2020-06-06 - We Can All Agree that Abraham was a Pretentious F*ckwad.

Gray Harbour's police department is a rather unremarkable building that was originally intended for something else entirely, and it shows in the slapdash arrangement of desk space on the second floor. Doctor Kincaid may find herself the target of some curious glances as she makes her way past security, acquires photo id and a badge, and moves into the more restricted areas where classified information (and registered firearms) are kept. Maybe the cops up here don't see an awful lot of tall, attractive blondes wandering about.

Someone, though, would've eventually directed her to the second last door on the right and popped their eyebrows at her as if in some silent warning or another, before moving briskly off. And so the woman's left alone in that starkly lit corridor, a very faint buzzing like a bulb's about to go in one of the overhead halogens, and the second to last door on the right with a nameplate that reads Captain J. R. de la Vega. What could she possibly need from him? Casefiles for one Miranda Reed and her brother James Reed, both residents of the local trailer park. Both charged with a string of arsons that have baffled the locals and done hundreds of thousands of dollars in property damage.

Her first official week on the job. For two days this last week Olivia followed Abraham around as he transferred over his caseload and mansplained the dynamics of the GHPD. There's a different flavor to a small town department, a different speed than she's become accustomed to, some more convoluted trajectories for chain-of-command and for successfully feeding information into the bureaucratic machine or expecting to receive the same from it. Thus, Olivia Kincaid is doing a part of the job that requires a different sort of finesse altogether, especially given the role she is meant to play for the officers of the law themselves.

It's with that self-possessed mingling of grace and approachability that she thanks the man whose body language wrote a short story and makes her way down the hall with a glance up at the light that promises to send someone over the edge sooner rather than later. She has dressed intentionally, simple and smart: a tweed pencil skirt, a fine-gauge, black, lambswool sweater, her (very new) identification badge clipped at her hip, and black heels that are neither sexy nor staid. Her blonde hair, too, is intentionally sleek, clipped back at the nape of her neck. More women work in law enforcement than used to, but it would be naive to dress 'pretty' and expect the sort of respect she demands. There is a watch banded around her delicate, left wrist, but she's wearing no rings. Still, there's a faint shadow across her left-hand ring finger.

The Captain's door is open; nevertheless Olivia raps her knuckles against it to announce her arrival. Rap rap-rap. She doesn't immediately speak, but the way her glacier-blue gaze sweeps an efficient inventory of the space before settling upon the man suggests all sorts of assessment.

Spartan might be the first word that comes to mind, when glancing over his office. It's small, like most of the desk space on this floor. Bigger than a detective's, but not by much. Two filing cabinets are crammed in cheek by jowl together between the desk and window, which overlooks the gated impound lot containing both seized vehicles and a handful of department cruisers alike. Stacks of paperwork sit in various states of completion, arranged around an older model laptop cracked open in the centre of the desk. A large mug stained with coffee, currently empty, with the words yet despite the look on my face, you're still talking inscribed in faded lettering on it. Nearby, a half eaten glazed donut with a few crumbs littering the desk.

It's a rare sunny afternoon in Gray Harbour, and light slants through the open window and across the dark wood, picking out dust motes and the red in the captain's beard. He's a man in his mid-forties or so, all brutish lines and something else about him. Something sharply honed, if oft subdued. He's in full uniform and duty rig this afternoon, perhaps about to ship out to do some PR duty or other. Perhaps recently returned from such.

She catches him at an inopportune moment; he's slouched back in his chair, hands over his face, fingertips pushed into his hair. A study in aggressive stillness, the pop of muscle in his jaw and his shoulders and his arms putting the lie to his apparent indolence. He startles slightly at the knock and pushes upright in a single, quick motion. Dark eyes to blue like a bolt loosed from the quiver; something almost accusatory in that hard, long stare he gives her.

The moment spins on a dizzy edge there as Olivia takes in the brief but stark glimpse of the man instead of the Captain and the summary straightening in what might be dismaying, perceptive silence. Only after the stare seems not to propel into any sort of acknowledgement does she walk the few steps to the front of his desk, stopping there. "Captain de la Vega," she begins, her volume just loud enough to not be considered hushed, yet still somehow confidential. The hard stare discourages her offering her hand, so it is that she simply stands there a moment, strangely at ease, before continuing, "Dr. Olivia Kincaid, the new CP. I'm pleased to meet you." Again she pauses, this time dropping that blue gaze to sketch over the piled files on his desk, the half eaten donut, the empty coffee cup, and back to his face. The slightest breath of warmth softens those blue eyes, almost an inwardly directed amusement. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

That she knows his name is no great feat. It's on the placard sitting on his door. It's on his ID badge clipped to his uniform. Not to mention there isn't a patrol officer in this building who hasn't been on the wrong end of his temper, and survived to tell the tale. So her invoking of it is met with more silence from the older man. No hand offered in turn. No smile. Just that slight creasing at the corners of his eyes, like he's intent on taking the measure of this tall, and completely unexpected blonde in those crucial moments, and he's utterly guileless about it.

"Doctor Kincaid," he murmurs finally, a roll of his jaw and tonguetip traced along his teeth, like he's considering whether he should recognise it. With a soft grunt, he eases out of his backward lean and pushes up to his full height. Which is not impressive in any fashion, and may not even eclipse hers at all, in those heels she's wearing. The offered hand is accepted at length, delicate fingers clasped in a big, rough palm scrawled with ink along the backs of the knuckles and disappearing under the sleeve of his duty shirt. Not what most expect to find on a cop, much less a high-ranking one.

A slow shake of his head to her last, dark eyes unwavering from blue. "Nnnope. What can I help you with?" Spanish accent. Probably a Mexican national, given the cadence and the looks of him.

Assuming de la Vega was the man sitting in the office with the name outside the door was a calculated gamble. Olivia has a certain affinity for such things. And it might just be that in a day full of paperwork and researching the state of things, learning names, and fighting against the problem of most any officer's reaction to the word 'psych' in any context, a few moments to dance might be more welcome than a cup of coffee in the dragging doldrums of the afternoon. She hadn't offered her hand, but when he raises his she mirrors the motion readily. Her grip is soft yet firm, and her fingers feel like the physical manifestation of that immersive, unapologetic gaze, lingering and inquisitive. There's no doubt she saw the ink, the knuckles of the hand that engulfed her own, her temperately-lengthed nails, painted black. She is, however, quite schooled in showing no judgment. Where he is unwavering, she is inevitable.

She's not disturbing him. "Aside from introducing myself, you mean?" The glimpse of something ineffable behind those blue eyes lingers. He's still holding her hand. "The case-files for Miranda and James Reed have led me on a chase since lunch. I don't suppose you've seen them?"

Certainly she's gotten a few sidelong looks, and more than a handful of cagey responses to the doctor on her nametag. Nobody, and perhaps an officer of the law more than most, wants a shrink prowling about in their midst. Not just a shrink, but a far too-beautiful one, with an unyielding quietude to her that's unsettling at best.

Her hand is held a moment more and then released slow, fingers turned over just for a moment so he can lower his gaze and examine her painted nails at the moment the contact's relinquished. Black. Not the colour he'd have expected on a woman like her. Or maybe precisely the colour he'd have expected. "Reed," he murmurs, brow furrowing like he's trying to bring the name to mind, and failing. The hand that had grasped hers is rifled through his hair absently as he thinks, and then the captain turns away to tug open a drawer of his filing cabinet. Rifles about for a few moments while mumbling, Reed, Reed, Reed.

Then finally, "Miranda... Reed. Arson, right?" The folder is tossed atop his desk, and he goes spelunking for the other one shortly after. "So you're Abraham's replacement, yeah? Where're you from?" He doesn't look over.

Among her other skills, Olivia knows how to push through the unyielding 'blue wall'. It's a requirement to be an effective CP. If there weren't push back, there would probably be more cause for concern.

She doesn't resist a slow turn of her wrist, though an elegant brow arches just so as her nails are examined. The first time he echoes the name, she hums a quiet 'mmhm' in her throat, dropping her hand back down to trace the line of a stapler atop the desk while she waits and watches. The man. His hands. His hair. His process.

Someone calls down the hall, "Cooper, hold up." and then jogs past the open door. Olivia pivots to half turn to watch whoever it was pass by before looking back to the Captain and his file cabinet just in time to see the first folder appear. "That's the one," she agrees pleasantly of the file. Then of the man who retired, "I think everyone can agree that no one could replace Abraham," both sage and savvy words offered with the first hint of a smile aside from the suggestion of it behind her eyes earlier. "But the office and the title are one and the same." The nature of the confidential conversations a salaried psychologist maintains in a workplace such as this requires an office large enough for private discourse. Where is she from? "I'm from Gray Harbor, actually. Left for college at U-Dub and then cut my teeth in Seattle. What about yourself, Captain?" She'd wager his story is different. And the awareness glimmers in the sky of her eyes.

A stapler without staples. A coffee cup without coffee. A captain, tattooed like an ex-con, and currently armed to the teeth; the dull grip of a well-used P220 is visible, stowed in the scuffed holster of his duty rig. Bulky frame slightly slouched as he rummages through the contents of the top drawer, then shuts it and starts on the next.

"I think what everyone can agree on was that he was a pretentious fuckwad, and that the patrol officers will need a new target for their pranks." He pauses in his rifling, digs out a folder from the middle of the pack, and opens it up to sift through the contents while he listens to the blonde speak. While he measures the cadence of her words and the space between them, and that little pause when she turns to see who passed them by. Little hints as to her temperament. Her nerve.

The second folder's tossed atop his desk, and he hooks his thumbs in his belt, meets her blue eyes squarely again. "Seattle," he replies flatly, then makes a little moue with his mouth. "Portland, before that. Surprised our paths haven't crossed, Doctor.." His gaze roves back to her ID badge, like he has to remind himself of her name, though he clearly doesn't. "Kincaid." It's stuck in his craw, whether he likes it or not. "Anything else you need?"

Everyone can agree. Olivia's smile warms and her blue eyes sparkle with the effort it takes not to laugh outright at the forthright opinion. "While I certainly hope I don't earn the 'pretentious' title, I can't claim at all not to be a fuckwad. You'll just have to wait and decide that for yourself." There is a slide of her attention to the glimpse of his gun before she looks back to Ruiz's face while he rustles papers. "I might take umbrage at not being a suitable target for pranks. And I can give as good as I get, Captain." Boys' Club indeed.

He was in Seattle? An interesting flicker of response flashes over her features, gone before there's enough time to identify the pieces. "Seattle is a big city. We'll have to compare stories sometime." It's close to an offer. Or it's just her way of clearing a spot for herself here at the GHPD. He pauses on her name. She can feel his gaze drop to her ID badge, but she doesn't stir. "Olivia," she offers.

Is there anything else she needs? "The trust of your officers? A primer on the tangled power dynamic downstairs? The name of the best take out place in town?" She smiles faintly, shifts her weight to one hip and settles her hands languidly on her hips, black nails prominent there. "Not much at all."

No comment whatsoever on her pretentiousness, or his conclusions therein at this point in time. Considering they've known one another for all of twenty-two minutes, by his watch (and he checks, briefly), it seems hardly sporting to offer an opinion. The glance toward his gun also goes unremarked upon; though he does finally chance the beginnings of a smile when she threatens (promises?) to give as good as she gets. It's a subtle thing, a creasing at the corners of his dark, dark eyes. Cold to smoke and cinders in the span of moments, and that tiny dimple teased out of one corner of his mouth. There and gone again.

"Si, tal vez," he murmurs low when she suggests comparing stories. Then the barrage of answers that might be questions that might be possibilities. And they're met with silence as he seems to turn them over in his mind for a time. He's motionless as she shifts her weight, presses her fingers into her hips. Smiles. He doesn't return it. Just those hard, foreign angles under close-cropped beard, and the unforgiving slant of his eyes. Finally, "You like Thai food?"

Translating the glance to his watch might be the first significant error she's made in reading what tells he puts out there. His smile? Well, that's an epiphany punctuated with a dimple, immediately stolen away by the wash of a wave and hiss of it on the sand.

"Maybe? Careful, Captain, or I might think you're teasing me." The lack of a smile is an expression that is equally beguiling. The energy doesn't leave her gaze. She merely drapes his tenor over her shoulders and tries it on for size. As for Thai food: "Only on days that end with a Y," she answers mildly and lifts a hand from her hip to hold it out, palm up.

Her energy, too, is beguiling. Contradictory; as if the less she moves, the more force she exerts. He draws his upper lip between his teeth when she teases him about teasing, dark eyes steady on her paler blues. He might be aware that she's spoken to him again, or he might still be contemplating her in the way that an old, mean dog contemplates a wild young thing. What would she taste like? How fast would she run? How much of a fight would she really put up?

"Hmm?" he murmurs after a moment, once he realises she has, in fact, addressed him. And is holding her hand out, perhaps expecting something from him. His brows furrow, and he unhooks his thumbs from his belt loops, shifting onto one hip so he can tug open a drawer of his desk and dig around for a moment. Ah, there it is. A takeout menu for Thai Table, which he scissors between two inked fingers and places neatly in that outstretched hand. "You're going to want a list of personnel overdue on evals, too. It's not going to win you points with anyone, but it'll stop the Chief from breathing down my neck."

How hard would she bite?

The man shuffles through a desk drawer only to offer her a ... menu for Thai take-out. With a startled bit of a smile, she takes it between fingers and thumb and looks it over before lifting her eyes without lifting her head. "This isn't the Reed files, but it will make my evening much better." She glances back down before lifting the menu to tap it once, twice against her chin. "Overdue evals are my specialty," she replies blandly. "I'll just have to practice some pretentious mannerisms so the natives feel at home." She flickers a glance from Ruiz to the files in question and back to sketch over his face once more. "If I stop the Chief from breathing down your neck, you'll owe me, de la Vega. " Another faint arch of her brow frames the calm neutral of her face.

The smile, too, is weighed and measured and tasted and felt, and then he relinquishes the menu (his favourites already ticked off in pen here and there), and goes rummaging about one more time in the filing cabinet. A thicker folder, this one, and he digs out a paperclip to collate the contents together before tossing them atop the two folders already sitting on his desk. Then a gesture toward the stack with his chin as if to say, what, do I need to spoonfeed you?

By the time she's looking him over again, he's begun to sink back into his chair. A soft creak of the thing under his not insignificant weight, and he reaches for the remainder of the donut atop the folded napkin. A bite that sprinkles his beard with bits of glaze, and he pauses in his chewing when she gets to the bit about owing her. The browarch is returned with a steady look. A question, or a challenge?

She waits out the silence and is rewarded with that look. It was worth it.

"Just one little word. Give it a try."

Lowering the menu, Olivia leans in to press her fingertips against the front edge of his desk, watches him take his seat and bite into that donut fragment. Then she earns the arch of his brow. Slowly, inevitably, that smile curves again, but this time it's almost shared. Almost.

He makes that little moue with his mouth again. Like part of him wants to smile, and the other part wants to bare his teeth at her, and he's caught in the middle of both urges. And on a face like his, it's got nowhere forgiving to go. His voice, when he speaks, is that low, rough purr of ablated consonants and dawdled-upon vowels. "What word would that be." It's said around the bite of donut, and if there's a question, it's lost entirely.

Not an inch is ceded when she leans in and presses her fingertips against the edge of his desk. He finishes chewing and swallowing, licks some icing off his thumb and dusts the rest off his beard, and continues to study her evenly. Unfailingly. He doesn't carry himself like a serviceman, but buried under all those layers is the unflinching steel of one.

"My name," she answers succinctly. Then she lifts the hand holding the menu to set it atop the three files only to scoop them all up together from in front of Ruiz. "Maybe next time, Captain." They are lifted to hold loosely against her chest. One more thoughtful look and Olivia turns for the door. Over her shoulder, "There was some fresh coffee down the hall about thirty minutes ago."

Maybe next time, she says, and he's looking at her like she's grown a third eye. Next time for what? "It was good to meet you, Doctor Kincaid," he returns mildly, reaching for the ballpoint pen nearby and clicking it on. The top report on his stack of paperwork is snagged and tugged into his lap, and with a low, and largely incoherent noise in his throat, he begins perusing it. Certainly he's still aware of her, and ticks his eyes up to watch her depart, once her back's turned to him. Then with another slight furrow between his brows like something's perplexed him, he tries to refocus on his paperwork.