2020-05-02 - Serve (Yourself) & Protect (The Money)

Ruiz' texts seemed impatient, insistent even, despite Cris saying he was busy and it'd have to wait. Finally Cris just fired back that he'd be outside the man's cabin in three minutes, and he better be ready to haul ass.

The dark blue Ford Fairlane skids to a stop in the gravel and the bouncer immediately lays on the horn. Probably a good thing the Captain's chosen house has a bit of distance between him and his neighbors or porch lights would be flicked on and curious onlookers would be peering through their blinds. Should Ruiz venture out of his house - and if his jones is bad enough he surely will - the car is blasting some late 80's tunes on the radio and the passenger side window has been cranked down, Cris leaning over the seat as he waits for the man to emerge.

The kitchen lights are on when Cris pulls up, but the house is otherwise dark. There's a raccoon sniffing around back, and it knocks over some empty paint cans as it scampers away, when the crackle of gravel under tires heralds the arrival of a visitor.

It's a good twenty or thirty seconds of blaring horn to endure before the front door's shoved open, and the cop's bulky shape appears briefly. Then it's thumped shut after him, locked, and his keys shoved into his pocket as he trudges on over. "You trying for Most Fucking Annoying 2020, or something, Cruz?" he questions as he pulls up to the passenger side door, and leans in with his arms folded atop the open window. Ball cap, hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, fitted jeans shoved into half-laced boots. Nobody'd guess he's a cop in that getup, unless maybe they recognised the tatts scrawled along his arms.

"Shit no." Cris says as he makes an impatient gesture for Ruiz to get his ass in the car. "I had to retire the title after winning it too many times in a row. Look, if you want your fix, you're going to have to tag along while I run something else. Seeming how you're after nose candy, I assume you can keep this 'off the record'." As if Cops work like reporters in that regard. "Nice place. Cozy. Shame you've never invited me in." He gives a toothy grin as he settles back into the driver's side, hand on the gear shift as if he's ready to tear out the minute jeans hit the seat.

The look on his face is one of baffled disgust. Probably due to Cris's music of choice, which clearly offends the cop's delicate sensibilities. "Never asked," he murmurs as he hauls open the door and swings inside, fumbling for his seat belt no doubt while the younger Latino fishtails it out of there. Has it occurred to either of them yet, how stereotypical they must seem at the moment? Couple of Mexicans in a classic Fairlane, headed out to run 'errands' at eleven o'clock at night to the tune of Prince.

"And what something else is this, dare I fucking ask?" is grunted as he drops his head against the seatback, dark eyes narrowed as he skims them along Cris's profile in the dark.

And it's a good thing Ruiz has his seatbelt on, because Cris is one of those assholes that texts while he drives. At the question, his eyes flick over to Ruiz and then back to the road as he blind sends a message. "I assume you're packing?" Cris cuts the wheel tight when they hit the end of the drive, skittering the tires before they find their slide into the turn he barely seemed to slow for. "A guy was supposed to make a drop at the Club and never showed. So either he's high tailing it to Reno to hit the tables, or he's gotten himself into some heat."

And de la Vega's one of those assholes who points out that, "You know that's a hundred and thirty-six dollar fine for driving while distracted, right?" Not that he particularly seems to expect the younger man to listen to him. His gaze is just shifting to the window when the question's asked. About whether he's packing. And if Cris thought it was impossible for him to look any less amused than when doves started crying over the sound system? Well, it sure as fuck isn't. "Am I packing?" he repeats, enunciating that last word carefully, as if he thinks he may have misheard.

And, well, of course he's packing. He's one of those those breed of cops who carries 24/7 while off duty. Cris can probably see the outline of his Sig right now, under the zipped up hoodie.

"Well whip it out, big boy. Your ticket book, I mean. I'll wipe my ass it with it and pay it in pennies. That is if it doesn't just get dismissed to a chorus of laughter." It helps to have connections. Cris' feral grin grows as he reaches over and gives Ruiz a squeeze. Right in his big, fat gun. "Atta boy. Gonna make you really earn it tonight, Papi." Cruz points the car out of town and as soon as they're past the limits, he really lays on the gas. Apparently neither of the options as to what happened to this 'friend' of his are acceptable.

There's a soft snort from the cop, and his gaze ticks away again, and back to the window. "I'll pass." His bulky frame's a study in tension tonight; partly, no doubt, all this talk of a guy and whether he's packing heat, and whatever the fuck errand Cris is trying to rope him into. But it's also the fact that he isn't in the driver's seat. And as a consummate control freak, it's ratcheting up his anxiety something fierce.

So when Cris reaches for the shape of his gun bundled under a layer of clothing, his hand darts out reflexively and shoves it away without thinking. Hard. A quick pivot of his head, too, to lock dark eyes with blue if Cris looks over, and a shallow breath or two. "Just fucking drive, yeah? And start talking. Where are we going? Who the fuck's this friend?"

"You're so cute when you're twitchy." Cris says as his hand is shoved away, only to reach back and try and pinch Ruiz' cheek with the sentiment. "I almost forgot how pissy you can be when you're jonesing. At least I know you won't punch me when I'm driving, unless you want to get well acquainted with the fact this baby doesn't have airbags." HIs eyes stay studiously on the road for a moment, jaw clenching as he tries to decide how much Ruiz needs to know to make sure he helps instead of burdens on this little trip. "Kenny lives about ten minutes outside of town. We're going to swing by his place and see if he's home and if he has my fucking money, that's what we're doing."

The cop makes a little snarly face when Cris darts back in to pinch his cheek. Complete with gruff sounding growl. Those grasping fingers would, of course, find plenty of rough beard; and very nearly the snap of his teeth, if he was just a little quicker. "I like to think you value your own skin enough to keep mine in one piece," he mutters, jostling big shoulders against the seat as he tries in his restless way to get comfortable. Jonesing is right. Then, "Kenny." He scratches at his nose with the inked knuckle of his thumb. "Kenny got a last name? And what if he doesn't have your fucking money?" Eyes on the road now, jaw tight.

"Yeah, you're right. I'm terrified as fuck of Itzhak." Well, more about upsetting Itzhak, but potato/potahto. Cris really should be more intimidated of Ruiz if it wasn't for that whole pesky 'death wish' thing he's been rocking since they met. "Kenny doesn't need a last name and if he doesn't have the money, I guess I have to find out what happened to it. And if it's not retrievable, then I guess dear old Kenny's going to have to pay another way. Don't worry your sweet little teets about it, all you have to do is stand there and look intimidating and this score is on the house."

Ruiz opens his mouth to respond to that, when Walk Like an Egyptian starts playing, and his expression shifts to one of wretched helplessness. Like, why is this happening to me? "Well if Kenny doesn't need a last name doesn't have the fucking money, I'm sure you can find a solution that doesn't break any fucking laws. No es así, mi amigo?" His eyes crinkle up at the corners in what could be termed a smile, if it held any warmth. If he wasn't looking at Cris like a predator eyeing up its potential meal.

"Aw, c'mon man. You know me. I don't break my lovers, I just see how bendy they can be. Why should the law be any different? Look at you, Mister Don't Break The Fucking Law. You want a side of cocaine with that hypocrisy? Don't worry, I have Dante to think about. I like to look him in the eye, you know? Hard to have gaze avoidant attacks of conscience when he's riding me like a British Polo Champ." Cris glances down at the navigation on his phone. "Two minutes out."

"Cállate la boca," interjects the cop sharply, right as Cris takes that dig about the cocaine. It lacks teeth tonight; he's keyed up, anxiety running a little hotter than usual, but his aggression's held in check for the most part. Murmured more quietly, his voice going scratchy and rough at the softer pitch, "Solo cállate y conduce." Eyes on the windshield as a light rain starts up, then he ducks his gaze as he digs his gun out of its hip holster and checks the magazine with methodical precision. He handles it like someone who's spent an inordinate amount of time around implements of death, and for far more than just his job.

"Aw, I know. It hurts to be called on our bullshit." Cris says amicably enough as he reaches over. One hand is kept on the wheel while the other reaches over to pop open the glove box, hitting Ruiz in the knee with the hinged door as he rifles around and beneath an oil rag is his own Walther and magazine, his thigh taking over the steering for a moment as he slides it in until he hears that satisfying click, and then he chambers a round. Safety on, he wedges it down next to the seat. "One minute."

There's a little flinch when the door smacks him in the knee, and an agitated breath's blown out his nose as Cris rifles around in there for his gun. Apparently he isn't too terribly trusting of Cris's thigh-steering, as he reaches across to grasp the wheel with his unencumbered hand while the younger man loads his gun. "Does Kenny have any friends you're expecting to see?" he murmurs, his own weapon re-holstered with a crisp sound of steel slotted against leather, and a little grunt as he re-settles in his seat. "Friends that might be expecting us to drop by for a chat?" His eyes flick to the side window now as they roll up the street where the guy presumably lives; he's clearly casing the vicinity, checking for sight lines and points of egress, purely out of habit.

"Look at us, Starsky and motherfucking Hutch." Cris grins wryly as Ruiz takes the wheel, his lip curling up lopsidedly. "Kenny is a loner. Like Unibomber level loner. The closest thing he has to a friend is the Chinese delivery guy that doesn't speak any English." It's not a street so much where the guy lives as a dirt road into a patch of grass where a trailer sits. Cris rolls the car up right to the edge of the tree line, switching off the headlights before they can bounce off the house. Cranking off the car, it rumbles to a quiet stop, Cris's eyes roaming over the curtained windows beyond.

A soft snort from the cop, and the steering wheel's relinquished to the younger man once he's done futzing with his gun. Dropping heavily back into his seat, Ruiz scrapes his hand over his face and pinches the bridge of his nose tiredly as the car comes to a halt and the ignition's killed. A weary, ragged sounding sigh's expelled, hand dropping back to his lap after a few moments spent in silence. "No puedo creer que estoy haciendo esto," he mumbles, squinting out the window and between the few inches of parted curtain that allow them visibility into the house.

It doesn't take long for their little stakeout to produce results, just a few moments of quiet in the dark car alone with their thoughts before a shadow passes in front of the window. Then another. Cris reverts back to old habits, coordinating with Ruiz as to what he sees with hand signals. But that muzzle flash and telltale POP! of gunfire, spurs Cruz back to the verbal. "Fuck. FUCK!" And then he's reaching for his door handle to launch into action, bullheadedly.

Perp at nine o'clock, armed. De la Vega, of course, knows those hand signals anywhere. He grunts his soft assent, brows creasing as he watches things play out from their darkened vantage point. Then the gunshot that goes off, and the sound of it pumps a fresh surge adrenaline through his system. Before he has a chance to pull out his phone and dial emergency though, Cris is popping his door and climbing out. Fuck is right. "Cruz, what the fuck are you-" But he's too slow, and his phone is shoved back into his back pocket as he too fumbles for the door handle and clambers out quickly on the younger man's heels.

Cris keeps his stance low, his Walther gripped in one hand and the butt resting on the palm of the other. He barely does a sweep of the yard before he's at the house, flattening his back out against the cheap vinyl siding. It's been ages since he's need to use proper breaching protocol, but he shifts over to the side of the door and motions with the barrel of his gun for Ruiz to kick it in and he'll sweep in to cover, his adrenaline spiked high and his heart racing with one thought thudding in his ears. Protect the money.

He tries to snag Cris's arm before the other man bolts past, but it's futile; the bouncer's too quick, and de la Vega's jonesing, and not as on top of his game as he should be. "Fuck's sake, what are you doing?" is shot across to the other man in a raspy whisper as he follows close on Cris's heels. And crosses that point of no return. They're committed now, and he silently curses himself for not climbing the fuck out of that car the minute Cris started making noises about getting money from a guy.

A dark look's shot to the younger man as he draws his Sig, thumbs off the safety. Gaze steady on Cris, and then away as he brings his knee up and throws his weight into a kick that splinters the door, but doesn't quite buckle it. Second try's the charm; it blows inward, and his weapon comes up immediately. Whoever's inside has fled to other parts of the house, as a cursory sweep of the living room earns the designation, "Clear," to Cris. The place is a pigsty; drug paraphenalia everywhere, empty boxes that held food, and food that's gone bad. Television's on, playing some reality show. Shark Tank or something, maybe.

There's little rhyme or reason to Cris bringing Ruiz along for this besides the fact that he was a) convenient b) useful and c) in deep enough that he'll keep quiet about it all. Okay so that's three rhymes and reasons.

When Ruiz says it's clear, Cris pivots into the house, sweeping the room and then walking backwards towards the wall before shifting towards the kitchen area. He pops around the edge of the peninsula and points his gun down towards the floor in case anyone is cowering behind the counter. "Found Kenny." The reason why he's not leaning down to check a pulse is because the man has a bullet hole square in the middle of his forehead, eyes staring blindly at the ceiling.

The cop, meanwhile, is busy checking behind the filthy couch, yanking open the curtains, and flicking on the hallway light to see if it flushes anyone out of hiding. He's got his gun up, heart pounding like a jackhammer in his chest as they search the place. "En qué coño me metiste?" he mutters, turning to cut Kenny a brief look before dropping his shoulder to the wall when he hears movement above them. A flick of his eyes to Cris, then toward the stairs, as if to say, up there, you hear that?

Ruiz is concerned about their surrounding areas, but meanwhile Cris' attention has turned to looking for something else. No doubt the package. He's opening a few cabinets and checking a closet with the muzzle of his weapon nosed in first before Ruiz draws his attention to the upstairs. Oh yeah, there's at least one other person lingering around with a weapon of their own. A quick scratch to the side of his nose and then he's nodding, ready to take the stairs on the older man's mark.

It's fairly safe to say that Ruiz doesn't give a shit about the package, at this point. He would dearly like to make it out of here in one piece, and not have any more bodies to write up. And chances of that happening are looking slimmer by the moment. A breath, two, and then he hitches his chin to indicate that Cris go first, and he'll cover him. One finger for the countdown. Two. Three, and go time. He pushes off the wall, moving into position behind the younger man, gun up to watch their six as he climbs the stairs backwards.

There's a brief rewet of Cris' lips with a pass of the tip of his tongue, the only indication he has a touch of nervousness but any 'flight' instinct is being overwritten by the kick of adrenaline that has him setting his foot gingerly on the bottom step and giving it his weight to see if it's going to creak and then he starts to ascend. Before taking the last stair, he crouches low and sweeps the landing and hallway, indicating back to Ruiz there's three closed door.

It would be a lie to suggest that de la Vega's not worried about any of this. His fear response works perfectly well; he's simply accustomed to ignoring it, in order to rush headlong into danger most normal people are busy running away from. And he does so now, because there's nothing for it; they leave someone alive and un-apprehended in here, they might get their heads shot off trying to bust back out.

At the top of the stairs, he does a quick, last scan of the route behind them before dropping his shoulder to the wall and holding up a single finger. Door number one. Eye contact's made with Cris for a moment, and then he goes to turn the handle and shove it open quickly, gun braced in both hands the moment it swings free.

What he doesn't notice is the guy coming up behind him from door number three, easing it open quietly and attempting to get the jump on the cop.

Cris catches it, that flicker of movement of the door cracking open. Dropping instantly to a crouch the words, "Down, Papi!" are given in warning just as he squeezes the trigger by instinct born from training. Two quick successions BAP! BAP! - head and heart - and the guy crumples in the doorway like a wet bag of cement. The shots are still ringing in Cris ears as he looks back to Ruiz to make sure the man didn't get off a shot of his own, because laying next to the now dead man's limp hand is no doubt the same weapon that was used to kill poor Kenny.

He's fast, de la Vega. But not fast enough to beat a bullet. The guy manages to squeeze one off before Cris can take him down, and the cop drops his back heavily against the open door with a guff of breath leaving him sharply. Moments later, the sound of him sliding down and hitting the floor, the clatter of his gun slipping loose from his hand. A smear of blood is left in his wake; he's clearly been hit.

"Shit. SHIT." Cris is back out of his crouch in an instant, but instead of going straight for Ruiz he steps over and kicks the gun away from the fallen shooter, then sweeps the room he was in. He doesn't bother with the other closed door, he'll get enough warning if that pops open, but he keeps his gun trained on the open one Ruiz was checking as he sinks down to a knee next to the cop. "Hijo de puta, ¿dónde te golpean?"

The cop's alive. And probably not critically wounded, given the quantity of blood and location he's been hit; left thigh, just below his hip. He blinks up at Cris with a hazy, and slightly shocky look in his dark eyes, breath coming in shallow, noisy little huffs as he sits there slumped against the door. "Aquí," he murmurs, swallowing, biting back the pain. A tick of his eyes toward his leg, then back as the younger man drops into a crouch in front of him. "Estoy bien. Asegúrate de que estemos solos, yeah?"

Cris has gone stony faced. Gone is the flippant smirk, the boyish mischief from his eyes. "Keep pressure on it." He orders before he's up again, kicking open the last door and barreling in, ready to deal pain and death in retribution for the bullet hole Ruiz is now sporting. There is no more gunfire from that room, but Cris does reemerge with a black duffel slung over his shoulder, no doubt holding the prize. He tosses down a small baggie into Ruiz lap as he passes filled with white powder, triple the amount Cris normally scores for him. "Spoils of war." He mutters before he goes to check the last room and bathroom.

He should know this. To keep pressure on the wound. But it isn't until Cris reminds him, and shakes loose the fog that's settled between his ears, that Javier remembers to do so. He eases his hoodie off, balls it up, and presses it against his leg, leaving him in a rumpled black tee shirt and dark curls all askew. It turns out, once Cris is up and moving about, and able to see past the other man.. that he has actually lost a decent bit of blood. Slippery and warm underfoot, though he's managed to staunch the worst of it with his sweatshirt held against the wound.

"I can't go to the hospital with this," he mumbles, ticking his eyes up when the baggie lands in his lap. A flicker of gratitude, but he doesn't speak to it.

The house is clear, looks like the beef was just between Kenny and someone who got greedy. "No, you can't." Cris stands above Ruiz, undoing his belt and sliding it out of the loops. "Do you know a healer, otherwise I got a guy I can pay. I'd call Sparrow but fuck that resulting fight." The blood, the adrenaline, the look of pain on Ruiz face. Cris has to shove his palm along his thigh to rearrange himself before he can squat. "I'm going to tighten this around the shirt and cinch it so if you pass out, you won't lose pressure. It's going to hurt like a sonofabitch."

Javier closes his eyes a moment, a dull thump as his head drops back against the door. He forces himself to steady his breathing; in and out and in and out. It hurts like a bitch, and he's vaguely aware of the other man standing over him, the clank of his belt being undone. A hoarse, rough-sounding chuckle leaves his throat when Cris mentions a guy he can pay. "His name's not Lockhart, is it?" He swallows, nods jerkily to the explanation given. "Yeah. Yo puedo manejarlo. Hazlo." The way he's shaking, and how pale the usually swarthy skinned man looks, he's probably doing less well than he's letting on.

"Yeah, who would have thought that little shit would come in handy for so many things." Cris loops the belt around Ruiz thigh, trying to get it up high near his hip with the wad of cloth between it and leg so it will just provide pressure instead of a tourniquet. He feeds the tongue through the buckle and yanks - hard - before tucking it into itself into a tight knot. "We gotta get you out of here so I can call in the clean up crew."

He doesn't look like he's keen on going anywhere, any time soon, Javier. But somewhere in the back of his mind? He's got to know Cris is right. He knows how this works; he knows what comes next. The cleanup crew, getting rid of the bodies. Him keeping his fucking mouth shut about it and making sure the report's misfiled. Because this is Felix's business, and Joey's business, and Cris's business, and his business. "Yeah. Yeah, I-" The belt being yanked forces a guttural, keening noise out of his throat; his head thumping back against the door again, his uninjured leg shifting, dragging the heel of his boot against the blood-slicked floor.

He's not able to talk for a moment, but he does nod a couple of times, starts to struggle to his feet. It's slow going.

The people Cris is going to call, there won't need to be a report filed, unless Ruiz used his service pistol, but then he's pretty confident Ruiz knows the drill. "Ahora facil." Cristobal croons, shifting the weight of the duffle to one shoulder before sliding the other beneath Ruiz arm to help hoist him to his feet. "Te tengo."

That there, lying on the floor until Ruiz snags it, is definitely not his service pistol. He's not that sort of idiot. It's shoved fumblingly back into its holster, the baggie of cocaine pushed into a pocket of his jacket, and he lets Cris support his weight as he moves carefully to his feet. A hiss as a fresh surge of pain is triggered in that leg. "Gracias," might almost be missed, it's so soft. And god, he really needs to cut back on the donuts; he's not a skinny guy.

Well then it's a good thing Cris has been hitting the gym hot and heavy after his last loss at Bake Sale night when he couldn't just resort to dirty tactics to win. "You pass out on the stairs, we're both going to break our necks. So just think about how I'll absolutely wreck Joseph if you die on me. I'll chain him to my bed and keep him as my personal come dumpster. So focus on that anger to stay the fuck awake." Does he mean any of that? 50/50 chance, but he's going to use anything in his arsenal to keep Ruiz on his feet and headed to the car for his own good.

Ruiz snorts derisively at that, and starts moving when Cris does. He can't put much weight on that left leg, but he's doing his level best to keep up. "Please. You let me die, and Cavanaugh will kill you with his bare hands. And if he doesn't, Rosencrantz will." A pained sounding grunt as they start down the stairs, teeth gritted, hand closing tightly around the railing as he struggles not to stumble and fall.

"Oh they can try." Cris focuses on this because maybe it will keep Ruiz focused. Using the wall as they descend to help keep them balanced while Ruiz uses the railing on the other side, "Most likely we'll all get turned on by all the fighting and violence and end up in a giant fuck knot. Dicks and balls flying every where. It will be a thing of beauty." There's a little waver, Cris feels it, so his voice immediately switches to a comforting, confident tone. "Slow and steady. We're almost to the bottom. Four more steps, you've got this."

It may not be the desired effect, but mention of the horny fuck knot, or maybe the dicks and balls flying hither and thither, gets a bark of laughter out of the cop. "Eres jodidamente ridículo," he grunts, taking each step slowly, methodically, and trailing blood as they go. Three more steps. Two. And then they reach the bottom, and his knees give out, and he starts to go down with little warning.

Cris gives a little grunt, "That's why you love me." But just as he thinks he can breathe a sigh of relief when they hit the bottom, Ruiz' weight goes out from underneath him. He can't quite keep the man on his feet, but he can ease his fall to keep the injury just to an insult, falling on top of the older man his own weight kept from crashing down by a stick arm to the bottom stair and the floor. "As hot as this is, now is not the time, Javier."

It's a slow, mostly controlled fall at least, thanks to Cris's help; the cop hits the floor on his side, breath leaving him in a sharp huff as the younger man collapses half atop him. Then the darkness, the rough rasp of his breathing, the scent of blood and the distant drone of the television in another room. He swallows, makes a little noise in his throat like an abbreviated chuckle. "I.. mm." He's bleeding pretty good. Making a mess of the floor, and Cris, and their clothes are going to be a writeoff after this. "..I don't know if I can make it to the car." His face pinches up in pain, and his head drops back against the floor with a rough hiss in his throat. One hand bunches in Cris's jacket, winding it tight against his palm. Murmured, "Saca el golpe de mi chaqueta. Bolsillo izquierdo."

Cris' lips thin with concern, both for the state of Ruiz and the delay in getting the fuck out of dodge. "Well as much as I love a good cuddle, now's not the time for a nap." He's about to hoist himself away, but Ruiz grips him to keep him close and mutters his idea. "There you go, Papi. Now you're thinking. A little pick me up will be just the thing." He plants a knee to the side of Ruiz' thigh to hold his weight so he can root around in Ruiz' pocket for the baggie of coke he snatched off Kenny's night stand. "Leggo." He says of his jacket so he can roll to the side propping himself up on his elbows as he opens the baggie and shakes a little mound out onto the web of his fingers between forefinger and thumb. "C'mon. Be a good boy and take your medicine now." He even goes so far as to pinch Ruiz' nostril shut for him before holding the offering up to the other to hoover.

Ruiz doesn't even have the wherewithal at the moment to laugh at Cris's weak attempts at lightening the mood. Teeth gritted together as he tries to push through the pain, he's even reasonably docile about releasing his grip on the other man's jacket when asked. And that'd better be his good thigh Cris is digging a knee into, or he's about to get bellowed at by a very agitated Mexican.

"Hablas demasiado jodidamente," he murmurs as the stuff's offered up between forefinger and thumb, and those slightly patronising words in accompaniment. "Dámelo, dámelo." His hand closes roughly around Cris's wrist, and he tips his head and inhales the lot of it with a quick, sharp sniff. Then drops his head back to the floor, a shudder as it hits his system.

As Ruiz snorts the coke and flops back, Cris reaches over and pets the man's hair back from his forehead checking for signs of any improvement. Nothing like treating shock and blood loss with narcotics. "Someone has to counter all your brooding silence, otherwise things just get awkward." The younger Mexican doesn't take a bump himself, but he does like what's left of the powder off his hand and rub his tongue up along his gums. "Shit's not bad. Looks like Kenny was skimming. Maybe the toe tag upstairs was his dealer who got wise to the payload he was transporting."

Improvement? Well, at least he's getting high enough off the coke, that he doesn't give as much of a shit about bleeding out on Kenny's hallway floor. Mumbled as Cris brushes fingers through his hair, "Alguna vez te cansas de ser un pendejo todo el tiempo, huh?" He takes a couple of steadying breaths, then pushes up off the floor with one hand, and gropes for Cris with the other. "Probably. Come on, let's try this again. We've got to get the fuck out of here."

"Do you ever get tired of being an asshole?" Cristobal happily answers back in an almost sing song voice. As Ruiz rallies thanks to the help of their white powdery friend, Cris checks the cinch of the belt while Ruiz gropes to get a steadying grip on the bouncer. "You really wanna get me up, you're going to have to reach farther down south." Another glib remark given as he shifts to help Ruiz, hoping to get the man back to his feet so they can indeed remove the fuck from their present location.

His hoodie's damn near soaked through by this point, though the belt cinching it to his leg seems to have done a half decent job of maintaining pressure on the wound. He's not going to bleed out, despite how much he's already lost. Instead, Cris is the new owner of one woozy, tweaked out Mexican who says filthy things like, "Yeah, I'll bet you're just aching to have someone give you a hand with that wood in your fucking pants." A grunt as he's helped up to his feet, pain muted by the blow in his system, but not completely stamped out. "You got a first aid kit at your place?" It's closer, is probably why he's asking.

"Yeah, just remember who I'm dialing up the minute you die to do the job. So. You know. Don't die." Cristobal supplies helpfully, getting his arm wrapped around Ruiz' waist and getting a good grip on his pants at the opposite hip. "You think this is my first rodeo? I damn near have a hospital under my bathroom sink, sans the hot nurse. But here's the kicker..." The bouncer leans to Ruiz ear to murmur. "I live upstairs." Of course Ruiz knows this, but Cris is all too happy to remind the Captain.

"And what.." A pained sounding hiss as he unintentionally puts weight on that bad leg. "..the fuck is that supposed to mean?" About living upstairs, probably. No comment on the rest of what's been said; the bigger Mexican drapes somewhat bonelessly against Cris as they start making their way toward the door. Head tipped toward his shoulder, pupils blown wide in his already dark eyes. His breath is a steady rush of warmth against the younger man's throat and ear.

"That means you're either going to have to navigate another set of stairs or I'm going to have to haul your ass up there. Do you prefer the princess carry or the fireman?" Cris gives a sort of humorless chuck of laughter as they cross the living room at a painfully slow pace, Cris using his foot to nudge back open the front door that Ruiz splintered away from the frame, all the while trying NOT to think about Ruiz' breath and where it's hitting.

Painfully slow, indeed. Literally; the cop's looking a little pale as even the hit of cocaine he took isn't quite taking the edge off as much as he'd like. "I'll fucking.. manage," he pants. As in, he seems to think he's capable of climbing stairs in his current state. Which is pretty fucking hilarious. Once the door's open, it's two steps off the porch, and they're well on their way to Cris's Fairlane. Which he's asshole enough to point out that, "Hope you don't mind blood on your seats. Estoy seguro de que no es la primera vez." His warm, sturdy frame continues to lean heavily against the bouncer's, beard scritch-scratching against the exposed skin at the curve of his neck and shoulder.

"Turns out, I know I guy for that too." Cris' grin turns feral as he turns his face towards Ruiz', cheek resting briefly on the top of his head as he looks down. "No." He says more stoically this time. "It's not the first time." Their progression has halted with those quiet words, it not out of the realm of possibility that Cristobal can be serious, it's just unlikely. This happens to be one of those rare times. "I'm sorry as fuck you got shot." But the moment doesn't last particularly long as he's popping open the passenger side to dump Ruiz into the bucket seat.

Of course he knows a guy for that. Wouldn't be terribly good at his job, if he didn't. And Ruiz is under absolutely no delusions that this is the first time he's hauled some profusely bleeding idiot into his car. The look on his face says as much, if those gang tattoos on the backs of his knuckles don't speak loud enough. They're cut from the same cloth, these two. They've both done this dance before. "I'll fucking manage," he repeats, when the younger man starts apologising for getting him shot. "Just make sure this stays contained, and I don't have a shitstorm to deal with back in town, yeah?" And then he's being dropped into the passenger seat, and hits it with a muffled groan, head dropping against the seatback with another squinching up of his eyes. "Drive."