2020-05-30 - Silver and Surly

It might be a bit chilly for a Spring night, but that's why the Good Lord invented fire pits. Cristobal occupies one on the lower deck, slunk down in a chair and listening to the distant chatter and music from the bar proper as it filters out to where he's seated. A dark beer rests on the knee of his jeans, the man slowly turning the bottle with his fingers as he peels at the label with with little picks of his thumbnail. Watching the flames and being serenaded by the ocean: there are worse ways to spend one's evening.

August comes in, hair damp from a fresh shower, in comfort clothes: red slub tee, black hoodie under a black suede jacket, pale denim jeans, and black suede boots. There's a sense of recovery around him, like he's just back from a long trip and going to sleep for a century as soon as he can. But for now, a few minutes to relax at TiBS. He heads in and orders a black and tan, spies Cris out on the deck. Once he's got the pint in hand he meanders that way. An order of tots will follow him presently.

"Hey," he says, taking a sip. "How's things." His Glimmer's different than Cris last saw it. Weaker, somehow.

Cris glances up from the flicker of flame to August's face, his head tilting at a sharp angle. "Better than you, Garden Gnome. Looks like whatever Joseph has is contagious. Guess you weren't up to date on all your shots." A snort of amusement echoes down the mouth of his bottle, obviously not his first drink this evening, judging by the few empties that litter the ground around his feet.

"Nah," August says, shaking his head. He moves to take a seat at the fire, presumptuous in his company. "I mean--well. He didn't do this to me. I took Keene up on her offer." He shrugs at the wisdom (or total lack thereof) in doing so. "Got a little of it back recently. So, I'm getting there. Gradually." He sets his glass on the table, leans back and stretches out his long legs. An eyebrow goes up. "You ah, celebrating something, or drowning it?"

Rose sidles in around the fire pit from somewhere deeper within TiBS. Bottle of cider in one hand, cell phone in the other, framing for a moment to get the flickering flames rather than any of its nearby inhabitants. Click, click, and then the phone disappears into the pocket of the woman's leather pants. With something of a sheepish grin on her face, "Pardon me. Inspiration struck for a project I'm working on."

'Garden Gnome' gets her attention, though it's only met by the briefest of glances towards August, then Cristobal, followed up with a sip from her bottle. And the taking of a seat nearby.

"So it can be recovered. I was going to ask you. Got..." Cristobal makes a little roundabout gesture with the beer he holds. "...distracted." Just as he is now by Rose snapping pictures of the fire. "Yeah, what's that sweet cheeks? How to interrupt two men talking, or is a study on how..." He makes a pinched face, biting back the worst of his instincts to say something truly crude and offensive. Instead, he takes another swig of his beer. That alone should answer August's question.

"It can be," August confirms with a nod. "So...there's that. Not clear on what did it, but it kind of felt like joint popping back into place. So I guess a physical therapy analogy holds." Unlike many others, August has no compunctions about discussing Glimmer in public. Mundanes won't believe him, people who Glimmer might be good to know. Sure, maybe they're also Their puppets, but then he's just convenient bait.

He tilts his head as Rose takes a picture of the fire. "Art project?" he guesses. Something in the way he's looking at her suggests he's noticing more than just the mundane and usual. He has Glimmer, and sees it in her too, even if his own is oddly muted, like a hooded lantern. He looks askance at Cris, parental judgement and wry sympathy warring for supremacy in his features. It's a tie. "Please excuse my friend, he's in a drinking mood."

The smirk on Rose's face does not subside a fraction of an inch. It might even grow a little wider at Cristobal's statement. "In my experience, men can only be interrupted from a conversation if they actually want to be." She tips her bottle slightly towards the inebriated man. "Study of nothing but the flames. I'm a photographer by trade."

The woman's smirk shifts towards August as he addresses her. "No worries on my behalf. I understand that a strange woman showing up and taking pictures all of a sudden can provide a response of some sort or another." Rose gestures back towards Cristobal's collection of bottles. "It's the perfect place for that kind of mood, though."

"Now you're making apologies for me? We're one step closer to hermanos de sangre." Cris' lips turn a bit at one corner, stuck half way between a grin and a sneer, like Elvis' evil latino twin, as he slides a glance back to August. A salute with his beer and then he's back to looking at the flames, even as he addresses Rose again. "The only strange thing about you, ma'am, is the fact that you're wearing leather pants in May. Your taco's gotta be swimming in salsa."

A guy walks in, scrolling through messages on his cell phone as he shoulders his way through the door. He's in a ratty old hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, displaying enough ink scrawled up both forearms to be fit for a convict. Dark, snug-fitting jeans, heeled boots and a baseball cap tugged over dark, scruffy hair. He's just finished smoking a cigarette, the butt of which he discards before heading inside, and he briefly takes stock of who's here tonight as he sidles up to the bar. Couple of familiar faces on the outside deck, and he squints a moment while he waits for his drink to arrive.

August almost chokes on his beer when Rose says men can't be interrupted unless they so desire. "Well if that isn't God's honest truth," he manages between laughs. "Photographer, huh? Do you work for a publisher or freelance?"

He snorts at Cris. "That wasn't an apology for you, it was just me warning her know you're surlier than usual." As evidenced by Cris' incredibly demure comment about leather pants in May. "Lord, Cruz, you sure know how to make conversation." He cuts a look at Rose that suggests dumping a beer on Cris won't raise an objection from August.

In doing so he sees Ruiz come in, raises his chin at him in a wordless greeting.

"Freelance for the most part. Occasional magazine, mostly prints through the website." She shrugs. "Weddings.. that sort of thing." Rose points back towards the fire, a single finger extended towards the embers for a just a moment. "The right shot of fire's not unlike candy to a babe to a certain set."

Cristobal's somewhat bold mention of her choice of attire gets a laugh out of Rose. It takes her a moment to figure out a reply. "Around the Pacific Northwet, hardly. It's the only thing that seems to keep me warm enough. We ARE sitting around a fire, are we not?" Her legs had been crossed already, but the indelicate suggestion has her shifting one leg over the other instead. "..probably better than one's.." A flick of a glance towards Cris's jeans, then back towards his face to continue. "..sausage being left out in the cold to freeze, no?"

"It's only one of my many talents." Cristobal assures August, noticing that chin lift with his gaze. His own beer lifts in a salute to the police Captain. "You need a fucking haircut, Cabrone." Then back to August with a tick of his eyebrow up in a silent, 'see?' "I'm also great at compliments." A snort and one of his silver rings is clicking against his beer bottle when he goes back to studying Rose like she was the perfect framing of the flames in her photograph. "We need to work on your euphemisms."

A flick of his tongue along his teeth at the greeting from August, and de la Vega's gaze lingers a beat on the man's company. Then shifts back to the 'tender as he slides over his drink order. He has to ask, of course. What'll it be? When Marshall would've known. Would've had it poured before he made it up to the bar. The glass is simply watched for a moment or two, then he scratches at his nose with his thumb, collects the drink, and slouches his way over to the doors leading to the deck.

"Buena noche, no es así?" might be directed Cris's way, or just as a general greeting, before the (swarthier) Mexican downs a swallow of tequila. Was that haircut comment directed his way? He tugs his ballcap off and scruffs inked knuckles through his hair with a slight scowl. It is getting a little unruly.

August arches an eyebrow when Rose says 'weddings'. "Weddings. You, ah, got a card, with a link to a portfolio?" He clears his throat. "I could also stand to have someone redo our website photos." There, now it's a business transaction. Smooth as ever.

"I dunno, sausage is a tried and true euphemism," he says, teeth gleaming in the firelight as he smiles at Cris. This is a little better; less snarly, more surly drunk Cris. Much easier to introduce to the new person.

"de la Vega," August greets. He eyes Ruiz, clearly checking him for signs of, well, what they just went through. Satisfied Ruiz isn't going to drop dead any time soon, he says, "Take a load off. We're discussing euphemisms."

Rose shrugs back at Cris. "Nearly went with something along the lines of a churro being dusted in powdered sugar, didn't quite sound right. Crude euphemisms can be your department, though." Another swig of her cider as her eyes shift over towards Ruiz as he approaches the deck, glancing up and down his frame, before chirping out a soft hello.

"No cards on me, but if you look up Rose By Any Other Name Photography, should be first. Or at least that's what they tell me." Rose studies August for a moment, gaze lingering on his beard. "Dare I ask if this will be your first marriage? I think you skew a little older than most of my wedding clients."

The talk about weddings has Cristobal shaking his head, making a whistling sound as he mimes a plane nosediving, complete with a crash and burn. He has clear thoughts about marriage. And it's more like arguing euphemisms, because Cris is leaning towards August, "Yeah, but who leaves their sausage out in the cold? Tacos and salsa at least go together." One more swig of this beer, and he's reaching down for the spare he already had the waitress bring, even if it's sweating and has gone a bit warm by the fire. "I'll add 'Crude Euphemism Department' to my resume, right under being fucking fascinating. Speaking of churros, how goes frying yours in that kosher oil of yours, Javier?"

"Hola," is returned easily as the off duty cop sinks down somewhere between Rose and Cris, bemusement heavily creasing the corners of his dark eyes at the little up-down he gets from the attractive younger woman. Something something churros and powdered sugar? That seems to pique his attention enough for a flickered glance between the trio, while digging for his pack of cigarettes.

"The fuck's kosher oil?" he retorts to Cris while tapping one out, then lighting it up. Which requires a juggling act of the highest order, so he doesn't spill his precious tequila. "Or are you just trying to be an ass about Rosencrantz? If so.." He takes a drag. "You're going to have to try harder."

August stares at Rose, agog, turns that amazed look on Ruiz as he approaches. "I think she just called me old." Back to Rose. "Did you just call me old?" He scoffs, sits up, has some of his beer. "I'll have you know it is my first marriage." He's not rethinking hiring her...okay maybe he is. It'll probably depend on how hard Eleanor laughs when he reveals this.

The extension of the churro metaphor to include Itzhak just makes August roll his eyes, but the marriage commentary gets a shrug. "Maybe. Only one way to find out. Anyways, no reason not to--not poly, and this protects her in a lot of ways. Washington's not a common law state." A corner of his mouth twitches in appreciation for Ruiz's reaction. "Olive oil, probably."

There's a smirk on Rose's face once more as August, genuinely or not, has a Reaction to her somewhat off the cuff question. "A little bit, maybe? I assure you, though, it wasn't intended as an insult. The gray suits you pretty well, I think. But as I said, simply an observation based on other clients! Not that I've had too many wedding clients in town. There don't seem to be a lot of reasons for joy here. Nonetheless, I offer congratulations." She holds the neck of her bottle out towards August in the expected manner.

The exchange between the other three has the woman peering, searching for meaning until the name's offered, the gears turn in her head, and then, ohhh. Heh. "First tacos, then oil.." Her face screws up a little at August's speculation. "I honestly can't imagine an olive oil churro being anything short of revolting. There's the old adage about opposites attracting, though?"

And of course Cris has his own answer as to the kosher oil question, "The kind where you don't fry pork in it, or mix meat and cheese. What the fuck do I know, just roll with it. And I'm not trying to be an ass, that's just my natural state. Also my way of asking how the hell he is, haven't seen his Tucan Sam self in a while but I've been busy playing British Bake Off with my own personal soggy bottom. Speaking of, I better see all you assholes at the opening of his new restaurant." Cristobal is reaching over to make a scissoring motion at Ruiz, meaning to bum a cigarette even as he cracks wise. "You are old. One of the risks of aging."

"Think she did," Javier confirms around a sip of his drink, to August's question-not-really-a-question aimed his way. He's got his phone out again by the time Cris turns to him to clarify what he means by kosher oil, and gets a bit of a scowl from the cop. And, "I know what kosher means. Look, I asked him about that shit before we even started dating, and he said he didn't follow it." He finishes responding to a message, tosses the phone down, and grumbles noisily as he digs out another cigarette for Cris. It's held out to the other man, scowl still in place. "He's fine. Tell you what, why don't you act like a normal fucking human being, and go ask him yourself, yeah?"

Then, "Shit, I forgot my manners." Ironic, Javier. He sticks his hand out to Rose, once Cris has liberated him of the cigarette. The hand, of course, is inked. So are the knuckles. They ain't pretty. "Javier de la Vega. I don't think we've met."

"Suits me," August mutters, though not without a fair amount of good humor. "Silver, I'm told, is the word to use. And thanks." He leans forward to clink his glass against her bottle. "August Roen. Pleased to meet you." He grimaces at the idea of a churro fried in olive oil. "Yeah, ah...no. That sounds pretty horrible."

He holds up a hand at Cris. "I fully plan to be there. I might even dress up some. Got a nice red and black thing I came across." Woke up with after a Dream, actually, but he doesn't need to tell anyone that. He continues to enjoy Ruiz and Cris' back and forth in the mean time.

"Silver works! Salt and pepper, or however else you choose to cope with the inexorable march of time." Clink. Rose finishes off her cider at that. "Rose O'Reilly. The pleasure is mine."

The woman's hand slips into Ruiz's, giving a cordial squeeze from slightly chilled fingers. "Don't believe so. I haven't been in town long, been spending most of the daylight hours in the national park and all." The tattooed knuckles get a quick glance of appraisement, but no explicit mention of it.

"As long as the food's a bit better than the Cracker Barrel at the edge of town, should prove interesting."

Cris gives a little wink to Ruiz even as he hoists the cigarette up in muted thanks. "That's my cue. About the time the pot starts calling the kettle black." He stands as if to leave even as introductions are being made, and he might be an ass, but Rose at least gets a, "Cris." That's his name, of course, "Thanks for being a good sport. You should come to the opening too. Maybe Dante could have you take some...promo photos or something. You know, if you ever come up with business cards."