2020-04-27 - The Poetry of War

It's a dinner date. Of a kind, anyhow. Joe presents himself at the expected time, as Ruiz gets off shift. Waiting patiently, after letting the desk sergeant know that Captain de la Vega expects him. Officer at last, eh, Ruiz?

Joe's sitting in one of the the foyer's hard plastic chairs, not sprawling at his ease, but nor yet sitting primly. He's not fooling with his phone, just looking expectantly at the door that leads to the police department's part of the building.

It's a few minutes before the door to the police department buzzes, and the clipped report of footsteps is heard. Voices, too; one of them tuned to a noisy Detroit drawl, heavy on the vowel shift. The other's decidedly more reserved. Hispanic sounding, though it's been smoothed over with some sort of watered down Virginian. Detroit's a big black guy who holds the door for his buddy, the more compactly built and height challenged Mexican of the pair.

"Look," the big cop's saying, pausing to clap de la Vega on the shoulder. "Don't be too hard on yourself about it, okay? Guy had it coming." They're both quiet a moment, and there's something that could be charitably termed a smile from the captain. Then he claps the Sergeant's shoulder in return, bids him good night, and trudges over to where Joe's patiently waiting. "Ready to go?" He's nigh unrecognisable in all that gear; black on black on black, with shiny captain's pips on his collar. His rig stocked with a nasty looking flavour of Sig, along with a taser and cuffs, and his radio's unhooked and detached while he waits.

Has he seen Ruiz in uniform since that first chance meeting months ago, outside the Grizzly? Surely he has. And yet....it so clearly hits Joe somewhere new. He doesn't quite twitch, but he does blink, even as he rises. "I am," he says, after a glance at the other top, before he focuses on Javier again. A little smile, almost shy. "I'd.....I'd've come later. Didn't mean to give you no time to change or...."

He's blushing, for all that his body language is carefully neutral....and he can feel the warmth spreading, which makes the embarrassment worse, which makes the color go higher and.....where is Rosencrantz to add to it?

Moretti, who's recognisable as such because of his nametag, sees all of this, naturally. The way the two men look at each other. The way blue eyes blushes, smiles all shy like that. He doesn't say a word, but he does shoot de la Vega a glance that's more curious than anything else. Because when has he seen the captain be anything but brusque around much of anyone? He's got alpha male written into his DNA, and his men wouldn't respect him if he didn't.

There's nothing but a hard look in return from the Mexican, and Moretti runs his tongue along his teeth before shoving his way out.

"It's fine," Javier replies, a little curt. The blush is noted, with a dense heat in those dark eyes; like a forest full of tinder, about to go up in flames. "Come on. I've got a change of shirt in the car. Burgers fine?" Crackle, crackle, thump goes his gear as he makes for the door, holds it for Joe.

Joe just nods at that, follows along mildly. "I got somethin' for you in the bike, I'll get it," he notes, as he lets Ruiz hold the door for him. Suits the action to the word - he darts across the parking lot to where the Russian bike sits in a little sliver of spot really too small for a true car. Out he comes with a little shopping bag, the reusable cloth kind. Three guesses what the little rectangular shapes are in there.

Then he's back, climbing into the passenger seat, setting the sack at his feet. Smiling at Javier, sidelong.

He squints after Joe a moment, watching him jog off across the lot to where his ridiculous Russian rattletrap is parked. Starts to say something probably insulting, but the long-legged blond is gone before he can utter it. By the time Joe returns, the cop's got both doors of his cruiser open, has ditched most of his gear and stowed his weapon, and is doing a quick change of duty shirt to rumpled tee shirt. Ink and swarthy flank disappears under the fabric as he tugs it over his head and climbs in with a grunt. Then a glance at Joe, and his bag of.. well, obviously books. A brow's cocked in question, and he tugs his door shut.

Finally, "The fuck's this?"

There are times when the boy he was is still painfully obvious in his face. Like wear and weathering and age are just a mask he's wearing. Too much kindness too young for him to ever develop that last necessary layer of stillness - too much confidence in the Universe meaning him well, wounds and scars not to the contrary.

"Oh, they're for you," he says, blithely, taking them out. Small volumes - hard covers, clearly part of a matched set. Poems of the Sea. War Poems. Sonnets. That blue gaze fixed hopefully on the cop's darker features.

The interior of the car, of course, is a jumble of equipment. Displays and panels and buttons, and bulletproof glass that sections off the front seat from the back. He murmurs something about unit three three niner, ten seven into his radio, and then stows that too. The laptop mounted in a swivel in the centre column is closed up and tucked out of Joe's leg space. Not that it isn't still cramped in here, for a taller guy like him. He belts in, keys the ignition, and the car starts with an agitated snarl.

"For me?" he repeats, leaving the thing to idle a moment. He pauses, reaches over to take one of the books out of Joe's hands. It's turned over, then back again, and the cover cracked. Then the next book, and the next. His inked fingers are run slow along the spine of one of them, such indelicate things in contrast to the work of art that those pages hold. Then he opens it to a poem somewhere near the middle, and finally turns his eyes from Joe's, to the words on the page.

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

The growl of that engine has Joe glancing out at the hood with a kind of pleased respect. Hello there. Like every pilot ever, he has a love for speed in all its forms....and even the swifter terrestrial things please him. Thank God he went for practicality rather than pleasure in that Russian bike, or he'd be another middle-aged cliche on a ridiculous racing bike.

"Yeah," he confirms, smiling. "I thought you'd like 'em." The gesture's well-meant, at least. He reaches over to touch the War Poems with a long finger. "That one's got that Yeats poem I love." Ruiz knows the one, Joe's recited it often enough, but forbears to do so now.

The car's not unlike its driver; surely this hasn't been lost on Joe, the parallels between them. It's not technically his, of course; it's the property of the GHPD, and he happens to be its current owner.

Closing up the book, he passes it back to Joe along with the two others he'd set in his lap to look over. "I do." Like them, he means. "Thank you." The turn of his head, the shift of his gaze to find the older man's is almost a hesitant thing. Like he's caught between two worlds, and uncertain how to proceed here. The engine rumbles away, impatient, and he offers a few quiet words before putting the thing in gear. "En equilibrio con esta vida, esta muerte. I remember the words." He probably does, too. All of them.

And then they're pulling out of the lot, the beast chomping at the bit to move faster; it's granted a brief skid of tires as they swerve onto the street.

Caught between two worlds, indeed. Joe trying not to be too obvious in the context of that oh so macho world of law enforcement. Moretti maybe as discreet as the grave, but he wasn't the only one to see Joe turning colors when Ruiz appeared. Someone else with a crush on the Captain, maybe.....and wearing those scars.

"Yes," he says, a little smugly. "Good. You're welcome." Then he's grinning unrepentantly at the roar of the engine. He's strapped in, he's prepared. Who doesn't love a wild ride?

Maybe putting a little distance between them and the precinct will help. Javier's either convinced of this, or merely got something else on his mind tonight. Or, he's mulling the significance of Joe giving him those books. Bringing him gifts, and the way it makes him feel. And feelings, of course, are to be avoided at all costs.

"Got something to tell you," he murmurs as they approach the drive through window of the local fast food joint. Must be quite the something if he doesn't want to chance climbing out of the car for it. "Couple things, actually." His face gives little away, but then, that hard, brutish mien rarely does.

That bemuses him a little, but....he doesn't protest. Well, this is Gray Harbor, not Hoquiam or Seattle. And it's not a formal date as such, right? "Sure," Joe says, easily. Now Ruiz gets that profile - the bones still stark beneath the skin, the lids still heavy, suggestive of sleep, for all his usual keenness and energy. "What things?"

If he's nervous or uncertain, it doesn't show.

No, it's not a formal date. Because if they're both honest with themselves, de la Vega's not a dating man. Never has been, probably never will be. He pulls up to the window to order, then tips his head back against the seat cushion, and regards Joe steadily. Dark, hooded eyes to watery blue, like the sea chasing the night sky. "I, uh." His voice is pitched low, and a little smoke-roughened. Warm, for all his blunt edges and clipped mannerisms at times.

"I asked Rosencrantz to move in. With me." He glances down at Joe's lap, and his gaze remains there for a time. His emotions are complicated at the moment, but he speaks to none of them.

He can see.....Joe doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink. But there's that faint little cock of the head, the avian gesture. "Okay," he says, simply. And asks no questions at all. He's never been able to - most of Javier's life was always cloistered away from him, after all. No How are the wife and the kid? Not that he knows Javier has a living child, and her in town. Too late to start now.

The girl behind the window has to call to him twice in order to get his attention. The cop clears his throat, apologises curtly, snags the paper bag with their food and passes it across to Joe. Once he's paid, he rolls the window up and puts the car back in gear. Not a word, not a single word until well after they're back on the main road again.

"I know you don't.. I know it isn't something you'd want. And I.." He swallows, obvious with his fairly prominent adam's apple. "I didn't want to leave him hanging. So I thought you should know." Hands on the steering wheel, eyes on the road.

He accepts the bag, reflexively doles out who got what, sorts it all out, before he responds. Drinks in holders, a bite taken and swallowed down, then he sets down the burger in his lap.

Something he probably isn't capable of, if he admits it to himself. Normality, domesticity, he's never even gotten close, for any length of time, save for that sideswipe of whirlwind courtship and short engagement and then a funeral, all contained in the sojourn in Russia. There are women in Houston who could provide a bitter Greek chorus when it comes to the husband potential of one T. Joseph Cavanaugh.

"I understand," he says, again. Tone even, determinedly light.

Capable of or not, it's a pipe dream de la Vega himself chased once, in the cloister of his daydreams. What it might be like to have a life with him, a home with him. Just him; no more of those empty couplings with random women, whoever'd been tripping over herself that week to get his dick wet.

So a long, long silence follows in the wake of I understand. And to watch him carefully, his jaw's tight, a slight tremble in his lower lip as he drives without daring to look over. The food dropped into his lap is ignored, not hungry being his quietly mumbled excuse. Never mind the rumble of his stomach not a minute earlier. Knuckles dragged in a quick, vicious stroke across his eyes, he sniffs sharply and eventually speaks again. "Also, I'd been having some headaches, so I, uh, went in to the clinic." Which is slightly foreboding.

A pipe dream of his own, equally cherished. But like so many, not something to survive in the light of day. Joe's still, in that careful way he has, giving nothing away.....not beyond a faint tightness in his lips.

But that latter comment is perfectly calculated to send a sliver of ice through his heart. Now there's shutdown, his face gone beyond that poised stillness into a stark cold. The look that only his trainers and his RIOs have seen in the canopy mirrors, inhuman and harsh. Gaze fixed on the road ahead like he's the one driving. "Yeah?" It's almost a croak.

It's unclear at this point where they're driving. Not toward the cop's house, nor in the direction of Joe's apartment. Then he misses the turnoff to the docks, and just keeps right the fuck on going out of town. Javier makes a small sound in his throat, then blows a slow breath out.

His next words are intended to be measured and even, but come out a little unsteady. "Losing my sight," he murmurs, soft. Like he's not fully certain he means for it to be heard.

His expression doesn't change - he's like a statue set on guard. One of those plaster saints in the churches, the unwavering martyrs. The fact that it isn't cancer, it isn't an aneurysm, it's not death direct, fast or slow, doesn't make it any less of a sentence. Because he knows, he knows, the pride beside him will never bear any kind of helplessness. Not for long.

Itz will be upset. Itz will rage, if he hasn't already. Vow defiance.

Joe, being Joe, is already planning.

"What's the diagnosis?" he asks, and his voice is like nothing Javier's ever heard, not in pain or in battle. Almost metallic.

The cop is almost preternaturally steely about all of this. There was that brief slippage of emotion earlier, but the hatches have been battened down, and he's reverted to that stonefaced look a good many Marines learn to wear. Jaw locked, eyes forward, there's only a little lift of one shoulder when the question's asked, and he keeps right on driving.

"Ischemic.. optic.. something or fucking other. Shit if I know. Look in the glovebox." If Joe does, there's a small stack of papers, folded in half and shoved in there, detailing what's wrong with his eyes. His left eye, to be precise. Damaged optic nerve, shortsighted in the right eye. A prescription for glasses that he looks to have crumpled up in disgust.

He's set the meal aside, himself. Hunger just as effectively banished....and he's someone who drops weight under stress. Barely able, in some deployments, to keep it where it was needed.

Joe reaches into the glovebox, takes out the papers. He skims them quickly. "I have optic nerve damage," he says, some of that raw, scraping note leaving his voice....though his tone is still clinical. "Long-term spaceflight does it. Especially in men. The crash TBI didn't help, either. 's why I wear glasses and contacts now. Do they know what caused the damage? Is there any indication this is going to progress? We're not talking blindness, right?"

He clamps his lips together, the muscle all along his jaw visibly taut, like he's trying to keep it together. A quick darting of his gaze when Joe mentions the nerve damage to his own eyes; it's the first time he's looked at the blond since they left the lot at the precinct. And he's caught drinking in that long, hatchet profile of his for a time. The bar in Bahrain comes back to him in that moment, a hot surge of memory, and he tears his eyes away and focuses again on the road.

"I'm not wearing fucking glasses." Maybe Joe realises the significance of this. He was a sniper. If he can't trust his eyes any longer, what can he? "I don't know." If it'll progress. "I don't fucking know. Look, don't mention it to Rosencrantz, yeah?"

They're there, now that he knows what he's looking for - the nearly invisible gloss of contacts. But then, Joe's fifty. Men his age need reading glasses, at the very least. Joe's got his phone out, consulting.

"This stuff is at least somewhat treatable, at the very least. Though .....we're going to need to give up smoking. This is related to stroke, and god knows all three of us smoking like old chimneys isn't going to help. If we need to, we'll get someone with enough healing ability to help. I'll personally fistfight every fucking manifestation of the Veil if that's what it takes to get someone to do it." His tone is resolute, calm. "Jesus H. Christ. You scared me. This is bad, but I swear the way you phrased it I thought you had cancer. I'm not saying anything to Rosencrantz."

Javier's clearly taking this harder than might be expected, for something treatable. It's a matter of pride, in part. Self image. His fingers on the steering wheel loosen and fan out, then curve around it again with a soft crack of knuckles. "We?" He looks over again. "We? The fuck do you mean? We aren't doing anything of the fucking sort. Put your fucking phone away and quit Dr. Googling." Which he's apparently decided is a thing, now.

"I'm not wearing fucking glasses," he feels the need to repeat, and makes an agitated sound in his throat. Then he swerves off the highway and onto the gravel pitch of a rest area and lookout point, and brings the car to a halt. "Personally fistfight every manifestation of the Veil, huh?" he murmurs after a while, and chuckles wryly.

"Well, I am, then," Joe says, calmly. "'bout damn time anyway. I've been payin' R.J. Reynolds to poison my dumb ass for decades now. But you should." Whereupon he sets his phone down on the dash, simply yanks the pack of Luckies out of his jeans' pocket, and cavalierly tosses them out the window. Some asshole just littered, yes, he did.

"Yeah, God forbid you look as smart as you are," he retorts. "I mean, Jesus God, then you might admit that you're a middle-aged man and not a nineteen year old jarhead with big brass balls and only one braincell that you have to share with your whole platoon." He's turned to look at Javier now, and it's that cool, level stare, complete with the bitchy little headtilt that lets him look down his nose. "You know I'd do it, too."

The ignition's killed and the keys left inside, and Joe gets an incredulous look from the man seated beside him, when the smokes go out the window. He sits there in silence for a few seconds, staring the older man down. Then bodies in close, until the heat of him just begins to mingle with Joe's, and jabs a single finger in his face. "That's a fifty fucking dollar fine, cabron." Then he's unstrapping his seatbelt and hauling himself on out with a grunt of protest.

Once he's on his feet, he leans back down to snarl through the open driver's side door, "Also, you fucking call me old again, and I'll put you over my goddamned knee."

Joe all patrician defiance, in that arrogant little droop of his lids. The last fling of some aristo determined to tread the steps to the guillotine without a flinch. Almost disdainfully, he reaches into his wallet and peels out two twenties and a ten, proffers them between first and second fingers. Like Ruiz is a valet he's tipping. Park it gently and don't scratch the paint.

"I didn't call you old. You're middle-aged. I'm the one who's old," Joe says, and then he's getting out, too. Pauses to scoop up the pack of Luckies and flick them into an actual trashcan.

The cash is outright ignored, though the look on Joe's face.. the haughtiness, it's like it keys something in the younger man. Tugs at it, ever so gently. Some thread of resentment that's underscored the tension between them since the moment they first met. The headlights of a passing car wash over him, outlining all of that tautly coiled bulk as he leans into the car. Then pushes off finally, leaving the door swung open, boots crunching the gravel as he prowls away from the vehicle, and digs for his pack of smokes. It's not warm out there, and he's only in a tee shirt and the remnants of his duty uniform, GRAY HARBOR POLICE jacket left in the car.

Of course, he follows. Javier prowls, Joe stalks, light-footed as a cat, despite age, despite wear. Pursuing because he can never, ever leave well enough alone, can he? All but sidling after him, like he's braced for a fight. For something. What he doesn't bother to do is pretend - in private, he never bothers to play by the rules that govern male cool. No gruff reassurances, no avowals of support. That's for Easton or August or the other cops.

No, he simply recites, gently, without consulting the little volume of sonnets,
"Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require."

This is their way though, isn't it? Locked in this unhealthy pursuit, this chase and capture, this taming. The problem is, you try to tame a wild animal, you run the risk of being mauled.

There's a turn of his head, a glance sent over his shoulder at the blond's soft-footed approach, and then he stops to light his cigarette. Fifty, a hundred feet from where he'd parked the car, doors still swung open, the heat from the engine creating a fine fog that curls from the hood and disperses into the chill air.

"But, like a sad slave," murmurs Javier, finally, in response. "Stay and think of nought. Save, where you are, how happy you make those. So true a fool is love, that in your will, though you do anything, he thinks no ill." Those hard, dark eyes find and pin Joe's paler blues. A slight curl of his upper lip, his breath a too-steady in and out, jaw tight.

Once upon a time, in Savannah, Javier saw him approach the wariest of the horses on the farm. An Arabian colt, mist-gray, dappled as if with rainspots, and skittish as a deer. A rescue that his sister and mother had worked with - Joe walking confidently over the dew-wet grass, barefoot, long hands held out, palms up, fingers spread.

That's how he holds them now, as if Javier were someone to be tamed, indeed. But then, he's been trying for twenty-seven years.....and isn't it as the Fox says to the Prince? You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. Or perhaps he's the one who has been tamed, and refuses to abandon his master. That high, bright light in his eyes, and that confidence that the world will never ultimately deny him what he wants.

He and Rosencrantz both, they have a way with wild and temperamental creatures. Those requiring a steady hand and steadier nerves; whether a hot-blooded Arabian or an F-18 eager to ruin those unworthy of it.

"I wanted.." What did he want? What does he want? He flicks some nonexistent ash off his cigarette, then ducks his head as he brings it to his mouth for a drag. Smoke sifts from his nose and lips, clouding his swarthy, squared-off features for a few moments until it clears. A minute, and then two, and a couple more drags off the cigarette before he eases in closer. Toward those upturned palms, toward the steady, trusting eyes. He makes to grasp one of Joe's wrists, and wrap it in a hard grip as he leans in close. Almost a kiss, but it halts a hair's breadth away.

"You wanted a life with me. You still want a life with me." In no wise a question - he speaks with that oracular sureness, head held high. "You're going to have it. You already do. The end of the story is not written yet....but I am not going anywhere, and I play a very long game. Live with Rosencrantz now, if it pleases you both." Regal as a prince granting a boon. "But don't think for a minute, not even a breath, that you'll ever abandon me."

He lets Javier grasp his wrist - muscle and sinew and bone, the start of that scar. Even his method of suicide was absurd; not for him the swift certainty of the bullet or the slow darkness of poison. But time enough left to drag him from the bloody water, breathe life back in.

Just the start of it, and Javier's thumb roves along that neat seam of knitted-together flesh. Absent and yet not, for he knows all that it signifies. Still, he doesn't kiss the other man. A little tilt of his head like he might, and then he shifts to skim his mouth along the blond's jaw, the shell of his ear while he talks. When that dense silence settles between them again, it finds him with his lips just barely touching Joe's throat. Then a soft chuckle, the sound smoky and warm in the close proximity of their bodies.

"You sitting here, telling me what I'm going to have. What I'm going to do, and what I'm not. You think you call the fucking shots?" His thumb strokes that scar again, and he pulls back enough to lift the wrist to his mouth, and kiss the same spot tenderly. His cigarette burns away between two fingers of the same hand, only barely held aloft from his lover's hand.

The way the muscles of his throat go taut, ever more plain. The goosebumps that make their appearance, that unthinking, uncontrollable obeisance to Javier's mere proximity. He can't help himself - that's always been his argument. And his body has never given the lie to it. Not once. Never falsity. Never desire feigned.

Still holding himself proudly, even as he shivers at that kiss. "Yes," he says, softly. "I do."

His mouth is warm against the cooler skin of Joe's wrist, exposed to the cold as it has been. A soft sound as suction's broken, and another kiss is placed higher up, rough with beard. The cigarette burns away still, dangerously close to touching the blond's forearm. Then the wrist is released, and his chin tips up a fraction to meet the taller man's gaze squarely. "Get in the fucking car." His dark eyes are glossy with the desire to hurt, the call to retribution. "Your food's getting cold." And then he pulls away, boots crunching the gravel as he paces back to the Charger. One last drag off his smoke, and it's flicked away, obliterated with the heel of his boot mid-stride.

There isn't, for once, that manic gleam - the glitter of the matador stepping into the ring, armed with a scrap of cloth and a sword barely sturdy enough to do its job. Only that imperial calm, like those kisses are merely the tribute he's due. Not that they don't bring up that wave of hot color, his skin blooming pink.

Then he pads back to the car, resettling himself in the seat. Still with that poised surety, not even a glance at Javier.

He waits for Joe to climb back inside, waits for him to settle in and lock his seatbelt in place. Door slammed shut, ignition keyed again, the engine surges to life with a sultry growl; in the dark, the dashboard's multitude of lights illuminate the two occupants in its pale glow. Two breaths, three. Then he turns to glance at the older man, finally. That foreign aspect to his profile; that slubbed, hooked nose and sloe-lidded eyes; the soul of a people who haunted a land millenia ago, who sacrificed men to their gods and conquered armies in bloody, brutal warfare.

Not a word. Just that sound he makes in his throat, before he beats the everloving shit out of someone. He still doesn't touch his own food; the entirety of his focus is on his driving. The car's swung around with a crackle of gravel under its tires, and he guns it for the highway with an enthusiastic response of all eight cylinders raring to go.

It is, truth be told, one of his beauties for Joe. That he's not another clean-cut American boy, skim-milk bland and plastic as a Ken doll. That that fighting spirit is never more than a scratch beneath the skin.

There's that hint of wildness in his own gaze, as he looks back, coolly. The thrill never dies - this is never to be taken for granted. Javier may come to him, be tamed....but he's never been domesticated.

He doesn't ask where they're going. It doesn't matter, because the answer is 'Where-ever Javier wants to take him'.

More precisely, the answer is, somewhere nobody'll be able to hear Joe scream, when his lover takes out all that still-chained fury on him. The promise of violence is one his whole body makes; from the restless grip of his hands on the steering wheel, to the muscle that occasionally jumps along his jaw, to the stolen, hungry looks he sends the fairer-haired man seated next to him. "Eat," is his only, brief concession to words. And then only the eager thrum of the car's thirsty engine as they bolt back down the highway, and head for town. Based on the route he's taking, it looks like he's angling for his cabin.

Eat he does, deliberately. Nothing theatrical or defiant about it. He's eaten far, far worse than lukewarm fast food, after all. Then Joe's wiping his hands clean on the napkin, and settling back in his seat with a kind of comfortable relaxation. He can guess what's coming, see the shadow of it on the wall. Where it happens - Ruiz's house, his own apartment, even the deck of the Surprise - that's barely relevant.

Nothing else is said on the way back into town. Whatever Javier's thinking in those minutes that pass, he keeps his own counsel. Not a word, not a glance, not a touch.

Before too long, the wash of orange streetlamps starts to slew past, bathing the interior of the vehicle in its intermittent illumination. He swings off onto the dark little backroad hemmed in with trees, that provides access to some of the properties on the outskirts of town. Roen's is somewhere to the south, but he turns north. And moments later, the dark huddle of his cabin up ahead, and his truck already parked in the drive. He brings them in behind and switches off the ignition, but doesn't move immediately.

Joe simply looks at him, patiently, turning. The books set neatly by his boot, on the floor of the passenger's side. He'll take them in - God only knows what the other cops would make of finding books of poetry in a patrol car, were he to leave them. No move to get out. Waiting, as he generally does, on any cue from Javier. There's only the glow from the porch light on that stark profile.

A shake of his head if and when Joe reaches for the bookbag. No. The key's left in the ignition, his gear - gun, rig, radio - left untouched, and he pops his door and climbs out slowly. The look he gives the blond clearly says that he wants him to climb out, and follow him. Not that there's far to go; he slinks around the front of the vehicle, lurksome, like a stray dog. And Joe's seen him move like that before. He's seen that restlessness in his frame, that glint in his eyes.

He's seen it right as he happened upon a certain young Marine, outside a dive bar in Bahrain.

He leaves it, obediently. Gets out of the car and follows, silently. Not tense, exactly - but careful. Another flashback to that horse, watching the pilot with his wild, dark eyes, nostrils flaring,so very clearly ready to bolt at the least provocation.

He succeeded, then, in laying a hand on the velvet of the colt's muzzle, getting him to assent to human touch.

But this, then.....Javier's a predator. When there's sudden movement, it won't be to flee.

Fight, flight, or freeze; it's the same primitive mechanism at work. The colt fighting every instinct it has as prey; the cop waging the same war, and losing. Losing, in the same flare of nostrils, the same high-pitched snort; tossed head and hooves chewing up the earth and cracked knuckles as he paces a slow circle. Man, not horse.

And then he locks eyes with Joe, and that's the only warning he has, before the Mexican's fist is driven into his belly hard enough to double him over if it connects.

Of course it connects. The day hasn't yet come when he'll flee Javier....not Javier himself, anyway, the Dark Ones' possession not withstanding. Double him over it does - his attempt to tighten belly muscles in that half-instant before the blow connects only helps a little. Breath woofing out of him.

But he straightens as soon as he can, slowly, looking into the cop's face with that calm defiance. His own nostrils flared, trying to keep his breathing steady, even.

Right as Joe's head comes up, the other fist comes crashing in, aimed at his mouth. He's got an arm on him, Javier does, though it's clear, perfectly clear that he's pulling his punches. For now.

It staggers him, sends him slewing sideways. Blood on the cop's knuckles, blood on the hand he wipes at his own mouth with, blood on his teeth as he grins. And that light like leaping flame in his eyes. "You get one more," he tells Javier, and for all that his speech has gone a little muddy from that hit, that calm assurance is still there. "Make it count."

He's like a cat with a mouse he'd been batting about for the better part of an hour. Playing with his food, waiting for it to show some sign of life, hoping it'd fight back, because god, if that doesn't make his dick a little hard to hear that tone in Joe's voice. There's the sound of him chuckling, rough and warm and dark, the softer crack of his knuckles as joints protest and pop. And then he takes a swift step forward, fists his left hand in Joe's hair, and smashes his face against the taller man's with a snarl that cuts the still, cold air as their foreheads and noses connect. It's going to hurt both of them. And he doesn't give a flying fuck.

Now....now he's fighting back. It's not with the kind of bone-deep knowledge that born brawlers like Javier and Itzhak possess....but he's had training, of a kind. Somewhere. Just a bit. For he's aiming for the cop's gut, in turn, a tight, compact blow.

Just enough pride in him that he's not going to just passively take it. Not tonight. Even with the blood pouring down his face from his nose. That grin is still there, that feral gleam of teeth.

Blood's blinked out of his eyes, and he pants a couple of times as the pain courses through his face. That nose, of course, has been broken at least three times. If not more. The number of fights that young Marine got into, it's surprising his is still mostly in one piece. Then the sucker punch to his own gut, and to Joe's credit, it buckles him forward a little, makes him cough. Then laugh, like the lunatic he is. "That it?" Another cough as he straightens, meets the other man's blue eyes with the dark gleam of his own. "That all you've fucking got?"

There's that manic glitter he knows so well. "Just gettin' started," he tells Javier, spitting to one side. Now he's lashing out with a kick to the Marine's thigh - is he pulling his own punches? Hard to tell. He's not as strong as the younger man. "Figured you hadn't taken me out dancin' yet, so we can practice here."

"Recién comenzando," Javier repeats, in warm, growly Spanish as Joe spits into the gravel. He follows suit, blood staining his own teeth, jaw rolled to the side as his panting breaths continue to fog the chill air. He doesn't even bother trying to dodge the booted foot aimed at his leg; instead, he attempts to catch it and use it to tug the other man off balance. Then drive a hard elbow into his ribs. Bruise them, probably, though it's unlikely to break them.

Not this time. He may not be very effective at landing blows, but he's still got enough of that old supple grace to simply roll with and out of that catch. The attempt to elbow-check him doesn't work. No harm done in either case - and Joe's hastily circling to try again to kick him in the gut. As if trusting his longer reach in that form to keep him out of harm's way.

More warm, raspy laughter as Joe neatly dodges the attempt to bash him in the ribs with an elbow. And once again, rather than try to get out of range of his taller lover, Javier takes the opposite tactic and closes the distance. The goal? To get right the fuck up into the other man's face, and give him no room to use his height to his advantage. This time, a hard shove to try to back Joe up against the side of the house.

Just barely - he nearly manages to eel around the corner, get out of the cop's grip. But then he's boxed in, and trying for a grapple, trying to hit him in the gut with a rabbit punch. Pain's already beginning to tell on him, though - it doesn't land. The blood on his face is almost black, in the glow of the porch light.

The back of Javier's fist slams into Joe's face again, a whipshot from the left that'll snap his head to the right. Stagger him, hopefully, so he can fist his hands in the other man's shoulders and slam his knee into Joe's gut. Will it connect? Will it put an end to the fight? The Mexican seems to be done playing with his food, at least, and ready to put him down.

The same side he took that hit to the mouth from....and it makes him reel, drunkenly, along with it. Then that knee drives the air from him entirely, a solid hit to the diaphragm. Javier can feel him stagger, slip, and rally one last time. There's that knife's edge glint in the one blue eye that's open, though - he doesn't give in. Tries for one last hit, as if trying to provoke a KO.

A strangled sounding grunt as that fist catches him just under the solar plexus, and actually comes pretty damned close to making him bring up his lunch. Thankfully, he didn't eat dinner, or that would most assuredly be getting refunded about now.

"Tu hijo de puta," he hisses, and surges back in like the stubborn bastard he is, looking this time to take Joe down to his knees with a fist aimed square for his jaw.

It doesn't quite knock him out....but he's definitely seeing stars again, as his head snaps back and rebounds off the siding of the cabin. Then he's sliding down and crumpling, ending up in a heap on the cool earth of the yard. Still, save for the way he's faintly wheezing, trying to get air in again.

No formal surrender. He doesn't need to. He's clearly not getting up under his own power any time soon. Not looking at Ruiz....well, not up at his face. More at the toe of one boot, and the leaf litter underneath it.

Harsh, quick pants of breath coming from the cop as he stands there. Stoop shouldered, one hand slaps against the wall of the cabin to support his weight, but he doesn't otherwise move as Joe slumps down to the ground. Laughter though, and crow's feet that spring up at the corners of his eyes. "Fuck, baby, you gave me a run for my money. Didn't think you had it in you." He laughs again, and sinks slowly into a crouch. And it's obvious then, that he's got plenty of fight left in him. That he could easily go another few rounds, this man who burns the candle at both ends. Who leaves nothing for the swim back.

"Come on. Help me grab the books, and I'll get you cleaned up." He reaches out to caress Joe's cheek, bloodied as it is, and then dips in for a sweet, slow kiss.

It's a breathy whisper, "Gimme minute." It's gonna be more than a minute or two, that's clear. His eyelids are drooping like he's pondering a nap, just right there in the coolness of the night-time yard. The earth feels wonderful, underneath him. He doesn't have to move.

But his lips part, welcomingly, for all that they're bruised and bloody.

The kiss is warm, affectionate. Claiming and possessive and yet tender, in light of all that's happened tonight. "Eres mia." It's whispered huskily in between one kiss and the next. "La mía, José." His fingertips smear through the blood on that clean shaven cheek, trail lower to mark lines of it along Joe's throat, and then he nips at the older man's lower lip gently and pulls back to his feet. A flick of his eyes over Joe's still-slumped form, and then he trudges back to the car, to fetch the books and gear.

"Si," he agrees, in that whisper, but leaves it at that. He's in that confusion of pain and weakness and that shadowy pleasure that comes with it. Enwebbed and bewildered. Not even attempting to get up, though he does roll on to his side, curl up a little.

It's willpower that has him putting his hands down to try and stand, though all he succeeds in doing, at least at first, is ending up on all fours. Head hanging like an exhausted dog's.

He's not long inside the car. Some rummaging about, and the bookbag's strap is slung across one shoulder, his gear retrieved, his gun's clip mechanically checked before he holsters it. Blood smears his knuckles, his mouth and cheek, spatters his tee shirt; he uses his sleeve to wipe off the worst of it, slams the door, and trudges back to the house. "Get you some ice for your face, novio," he offers in a low murmur, along with a big hand.

"Mmhmm," Joe agrees. He reaches up a hand, takes the offered one. It gets him to his feet, but he's swaying when he gets there. Joe's gone that papery white, sweat shining on the skin that isn't bloodied. It's all over his shirt, now.

And once he's in the house, he's more or less diving for the couch, finding the same position he just had in the yard - though he has sense enough to rest his head on his arm, so he's not smearing blood on the upholstery. "Sorry. Li'l dizzy," he mutters.

It's clean, at least, the hand he offers. Warm and solid, a little grunt of effort as he gets Joe hauled to his feet and holds the door for him.

Once they're inside, the deadbolt's thrown and the security system armed. And then begins the process of stowing his firearm and gear securely, tossing his jacket across the back of a chair, and going to wash up. The blond collapsed on his couch is spared a glance or two, but he mostly works in silence, as is his wont. Then the whooosh of the faucet as he fills a glass with water, and pads over to hold it out to the other man. "Here. Drink it."

Joe, being Joe, neither argues nor demurs. He just props himself sufficiently upright that he can sip from it, and does as ordered. Holding it carefully in both hands, like a child. The blond has that vague look - there's the feedback of pain itself, and then its shadow. Not distressed, per se, the way most men hurt like that would be, but almost....like he's listening.

He lingers a moment there, watching the older man. Studying his face, and the curl of long fingers around the glass. That look on his face, distant and almost untouchable. Then his gaze slides away, and there's the sound of him moving off again. Fetching painkillers, ice from the freezer. They're brought over and handed off, and he settles in beside the blond with one of the books he'd been gifted. The poetry of war. It's cracked open wordlessly.

It has him edging over, fitting himself along the cop with a kind of unabashed sensuality, all his own undamaged side pressed against Ruiz's, until he can lay his cheek on the younger man's shoulder. He takes the painkillers and the ice, doses himself, rests the icebag against his face a little.

Then, almost beseechingly, he's kissing that cheek, just above the line of beard.

As always, he sprawls there with his knees spread wide and his shoulders slouched like he owns the place. Which, of course, he actually does in this case. Murmured, his voice warm and scratchy at this pitch, "The scribes on all the people shove and bawl allegiance to the state, but they who love the greater love lay down their life; they do not hate." It's followed by the crisp sound of the page being turned, and the way his larger frame eases slightly toward Joe's. Lashes lowered at the kiss to his cheek, dark eyes all slanted up when he smiles. As if he hadn't just been beating the man to a pulp outside. "What do you think of that?" The verse, probably, not the beating.

Poetry's always been one of their touchstones, debating it with the fervor most reserve for sports of the relative merits of different types of firearms. "'s that Owen, or Sassoon?" he wonders, softly. "I like it, though. I feel like the poets of the first World War were 'mong the first in the West to see war with clearer eyes. I mean, not that men didn't before, God knows Kipling had his moments, but..."

Ruiz can feel by the way he holds himself how much he hurts, how much he wants, but he doesn't move. Just nuzzles in against the Marine's throat, inhaling his scent, in that ridiculous, dog-like devotion.

Javier knows. He knows this man like the back of his hand. He'd know the taste of his mind and the colour of his want if he were blind. But he's in control here; hasn't he taken great pains to make this clear tonight? Even if the scent of copper on his lover's skin, and the way he all but crawls into his lap makes him hard beyond reason, makes it difficult to think straight. "Owen," he answers quietly, in a rumble that's felt more easily than it's heard.

The book's closed and set aside on the coffee table, and his hand curved around the back of Joe's neck, while the inked knuckles of the other direct his face toward Javier's. A kiss; warm and imploring, then demanding.