiles back at Ruiz, reddening, and quirks his eyebrows at him in agreeable flirtation. Cris seems to have his night under control--until he puts Stephanie back where he found her in favor of whatever Ruiz said. "...What? What'd you say?" he asks Ruiz blankly.

Ruiz is just pushing off the bar in preparation to take off, when Cris does that little one-eighty and abandons the tail he was in the process of hooking. Which makes it the second time tonight that the cop's worn that look of blank confusion on his face. "Told him he could come find me when he wanted to talk," he explains to Itzhak. Which is.. well, it's not untrue. It's just not all of what he said. "Finish your drink," he tells Cruz, nudging him with his arm. "Then you can buy Rosencrantz and I one, for having to listen to that drivel come out of your mouth, yeah?"

Cris waggles his empty glass at Ruiz in demonstration. "Aaaall gone." He clinks it down on the bartop and this time whistles to get the bartender's attention, putting forefinger and thumb into his mouth in a loop to produce the sound. "Another round for mi amigos." But he's looking to Ruiz with an almost hurt expression. "But you promised fists!" Clearly that's the only part of the offer he latched onto. But then, he gets the most brilliant idea he's ever had in his entire life. And by brilliant, he's clearly seeing this situation through booze goggles. Giant thick ones. He'll start the fight himself! And how? By grabbing Itzhak by the front of the shirt and laying one on him.

A kiss that is.

Itzhak isn't sure what is going on between Ruiz and Cris, and he's trying to decide if he needs to get pissed off and/or jealous about it. His body language shifts subtly, growing tense. But Cris just steps right up to him and grabs him by the shirt, and he's only barely starting to react, eyes widening--and Cris kisses him. "Mmrf!" is the sound Itzhak makes, a startled muffled curse, probably. His arms jerk up to shove him away but Cris ain't going anywhere. And Cris gets splashed with whiskey from the glass Itzhak was still holding. It's a mess.

Well, this ought to be good. Ruiz is admittedly more focused on making sure he doesn't spill his tequila, than getting in the way of what's about to happen here. So he scoops his glass up and steps clear of the incoming swing he's anticipating, when he sees Cris lunge for Itzhak. Will he go for the schnozz? Or.. no. He's going to kiss him. Huh. The look on the cop's face isn't entirely amused, but he's waiting to see how this plays out before he decides to try to wade in and break things up. Itzhak's a big boy, right? Right.

Well. If Cris isn't going to get popped for it, by either Ruiz or Itzhak, he's going to make the best out of a bad situation. Sure he was shoved, but that hardly counts and was hardly noticed, likely dismissed as a result of the jostle much like the spots of whiskey now dampening his shirt. His head cants to the side, navigating around a war of their noses - which Cris would surely lose - in favor of trying to deepen the kiss with a press of his tongue.

Itzhak may have frozen up for a second there, but as Cris goes spelunking, he comes back to life, jerks away, and slugs him in the gut. WHAM. It's no love tap. Itzhak looks genuinely pissed. He snarls in Yiddish at Cris, red-faced and furious, and then comes after him swinging.

Ruiz just stays well out of range of flying fists, half leaned against the bar with his tequila as he watches the fight play out. The 'tender kind of gives him a look like, you're a cop, you gonna do something? Which, apparently, no. He is not.

The punch to his gut is what makes him stagger back. For a second, Cris looks like he's going to hurl. Wait? No. He's good. Nope, gonna hurl. Okay. He's good. He's straightening back up just as Itzhak comes at him again, and the jerk? Does nothing to avoid it. Not so much a duck, or a waver, or a raise of his hands to protect himself or retaliate. Taking a hook right across his chin, he does mutter though, "Reminds me of the night we met." Before he's turning back to face any other blows with a drunken smile on his face.

Itzhak lands that hook, a devastating left ("STAY" reads his knuckles on that hand) and follows it up with the right ("DOWN") and then the bouncer shouts and pushes between the two men. Itzhak goes still, acquiring new target so obviously that the bouncer growls at him to fucking cool it. Then the lanky guy comes back to himself, opens his hands. "Fuck you, Cruz," he growls, "if you wanted a beatin' you coulda just asked." His voice is shaking a little.

The swarthy-skinned cop over there making short work of his tequila is surprisingly calm about all of this. Maybe a little too calm, particularly when he catches that tremor in Itzhak's voice. Then the situation goes from letting his boyfriend sort out his problem on his own, without rampaging in and making him feel incapable.. to, "Let me take this from here." That's to the bouncer with a hand on Cruz's chest, and one on Itzhak's. The guy looks for a moment like he might comply, on account of de la Vega being the fucking police captain in this shithole little town. But changes his mind at the last moment. "Sorry, no can do. Outside, both of you." Which makes him roll his eyes, finish off his drink, and prepare to follow.

Cristobal holds up a hand to the bouncer, a silent promise not to cause any more trouble. "I did, remember? You strung me along for like months. Woulda kissed Ruiz instead...but he hits harder." When he grins this time, it's a bit sheepishly, blood from his mouth staining his teeth pink for a moment, and he wipes away a combination of that and spittle thanks to his sleeve. There is a reason he wears black as a bouncer. Can't see the blood stains. "Sorry. Sorry." He's apologizing as he stumbles a half step towards the bar, peeling a couple of hundreds from his money clip and tossing them down for the bartender. "For the tab and the trouble. Keep the rest." And then he's going with the bouncer all peaceful like.

Itzhak stalks out, stiff as a wire, walking like he's about to make somebody's day a very bad day indeed. Although he doesn't look at anybody, not Cris or the bouncer or anybody on the way to the door or even Ruiz, people get a little nervous, draw aside. Once outside he fumbles for his cigarettes, hands trembling, and continues to refuse to look at either Cris or Ruiz.

Ruiz doesn't look like he plans on starting (or continuing) any trouble, whatsoever. He's a fine, upstanding LEO after all, and it's his solemn duty to act as peacekeeper.

Except when people fuck with Itzhak, that is. Then, all bets are off. Including the one that has him ambling on outside with the pair, waiting until the bouncer disappears back into the club, and then reaching for the back of Cris's collar. And sending his elbow crashing into the side of the man's head, hard enough to bring him to his knees if it manages to connect. Yes, friends, he does hit rather hard. The look on his face? Cold fury.

The thing about getting hit around is it helps to sober you up, so by the time they're outside and he notices Itzhak is closing himself off, Cris brain catches up and his conscience kicks in. "Hey man, you okay? I didn't mean anything by i-" The words cut off abruptly at the blow from Ruiz, blindsided and unable to keep his balance this time, stumbling over his own feet and going down hard on the pavement and gravel digging into his palms as they catch the brunt of his weight. "Shit." He spits from all fours, "I was just fucking around! Fuck. I'm sorry, Itzhak. Seriously."

Itzhak nearly chokes on the first drag of the cigarette he's lit. "Javier--" well, if Cris wanted a beating, he surely is getting one! "It ain't his fault. It ain't your fault," he says to Cris, not looking at him. It's a funny statement since, really, technically, it's totally Cris's fault. "My stupid brain, that's all. Some stuff..." he cuts himself off, shakes his head, flicks his fingers to dismiss the whole thing. "It's fine," he mutters, "it's fine, I'm fine."

The invocation of his name doesn't stop him. The sight of Cris on his hands and knees in the gravel and spitting rain doesn't stop him. The sputtering from both of them, the begging, the pleading, it just fucking does not stop him. De la Vega's like a runaway train once he's roused to violence, and he prowls right on in with a skittering of gravel under his boots, and drops into a crouch in front of Cris, gaze steady as the man turns and spits blood. Then once he's done talking, the dark-eyed Mexican reaches for Cris's hair, fists his hand in it hard, and growls, "Deberías haber pensado en eso antes de decidirte a follar con él, si?"

Then, if the bouncer hasn't fought him off by then, he attempts to haul the younger man to his feet, and shove him up against the side of the club. His breath scatters in the chill air, melts away slow, gone. "Apologise to him like you fucking mean it," he hisses, shoving his bigger frame in nice and close.

The problem with cruising for a bruising, is it's hard to intimidate a man when you're giving him exactly what he wants. Cris' sneer returns when his head is wrenched back, and it looks for a moment like he might just escalate the situation by bum rushing the police Captain as he's turning his form from all-fours to a football players stance. It's Itzhak's words however, that keep him from it, allowing Ruiz to pick him up and pin him against the side of the club without resistance. "If you'd let me go and stop giving me a fucking hard on by getting up in my face, I will." He says flatly and calmly.

"Well, I tried," Itzhak mutters, like he really should have expected this. At least he's acting a little more normal, shoulders relaxing some, settling back into his skin. He finally glances over at Ruiz, and then Cris, his cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth. It's a thoroughly annoyed look, but that's not the furious panic of a few minutes ago.

Ruiz is perfectly aware that Cris has been angling for this all night. He can practically taste it on him, the call to violence. The desire to be hurt, to have his blood on someone else's knuckles. Normally, it might make him relent. Withhold, like the asshole he frequently is. Tonight, though, he's reveling in it. There's a nasty sneer when Cris speaks, and it isn't what he asked for. And then the hand that isn't tangled in the man's hair knots into a fist, and attempts to slug him right in the mouth. If it hits, there's enough force in it to snap his head to the side.

"Intenta nuevamente," he barks at him, voice gone all rough and raspy when it's raised to a shout, like it isn't a pitch he takes to without a struggle. There's only a brief cut of his eyes toward Itzhak, to make sure he's all right, and starting to calm down, but otherwise the bulk of his attention's on Cris.

Usually introducing an uncomfortable topic to conversation puts a halt to these things. It's a tactic Cruz invokes often, turning to crude and lewd to get himself out of situations. It doesn't work this time. His head snaps to the side, hair being wrenched by the vice tangled in it from the sudden movement. He's gritting his teeth this time, that line of his jaw starting to twitch and pop as he grinds down and tries to keep his anger at bay and not fight back and make things worse for Itzhak. "Rosy, you're among the last people on God's green Earth that I'd ever want to hurt intentionally. I APOLOGIZE," That word almost spit at Ruiz, "For behaving like a jackass. I had no idea my careless actions would cause you any real discomfort. I truly am sorry. Tell me what to do to make it up to you."

Itzhak, staring, looks a little surprised when Cris actually tenders that apology, and includes that he'd never want to hurt him. He didn't expect that. Sighing through clenched teeth, he makes a sharp little gesture, a flip of his hand palm up. "I know. Was an accident. Look, it's--it's fine, okay? Yeah? It's fine." One might get the impression he's talking to Ruiz more than Cris. "I had a moment, it just reminded me...of stuff...it's fine, I'm fine, would you please fucking stop it de la Vega you're not helping." Okay, yeah, that was definitely to Ruiz.

They keep this up, they're going to start drawing attention. From one of the bouncers at the Firefly club, no less. And they all know perfectly well who runs that place; the very same person who has Cris practically babysitting de la Vega, and it gets under his skin. It rankles him. He'd probably love the opportunity to make the guy hurt. But it's Itzhak's insistence that he's not helping that finally causes him to surface from wherever he'd gone.

Panting, dark eyes glittering with the desire to do more violence, he releases the younger man with a snarl, and throws his hands up to either side in a gesture of yeah, yeah, I'm done with you. The shape of his holstered weapon is quite visible at his ribs, under his open jacket, and the heat of him's withdrawn sharply as he backs off a few steps.

Cris steps up to Ruiz as the man gives him some breathing room, but it's not to instigate a further fight, but to mutter, "I respect you for that." And then he's moving around the brick-house-Latino to draw closer to Itzhak. "Lo siento mi querido amigo. No volverá a suceder." His eyes cast away and Cristobal moves off, to lick his proverbial and physical wounds.

Itzhak doesn't know what to do with his face. He averts his eyes, almost bashful, and reaches out to flick Cris's shoulder with the backs of two fingers, light. Jewish tough-guy absolution. Then he goes to Ruiz, despite the violent urges practically dripping from the other man, and puts himself in his arms, winding around him.

The cop bristles slightly as Cris moves in close, and intimates something quietly to him. Dark eyes on blue, there's nothing but a slight working of his jaw. And a nod, right before the guy moves off. "Give you a ride, if you need one," he tells the man tautly, and pauses as he's about to prowl off, when Itzhak oozes into his arms. The lankier man's given a brief, fierce hug. A few words murmured soft, and then he peels away, gives his back a vigorous rub, and goes to dig his car keys out of his pocket. Oh, yes. He brought the Charger tonight.