2020-06-09 - Learning the Rules

Members of the GHPD get together every couple of weeks at the Pourhouse after work for drinks. Tonight is one of those nights. There are a dozen cops and detectives along with support staff of all kinds carousing at a long table, all of them with alcohol of one sort or another in front of them. Sitting beside Detective Ford with an empty chair on her other side is one Dr. Olivia Kincaid. In front of her is a mug of beer. Is she a beer kind of woman? Could be. Though she certainly hasn't had much of it to drink yet while a few others are well into their next round.

Most of those who work in uniforms dressed down before heading out for the evening. Olivia did not change her clothes. She's wearing a tailored, charcoal, pinstriped pantsuit and heels. She has, however, shrugged off the jacket to her chair-back, and she fits in well enough in her pale, short-sleeved, silk blouse that is darted delicately enough to flatter without drawing undue attention to her curves.

Currently, one of the officers is telling a story about a drunk and disorderly incident from earlier in the week. The story ramps up and there is laughter and that jocular ribbing that parries back and forth between the officers that reads as playful denigration. Olivia takes it all in. She even laughs along with them now and again, her blue eyes bright as she fairly breathes in the dynamics of the table and those present. Now and again when the conversation wobbles, she is there to ask a well-timed question. Sometimes she mentions a name from Seattle along with a ribald reputation to spark conversation of the same in Gray Harbor; other times she simply asks for details about a story that is going over particularly well. One officer gets railed with a particularly scathing series of comments and she chimes in in such a way to redirect the heat back toward the one making the wise-ass comments. When she speaks up, the words are friendly and inviting, but also sharp and not at all hesitant to play hardball. Blue eyes sparkle. She's settled back in her chair, legs crossed, a fingertip lazily tracing the condensation on the outside of her mug.

'Who is the chicken in this scenario, sir', I asked ..and then he said, 'I'm the chicken!' The table dissolves into rowdy laughter.

Goodness knows, if you've gone drinking with one group of rowdy cops, you've gone drinking with the lot of them. This particular assortment of officers is not terribly different from what she might have encountered in Seattle; save that in an insular town like this, they're even more predominantly male and white. There are a few token women, and some of them even come out drinking with the boys; and one of them is doing quite well for herself, in fact, with quite a few shots under her belt, and the owner of some of the rowdiest laughter at the table.

Making his way back in from the longest smoke break known to man, is one Captain de la Vega. He actually showed up some time ago, warmed up with a couple of beers, and headed out for a smoke.. half an hour ago. Expression amused, he finishes swiping out a message on his phone and shoves it into the back pocket of a pair of snug-fitting black jeans. He's clearly in the camp of those who've dressed down before heading over here; a faded black tee shirt and battered leather jacket are worn over top, scruffy curls nearly hidden entirely under the ballcap he's wearing.

Thump, thump, scrape as he tugs the chair out next to Olivia, starts to settle in, and then realises whom he's about to sit beside. There's a moment's distinct pause and a slow rake of dark eyes over her from top to bottom, pausing on the crossed legs. Then moving on again. "You, uh. Mind if I take this?"

Olivia is still chuckling in response to the story when the sound of the chair beside her mingles with movement in her peripheral vision; she turns her head to look up at the man then tips her head to the side to casually indicate invitation. "Not at all. Take the hell out of it, Captain." Her gaze skates down over casual-Ruiz as he takes his seat: from cap to shoes and flickering back up to the leather jacket. She grasps her beer and lifts it as if in verdict before taking a drink.

After she swallows she drags her lower lip with her teeth and exhales a sigh, lowering the mug back to its coaster on the table in front of her. "Productive day?" She shifts just slightly so that she doesn't have to turn quite so much to address the man. Beneath the usual musty, fermented, and hopsy tavern smells, her scent is warm given the closer proximity. No perfume. Perhaps a hint of rose or geranium mingling with her particular, distinctive pheremones. She breathes in the scent of cigarette smoke Ruiz brings back with him from his break outside and simply adds that to a lengthening list of observations. Her silk blouse traces her shape, flower petals of delicate material that contrast with the sharp cut of the suit jacket on the back of her chair.

Take the hell out of it gains a slightly raised brow from the man, and a beat later he finishes settling in. Ford immediately turns and claps him on the shoulder roughly enough to jostle him forward, and the cop seated opposite him - a big black guy whom a few others have referred to as Moretti - pushes forward so he can snag the captain's ball cap and tug it onto his own head. More raucous laughter from the boys, and the Mexican's left scruffing fingers through his hat hair, skewed smile settling into place for a moment when Olivia poses her question to him. It's a markedly different version of him here tonight; he's almost shy, big shoulders slightly hunched as if to form a protective shell around himself. The noise, the people, the conversation, too much. Perhaps it explains the extended smoke break.

"Yeah," he replies eventually, fingers roving through his hair once more, twice, then withdrawing to reach for the drink that's set down in front of him. Tequila, of course. "Got a new case I'm going to need your eyes on, in point of fact." The scent of her is like paint spilled on canvas; colour, where there was only sameness. He breathes in slowly, and there's a tick of his adam's apple along his throat before he lifts his glass to his mouth and takes a sip. A slow shift of dark eyes as the drink's set back down, gaze following the line of her jaw and throat and shoulder, and then sliding away again as Moretti shoves a couple of shots his way. "Glad you could make it out," is accompanied by a quick creasing at the corners of those eyes. Not quite a smile, though it seems like he almost wanted to.

Then he's got other business to attend to, in the form of shots that need drinking, and machoness to assure his men of. He barks something suitably ribald, and downs them one after the other to the tune of hoots and hollers.

She sits forward in her chair good-naturedly when Ford goes to stretch across her to clap Javier's shoulder, leaning in to toss a challenging remark to one of the alpha dogs at the table who held the most social capital while Ruiz was absent; she folds her forearms together on the edge of the table and nudges her beer mug a few inches further away. Half empty now. Said cop responds predictably with an edgy postulation about how she got the job.

"That's right, Bobby. I do everything well." She apparently has been busy making a place for herself with the rank and file. At least verbally. Bobby guffaws at that and elbows the emergency dispatcher sitting beside him. "You hear that?" With a smile that's too sharp to quite be capricious, Olivia looks back over at Ruiz just after his hat has been commandeered. His fingers in his hair. That's clearly a thing. She watches him with a hint of fascination. This new side coupled with her first impression sketches out the beginnings of a complex creature.

"A case? Are the rules --" She waves a black-nailed finger lazily around to indicate the table. "-- no work or all work? I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested." His shots are incoming; she scans them. He's glad she could make it. "Wouldn't miss it," she replies easily.

There's a moment of sympatico there. Everything has a purpose with Olivia. Usually several of them. This is no different. Those moments when the table drives itself, she is content to sit back and observe. The posturing play curves a small smile on her lips; machismo remains intact. She reaches for her beer and takes another swallow visible along the elegant column of her throat, sets it down and slides back in her chair once more, brushing a thumb down the seam of her upper pant leg. The change of position tugs lightly at the pearly buttons of her blouse.

"There is some comfort in the familiar," she muses under her breath -- possibly to the police captain. "But sometimes there's ennui there, too." She gives him a sidelong glance. "Thank god for good company."

It isn't missed, how she's managed in so short a time to work her way in to the good graces of this brittle old boys' club. Provisionally, anyway; they seem to be tolerating her a little more readily than they do most. Maybe it's her easy femininity or her effortless grace; maybe it's her latent shine that smoothes out the rough edges of those boys in blue. Or maybe it's something else entirely. Something quiet and indefatigable about her that cuts through the macho bullshit in ways others don't.

She's watched, though, by the captain on her right. Knuckles lingered at his mouth in the wake of that second shot, then swiped away. A sniff as if to clear the last trace of alcohol from his sinuses, and then the glass is plunked upside-down on the table beside its brethren. A congratulatory slap to his shoulder from the cop seated to his right, and now that he's been sufficiently warmed up, the captain sheds his jacket across the back of his chair and reaches for his glass of tequila. Tattoos that were not visible in his duty uniform; enough to qualify as prison ink, though significantly higher quality, for the most part. All manner of work scrawled up both arms, and extending along the back of his right hand and knuckles. The edges of some sort of script are visible along his collarbones, under the neckline of his tee, too.

"The rules," he repeats in a low murmur, around a swallow of his drink. "For the case? It's part of the job. Of course it's work." Another sniff, his thumb grazed along the rim of his glass. "And if you're calling these assholes good company, I'd hate to see what you consider bad." He chuckles, soft and raspy, and downs more of his tequila.

Provisionally indeed. She has months of hard work before the true dividends will begin to pay out. And that's if she handles things just so, walks the line between playing the game and demanding respect. Regardless, it's incredibly early. And she'd say as much if were just the two of them. He plays the game, too, after all.

The snap of the second shot glass slides a blue-eyed gaze sidelong to the inked hand placing the glass down. After that, however, the man removes his jacket, which is a revelation. Olivia's gaze wanders slowly up the arm where a trawler meets or defeats its fate. She turns slowly in her chair, beer forgotten, so that her back is very nearly fully presented to Detective Ford. No matter. He's occupied with advice for rookies. There is a liberal dose of 'fucks' in that advice.

The doctor parts her lips to speak just as he murmurs low; she closes her mouth. "The rules," she echoes him echoing her. "-- for bring-your-department-to-drink night," she clarifies. A musing once-over of Ruiz's t-shirt clad torso, his inked arms, then back up to his face as he drinks. "I believe I called them familiar and you good company, Captain." Her voice is just as quiet, though not nearly as raspy. "Tell me, de la Vega: do you plan to drive home tonight?" She slides her arm atop the chair back against her blazer jacket, her expression one of mild inquiry. Curves silhouette against silk drawn taut. "As for bad company? It's in the job description." She probably means the criminal evaluations for court, there. Probably.

Detective Ford seems none the wiser, which is his loss, really. The captain, on the other hand, seems really quite enraptured with the lissome creature arranged in the chair beside him. More of those little mannerisms that betray her; the way her thumb brushed the seam of her pants. The shift of her hips in her chair, and the subtle turn toward him, rather than away. Maybe she's fucking with him, and he's playing right into her game.

"There aren't any rules," is his answer to her question, glass tipped toward his mouth, paused on the precipice of a sip. And then it's taken, quickly. A swallow that tugs at his adam's apple; a chuckle that creases at the corners of smoke-dark eyes. "No. I do not." Plan to drive home. "Though I'm not sure why you think it's your business." The heat remains in those sloe-lidded greys, like a brushfire long smothered, that continues to breathe ash and char. "Why do you think it's your business, Doctor?" He settles in a little more with his drink to watch her; his is a spread-kneed sprawl, space taken up with the ease of one accustomed to fighting for what he wants, and winning.

There aren't any rules.

An argument lives behind those blue eyes but it goes unvoiced. He drinks. She watches. "It's a hazard of the profession," she admits and agrees. "I think most everything is my business." The layers of complication behind the multi-faceted man's eyes: Olivia spends a long handful of moments taking them all in. Intoxicated laughter and loud voices ring around them, but Dr. Kincaid is immune. A storm lives in her vivid blue eyes for a heartbeat, gone the next as if it never was.

"I would have offered to drive you where you needed to go." The explanation is there, simple and matter-of-fact. Her attention strays from his face to the glimpse of ink at the neckline of his shirt. The tailored pants of her suit paint the curve of her hips, the line of her long legs. The heel-clad foot of the upper of her crossed legs tucks in neatly behind his nearer spread knee without quite making contact.

He sees it, of course, that moment where she thinks to counter him, but seems to opt out of it. He says nothing of it and drinks some more, dark eyes intent on her far paler blue. "Of course you do," he replies in that low, smoke-roughened murmur. It almost blends in with the background noise; he's not a particularly loud or vociferous man, despite the savagery lurking in every glance, every suggestion of every smile. Her storm is met and matched and wanted for, when it slides away.

"You still could," comes after another sip of his drink, and a rumbling sigh as he pushes his glass back onto the table. She may catch a glimpse, at this angle, of some bruising along his knuckles. Fading cuts, nothing terrible enough to require stitches. Then, apropos of absolutely nothing, he informs her rather than asks, "You were married." Does she notice the brief tick of his eyes to that shadow on her ring finger? Does she notice the way his thigh inches minutely closer to the arch of her foot? He's a nuanced creature, for all he's not.

A hint of a conspiratorial, self-aware smile whispers over Olivia's lips in response to his murmured reply. A few of of those gathered -- likely those with families at home -- make their excuses and begin to take their leave. She looks up and calls out a farewell to one of the women who offers a tipsy wave of her cell phone in response. What de la Vega wants for may or may not have been noticed.

She still could. The doctor's startling blue gaze slides back to Ruiz, her left hand resting atop her knee, her assessment plain to read. "You already made arrangements," she points out unnecessarily. "-- or I would." It's too close to a challenge for the three words not to be added. His knuckles tell a story of the violence that lives behind his eyes, in the set of his jaw and the line of his shoulders, manifest.

Her gaze lingers there until he announces the truth of her not-so-distant past. She lifts it slowly: there's a flash of something he hasn't previously been able to invoke there to see now. "We all make mistakes," is her even reply. Too even. She notices the glance to her ring finger with such weight that she entirely misses the shift of that thigh: the back of his black denim-clad calf collides with the top her foot, the sheer black stocking no barrier whatsoever.

At least one of the men who takes his leave, doesn't look the captain in the eye when he bids him good night. A woman with Olivia's particular talents would find it impossible to miss the charge in the air tonight, between de la Vega and his men. Tension above and beyond mere social anxiety, of which he has plenty. "See you tomorrow, Caleb," he offers quietly, half into his drink, as the officer lingers a beat like he's going to say something else. Then laughs at something one of his buddies says, and shuffles his way out of the thick of them, and makes for the exit.

"I could unmake them," offers the man next to Olivia, once he's drained his glass of tequila. It's pushed away with his fingertips. Then pushed away a little more as she tells him about mistakes. As contact's made, and perhaps contact wasn't intended, or perhaps it's found to be too much, too soon; he eases back from it slightly as if it were a circuit about to close. And then where would they be? "Mm, algunos de nosotros hacemos más que otros," he adds quietly, nudging the glass away once more until it leaves his orbit entirely. A turn of his head to regard her, sloe-lidded eyes taking in the juxtaposition of soft and hard; yielding and not. Warmth creeps into the corners of those eyes, then melts away again a heartbeat later. "Divorced, then?"

It's true. Only half a beer leaves Olivia easily catching at fraying strands as they tug free and unravel the overall image of 'happy hour' from within. From Ruiz to Caleb. The tension, the lingering hesitation, it's only a few moments but it's palpable to the psychologist, perhaps more so for her proximity to Ruiz, leg positioning notwithstanding. A significant part of the practiced skill of observation involves not addressing what is observed, at least not directly or immediately.

There's a quiet hum behind her lips as she casts a glance to her long-neglected beer and then back to Ruiz when he speaks to her once again. Her brows tip just slightly at his words about his transportation arrangements, "That would be an interesting development." The words, though neutral, have a curious turn to them. The quick rise of her shoulders suggests an intake of breath before Ruiz draws his leg back.

Mistakes. She seems to slide through the Spanish without significant difficulty. "I've certainly made my share. Are you?" She pauses, then tacks on, "Married?" Has she not read his file yet? Maybe she hasn't. Or she has and she's affording him the semblance of privacy. That speculative, shocking-blue gaze could be the woman considering if the police captain has a partner or not. Those moments when he allows warmth to be seen are all the more invaluable for the sparing few he offers. Olivia studies him as it ebbs. "Only just," she answers candidly. The hand atop her knee lifts and carelessly but artfully indicates the now less populated table, inclusive of Gray Harbor itself, "Hence the change of venue."

Caleb isn't given so much as a glance as he disappears out the door and into the night. With him down, the captain's surely got his eye on one or two others at the table. Keeping tabs on them like a predator marks the positions of rival packmates. Or like a soldier behind enemy lines, outnumbered and outgunned.

Perhaps he's so absorbed in this dynamic, whatever the hell it is, that he doesn't pick up on the turn in her words. Or any implication, if any is meant. Just a flick of his eyes, a noise in his throat, and assent as a passing waitress asks if he'd like another tequila. Of course he would.

"No," comes his answer to her question, after a significant delay. "No, not married." His file, should she take a look at some point, would officially list him as widowed. Wife and son, both dead under suspicious circumstances. The case went cold; the killer, if there was one, was never brought to justice. Unofficially, he has a bit of a reputation as a womanizer, though significantly less so, of late. His gaze tracks her hand, and then her knee, and up along her thigh with lowered lashes. Lingered attention disrupted by her speaking to him again, and he draws a breath, attempts another smile that similarly falls a bit flat. "Interesting choice. This town. Tends to attract a certain type." His fresh drink is set down, and he watches those blue, blue eyes. He could let himself be lost in them, like a man at sea, no land in sight.

Now that the cross-table banter has settled to assorted groupings of two or three conversing, Olivia has completely abandoned her beer. The mug sits at a permanent halfway mark, a half reach across the table from where she is settled on one hip, largely facing the police captain. She didn't change her position after the brief collision of foot and leg. Her upper arm now rests atop her chair-back, elbow bent and knuckles lightly pressed against her ear and cheekbone as she watches the sum of the man's words, actions, and underlying tone. It's not quite predatory, but there is an acumen there, a finesse for gathering multi-dimensional pieces to patiently construct a vetted schema. It's a brand of possession, and in that sense Olivia is a very selfish woman.

She watches him let the game of what-ifs trail away with a breath of a smile. He's not married then. It's just another answer that breeds a dozen other questions. And she hasn't read his file yet. Her process involves getting a grasp of her own before allowing other information in. At least as much as possible within the constraints of her job. She's heard some talk. You can't work in the department and miss it. But she also hasn't infiltrated the tier two conjecture that a two-plus week hire in the CP position has to do a little work to reach.

Her left, ringless hand has resettled atop her knee and she remains comfortably settled with a curious light behind her eyes. Gray Harbor attracts a certain type. "A type, you think? I'd like to hear that theory, Captain." Her gaze flickers to the new drink and back to the man's face. She encouraged him to use her first name when they met and he did not. So she volleys back and forth between his last name and his rank like it were a game.

Captain and de la Vega and two can certainly play at that game. "I think you know exactly what I'm talking about, Doctor Kincaid." That low thrum to his speech, inches away from a growl. Accent firmly planted in foreign territory, much as he tries otherwise. Her eyes are watched still, and then there's a breath of contact. A shudder, as of the air shifting near her; as of a soft, incipient snarl, and the brief tension of electrostatic induction. Then it's gone, and his dark eyes slide away, and he takes a heavy sounding breath as he checks his watch. Well past time to stop drinking and head home, but what does he do? Takes another slug of tequila, instead.

Then, not another word. He continues to keep tabs on his men, fields a couple of questions from Moretti across from him, and tries to pretend that he's not still seated near enough the delicate blonde that he can practically taste her on him.

Something flares her blue eyes just so, be it the gauntlet he throws down with names, the implication that she's toying with him, or the snap of that moment that follows. Or all three. A moment passes, two. And, though she doesn't move, he can feel a whisper of her breath against his ear, warm and teasing, <<Careful, Captain.>> Still, there she sits, one brow uptipped with a mild suggestion of a challenge behind her eyes. He converses with Moretti. She asks Jack further down the table about his very pregnant wife.

Detective Ford slightly behind her is preparing to leave. He taps her shoulder and she swings back around, uncrossing her legs and dragging her left foot slowly past Ruiz's calf as she turns. "What is it, Detective?" she inquires with the warmth sincere interest elicits. Ford grins at her. "Don't forget the coffee, Doc." Olivia feigns exasperation, "I won't. But next time I'll win and you'll be buying. And I have expensive taste, Ford." Ford just barks a laugh and shoves his chair back with a dragging sound. He offers out some insulting farewells that are met with jovial insults in return from the few people still remaining.

Olivia turns laughing eyes back to Moretti first then, closer, to Ruiz. She lifts her left hand and leans forward just so in order to reach for his right hand, trying to catch it up in her own. "Did you see someone about this?" If her grab is successful, she oh-so lightly drags the pad of her thumb across those injured knuckles, fingers catching at his. It's true. The closer she leans, the more readily tangible the subtle, warm scent of her is.

Better, now that the morning sickness is done, comes the answer about the very pregnant wife. Which devolves into some complaining about the baby shower she wants to throw, and how it's become a thing. The captain listens along amiably enough, makes some polite deferral when the guy appeals to him for his opinion on something. And all the while, he's struggling to focus on the conversation at all, because there's that breath in his ear, almost as if she'd touched him. And he responds in kind, in a voice much more distant; cool and clear and even, <<You think you'd be here if I didn't allow you to be? You're bold, though. I'll give you that.>> And there's admiration for it, for her, in that single word. It flares briefly through the connection between them, before the link's broken entirely in a burst of ozone and fractured conduits.

He watches her little interaction with Ford briefly, and dips his head in a curt nod to the man in his own, more brusque farewell. Then turns back to his drink, with a sliver of heat traced through him when her foot brushes his leg. Tattooed fingers curved around the glass, it's turned a little. Then a little more. And then his hand is touched, and he stills. "No, it's, uh. It's fine." He turns it to show her; just a few cuts, some fading bruises on his darker, more weathered skin. "Just a bit of an accident. Estaré bien."

Moretti's watching them while he chatters with the guy on his left, because he doesn't miss much. Especially where his often-times partner's concerned. And he'd have to be blind to miss the way de la Vega's sitting, the way he's letting that smoking hot blonde touch him, talk to him. Yeah, he's watching, all right.

The baby shower. Olivia nods sympathetically. She closes her eyes slowly and opens them with a touch of her tongue to her lips as the caution is returned as it is. She pointedly doesn't look at Ruiz in that moment, though she does murmur under her breath, "Yes. Yes you will." Her sentiment of fascination tingles before it is cut off, leaving the faint sense of a buzz behind.

Ford leaves. The psychologist turns and captures the captain's hand to regard the faint injury there thoughtfully. "I can't quite tell if you won," she murmurs before releasing his fingers from the soft grip of her own. She's not buying the 'accident' story. Her level gaze turns from knuckles to Ruiz's face and lingers before she nods. "Sure. An accident. If you say so, Captain." And here is where she demonstrates a larger awareness. She shoots her skeptical look to Moretti and arches a brow with a diminutive shake of her head. "Does he get in many accidents, Moretti?"

It's down to maybe four or five of them by this point, most of the cops pretty far in their cups; ride shares have been arranged, and Moretti leans in to confirm whether the captain will be coming with. Which is when Olivia asks her question, gaining a toothy grin from the big man. "Well, de la Vega's a hands on sort of guy, y'know?" She doesn't, of course. Know. But he looks amused nonetheless, as if certain she'll understand what he means. Then, to Ruiz, "Ride's leaving in ten, you still want in, boss." A pop of his eyebrows, knuckles to the older cop's shoulder, and he tosses the man's ball cap back to him across the table.

From de la Vega, no comment whatsoever on whether he won. He continues to peruse her eyes, makes a little huff of amusement when she pulls her hand away from his. And then goes to toss back the last of his drink, and collect his jacket. "I'm going to grab a smoke outside." Since his ride's leaving in ten, presumably. The ball cap's tugged over his scruffy curls, and nudged into alignment as he pulls slowly to his feet. "Welcome to join me, if you like." Something else hinges on that casual invitation, quickly shuttered.

"Is he, now?" Olivia inquires thoughtfully, looking from Moretti to de la Vega and back again. "I'll have to note that somewhere." The implied 'eye of god' aspect of her position is teased right there along with the fact that she neither has to feign ignorance or naivete to the insinuation that Moretti is making, her gaze steady on the imposing man across the table.

She reaches for her purse to pull out a generous tip to leave on the table beside her beer, then she grabs her jacket off the back of her chair and loops it over her forearm, ready to go, herself. The secret of Ruiz's ride makes itself known. She rises and steps around her chair to push it in just as he invites company. "I don't smoke, Captain. But the evening air sounds just about perfect right now. Lead the way." None of this is spoken much louder than a murmur, and half a step closer than she strictly needs to stand to be heard. The leather jacket of his is given the once over yet again.

The rejoinder gets a chortle out of Moretti, who promptly turns away to converse with his buddy; and a look from the captain that was probably meant to be disapproving, but he's had a lot to drink. An awful lot to drink, and it skews more toward a slant-eyed smile with a hint of dimples.

A crumpled bill hits the table shortly after Olivia's own cash to pay for her beer, and de la Vega shrugs into his jacket with a quick roll of his shoulders. Worn, soft leather that's been scuffed away entirely in places, festooned with buckles and straps and silver hardware. He's already digging for his pack of smokes as he obliges her request to lead the way, and starts for the door at an easy, if slightly less steady than usual prowl. Moretti, of course, gives them some sideeye on their way out. Perhaps he's making bets on how likely he is to find the surly Mexican still waiting for him out in the lot, in ten minutes' time.

Following the unsteady Mexican through a path that threads past tables, around chairs, and patrons in various stages of intoxication, Olivia mostly occupies herself with watching for impending disasters while wondering if she can allay them in any capacity. She reaches up to not-so-gently shove his shoulder in the opposite direction when he nearly collides with an older gentleman in a chair. "That's it," she murmurs with the shove. "To the left."

They reach the exit and she somehow dances around him to back herself into the door and push it open into the night, watching him all the while as if he might do something dangerous, clumsy or some combination of the two, and slightly amused with the potential. The door slides closed on its own as she walks beside him to the spot where he wants to have his smoke. "Anyone ever tell you tequila is alcoholic, Javier?" There it is. His first name. She figures he won't remember, anyway.

No disasters, fortunately. There's a near-miss with a younger man holding a tray of drinks, and neither of them watching where they're going. The kid looks like he thinks he's got something to prove, but he seems smart enough to realise that he probably wouldn't come out of that fight intact, and moves off with little more than a scowl.

And then fresh air and the scent of rain greeting them, and the thump of the door to the bar hammering shut once they're both out. It takes two tries to get his cigarette lit, and in his present, significantly intoxicated state, he appears entirely unconcerned about the way their shoulders brush in the dark. And then his name, his first name on her lips, and a rumbling chuckle in response as he takes his first drag off his cigarette. "Someone's probably mentioned it." He tips his head back, exhaling smoke up and away from the tall blonde. "El almuerzo fue bueno, por cierto. Gracias."

There's more to Olivia than curious observer just now, The spark of Javier's lighter reflects in those eyes of hers as he works to light that cigarette. Only once he seems settled, drawing in that first drag does she stir to pull on her fitted blazer jacket against the wet chill of the evening, the blouse arguing with her motions. The warmth of her is tangible from so close along with the weight of her stare.

Tonight her hair is a little less restrained than it was the day they met, tucked behind her ears and loose and golden against her shoulders. She might have been wearing the suit all day, but it still looks smart, tracing the line of her in an efficient, professional, but flattering manner.

Someone's probably mentioned the alcoholic qualities of tequila to the man "Does it help?" she asks simply, her tone quieter, slightly more husky here outside where there is no rowdy crowd to compete against.

As for the Thai she left him in the refrigerator, she murmurs slowly, pausing here and there for words and only missing a few choice bits, "No estaba seguro de si lo obtuviste o si una recepcionista rabiosa lo robó." Her smile teases at him in the darkness, filled with awareness that her Spanish is far from perfect.

The warmth of him, too. The heat of him, really, like a furnace. As if he's on fire from within.

The does it help doesn't gain a response from him, though. It's a funny thing to ask, and he's not in any particular mood to parse such things. He drags off his cigarette again, runs his tongue along his teeth slowly, and then chuckles low at her Spanish. "That's not bad," he defers quietly, drinking in her smile, her fumbling accent that clearly came from a textbook and not a land. Not a people. Then smoke's poured out of his nose and slightly parted lips, and his unencumbered hand lifts to boldly tuck a lock of escaped blonde out of her eyes. His thumb marks a rough path along her cheek, around the shell of her ear, where it lingers a moment before being withdrawn.

"Sí. Lo tengo. Gracias." He loiters there a moment, improprietously close, then eases back a fraction to drop his shoulder against the wall once more, cigarette touched to his lips. Dark eyes intent on those washed-out blues.

Perhaps that's why she lingers so close: heat. It's a choice: the dark of the night or the dark of the man. One is chilled, wet, fresh like early summer. One is heated, prowling, complicated like a dream that lingers after you first wake. Olivia leans into the heat and complication, searching for answers she can't typically be so bold about pursuing. Did she expect an answer about the tequila and its purpose? It might be that just about now she's not sure what to expect. The not knowing: it's not an experience she's particularly accustomed to. There's a wanton flavor that burns in the blue fire of her eyes tonight.

All this while she breathes the acrid scent of the smoke of the man's cigarette, wonders if she only imagines that heat, ignores the questions in her mind. But it all stops when he lifts a hand to trace a silken curl of hair over her skin and behind her ear. Sudden. Her hand flies up to catch at his wrist atop the sleeve of the leather jacket, holding his hand there, though whether to stop further progress or to keep it from falling away isn't so clear. "De nada," she answers slowly. So slowly, before releasing her hold and watching him sway back against the brick wall.

"You're a man of contradictions, de la Vega."

No. No elucidations on the tequila's purpose. On whether it helps. Helps what? Helps him forget? Helps him feel halfway like he can cope with one of the most stressful jobs on the planet?

He takes that wanton heat and returns it in spades, though; eyes like the smothered remains of a forest fire, unrelenting. And then the catch and curl of slender fingers around his wrist, and he could probably fight her grip if he wanted to. He's considerably stronger, after all. But he permits it, all tense muscle and locked tendon under her grasping hand, and looks both thoughtful and amused when she releases it. "Am I," he murmurs, ashing out his cigarette, dark eyes flicking from her blues, to the door of the bar as it swings open and Moretti saunters out. "Looks like my ride's here." Is that a polite way of saying good night? Or an invitation to argue with him? He hasn't moved, either way, and she's once again the recipient of his direct attention.

Such is the nature of the psychologist's questions: to feed the furnace of all the prior questions.

They both know he could fight her grip successfully. That's not at all a question. "You are." She, too, looks over to the figure of Moretti exiting the tavern. "That does appear to be the case," she agrees slowly. Sliding her hands into the pockets of her tailored slacks, she watches the man Ruiz sometimes calls partner for a few moments before looking back to the captain in the darkness. "Next time you do need a ride, -- give me your phone, de la Vega," she demands, interrupting herself to do so. Once again she holds out a palm to the man. "-- you'll be able to give me a call."

And such is the nature of timing, that just as the big cop is lumbering on over to see what's taking de la Vega so long, he's in the process of switching on his phone, turning it around, and passing it across to Olivia. It's conveniently navigated to his contacts screen, all ready to go. Docile enough, it seems, when one gets enough drink in him. Or maybe he just has a thing for blue-eyed blondes. His rougher fingertips brush her palm in a lingering touch as he pulls his hand away, then stuffs it back into the pocket of his jacket as Moretti rolls up on them. And after an awkward pause, tells the captain he'll be in his truck, and trudges back off with a backwards glance.

"No eres muy profesional, verdad?" Tonguetip between his teeth, a rough, warm rumbling chuckle as he watches her with his phone. "Es un poco inapropiado." So is the way he rakes his eyes over her body, top to bottom and back up again slowly like he's making it perfectly clear that he's putting his imagination to good use.

"Moretti," Olivia greets even as her thumbs deftly move over the phone. "He'll be along in a minute." There's nothing cautious or apologetic to the doctor. Moretti heads for his truck. Olivia smiles to herself, clears the screen and offers the phone back to the intoxicated Mexican.

"Which? Taking a breath of fresh air, or making sure you have a safe ride the next time you attend a social event, Javier?" Her blue eyes flash in the darkness. The playful challenge is there along with a dare to call her unprofessional and inappropriate again. She looks up to see the tail end of that visual survey and her smile is wicked. "Don't get into any accidents tonight, mi amigo. They're hell on those marvelous hands of yours."

Things he'd never say, were he not smashed on tequila and barely able to see straight at the moment. It's probably for the best the captain's going home with Moretti, and not taking her up on her offer of a ride. Speaking of unprofessional and inappropriate. The phone's retrieved, and then, "I'll do my best," he rumbles soft, and watches her as steadily as he's able while dragging off his cigarette once more. Then it's dropped to the ground, crushed under the heel of his boot, and he backs up two paces without taking his eyes off her.

"Puedes llamarlo como quieras. Pero te veo a ti." The last few words are enunciated slowly, carefully. A wink, one more step back before he pivots and prowls off for Moretti's truck. Who, when he sees the police captain on an intercept course, keys the ignition and the engine sputters to life with a growl and flood of lights across the lot.

With an amused, slow smile, Olivia watches the man speak, finish and crush his cigarette before backing away. She offers a languid salute before dropping both hands back to her pockets. "We can talk about what you see at length," she agrees, her tone warm. "Next time." Once he's in the truck she turns to head down the block with a click of her heels to the sidewalk toward where she parked along the street.