2020-06-12 - You Can't Fail at Friendship

It's been a couple of days since news of the Chief of Police stunned the town, and plans are being scrambled together for a funeral. With the man being a cop, and the head cop at that, the affair is slated to be a full military-style affair with pallbearers and riflemen and a master of ceremonies. And who the hell's been put in charge of planning much of this monstrosity? Well, the captain, of course. When he's not been at the precinct burning the midnight oil, he's been holed up at home, bent over his laptop.

And tonight's one of those nights. Beer bottle beside him on the coffee table (can't get too drunk while he's trying to compose this stuff), laptop on his lap. Head tipped back against the couch cushions, and his arms folded across his eyes as he tries to will himself to focus on this, and not the thoughts niggling at the back of his mind. Both his cruiser and truck are parked in the drive; the former's still cooling from having returned only recently, and the lights are on downstairs.

It's not that Alexander hasn't been intensely interested in the affair of the Chief's murder and the investigation thereof. It's the sort of thing he lives for, almost in a very literal sense. But even he, tactless though he is, has tried to give a little space - and, in truth, perhaps he's curious if it will be an easily solved crime, as most are, and therefore not worth wasting his time on. But days pass without an arrest, and so now Alexander is making the trek up the road through the forest to Ruiz's house, a plastic wrapped paper bag in his hand, which contains donuts. He sees the cruiser and truck in the driveway, and nods to himself. Skulking over to it, he lays a hand down on the hood, feeling the warmth of the engine. Another nod, and then he makes his way towards the door.

Alexander knocks like a cop, with the side of his fist, and always in the same pattern - three sharp knocks, a pause, three again.

By the second knock, his arms have dropped, and he's sitting bolt upright. By the third, he's collected the loaded firearm placed within easy reach on the coffee table, his hand knocking aside the beer bottle in the process. He barely manages to catch it before it topples, and racks the slide on the gun as he pushes to his feet. Bang, bang, bang again as he prowls for the door, nudges the curtain aside on the window with the muzzle of his gun. And breathes an annoyed sigh out his nose. Fuck's sake.

"Alexander," is his grumbled greeting for the investigator, once he swings it open. The cop's dressed in one of his usual faded black tee shirts, black cargo pants, freshly washed hair and bare feet. Oh, and a rather large gun in his hand, dangled near his thigh. He glances at the bag, and back to the other man's face, like, what do you want?

Alexander's head cocks to one side has he faintly hears the sounds of disarray and surprise inside. His eyes flick to the side as he glances at the window, notices the leading with the muzzle of the gun. By the time the door is opened, he's taken a step back and raised his hands although he doesn't drop his donut bag. "Javier," he says, in return, staring at the man, the gun, and then back at his face. "I brought donuts. You seem stressed. I'd like to come in?"

Hey, on the upside, there's no gun pointed at him. Just a very irritated looking Mexican in the doorway, who probably hasn't slept much the past couple of nights. He furrows his brows at Alexander and his surrender, then waves him inside with the gun. Before realising that, well, it's the gun that's making the man nervous. "What's in the bag?" he wants to know, assuming he manages to usher him in and get the door shut and locked behind him. The safety's thrown into place, and the weapon slid onto the kitchen island. And he even tries to smile; it comes out a bit flat.

"Donuts," Alexander repeats, patiently. He slides past Ruiz at the invitation, entering like a thief or a stray dog, as always. "Several different types. Chocolate, caramel coated, jelly filled. Do you like salmonberry? They had salmonberry jam. If you haven't tried it since coming up here, you should." He doesn't sit down, although he puts the bag of donuts on island near the gun, although not with a sniff at the weapon as he moves away. He prowls in the space, looking around at everything with a rude and frank curiosity. "I'm sorry. About Thatchery." He doesn't say anything like 'he was a good man' or 'he was a good Chief', because Alexander is a terrible liar, but the condolences at least seem sincere. "How are you holding up?"

Donuts. "Right." Alexander did tell him they were donuts in the bag. He follows along, skulks really. And he's not got an awful lot less of the junkyard dog vibe going on, than Alexander does, in truth.

"I've never fucking heard of salmonberry," he confides. And after a moment to think about it, "I'll just stick with the jelly filled." Which he reaches for presently, and licks some powdered sugar off his thumb. "Thanks, by the way. I appreciate it." As for the space, it's at least got a moved-in look to it now. The horseshoe Alexander gave him is up on the wall still, and there's a stack of sheet music on the coffee table beside his laptop. A large tank with what looks like a reptile of some sort, by the window. Alexander may recognise her, or he may not. And the lack of condolences is probably just as well; there's a good chance he'd have countered any attempts to call the Chief a good man with flat disagreement.

"Doing fine," is mumbled around a mouthful of donut. But he doesn't meet the other man's eyes when he says it. "You?"

"Ask August to give you some. Salmonberries, I mean." Alexander gives a brief, crooked smile to Ruiz. "They're good." The smile widens just a little as he sees the horseshoe, and the sheet music. "I figured you've been busy. Didn't know if you'd been eating. Or sleeping. You should do both, you know." The next look he throws towards the cop has obvious concern in it. Then he looks back at the reptile and smiles. "Hello, pretty." He doesn't try to disturb her, though. Instead he cycles back around to Ruiz to stare at him as he doesn't meet his eyes. "I'm okay. What about you? You don't seem okay." He glances over to where Ruiz was working. "Who's helping you?"

The sleeping looks like it'd be a no, given the smudges under his eyes and the broken capillaries. The eating, he doesn't elaborate on either, but given that he immediately goes for another donut once the first one's been shoveled in.. "'m fine," he mumbles around that one, and takes a lean against the counter as he watches Alexander move about. It's getting warm enough now not to need bother lighting the wood stove, so it's off today. He swallows his current bite of donut, and adds with a furrow of his brow, "Helping me what?"

They are, at least, good donuts, from one of the places downtown that gets frequented by the cops a lot. Alexander frowns at the lack of answers which are, in themselves, answers. He stares at Ruiz. "You should sleep. And eat something that isn't sugar." He starts to move towards Ruiz's kitchen. And, if not stopped, will totally snoop around in cupboards for things that can be easily made or served as they are. "Helping you with all of it. What have they got you doing? After his death. Heading the investigation? Doing the paperwork? Having to inform family and all of that? Is anyone helping you or are you trying to do it all yourself?"

They are good donuts. He polishes the chocolate one off, and considers going for a third. But a noise outside the window drags his attention that way, and tension ratchets through his frame visibly; his hand inches toward his gun before stopping, once he realises it's only a bird. "Huh? You should mind your own business." He frowns, and pushes off the counter when he realises what's going on. "And quit fucking snooping around my goddamned kitchen, what the fuck, Alexander." He actually swats at the man as he starts poking around in one of the cupboards, and finds it actually decently stocked with staples. Javier is not a man who lives off ramen or boxed mac and cheese.

"Yeah, of course they've got me doing all that shit. I don't know. I don't fucking-" Trust anyone. He sighs.

Alexander shies away from the swat like a skittish beast, sidling off to the side. "What? It's not your bedroom. And I didn't have to break any locks to get inside. That's fine, isn't it?" He reaches for another cabinet, frowning. "You actually cook things. Do you have eggs and bacon? I can make breakfast without burning anything up. I think." A flash of a smile. "I can help. If you want." The demand to mind his own business is blithely ignored. "You can't do everything yourself, Javier. You shouldn't."

Then he stops, turns to look at the window the noise came from, then turns to look at the gun, then turns to look at Ruiz. His gaze sharpens and something in his stance changes, subtly. Moving from his normal twitchiness to something watchful and wary. "Do you think whoever killed the Chief is coming for you?"

It's doubtful he ever had any intent to make contact with that swat. For all he's acting irritated, it's as close to playful as the grouchy Mexican ever gets. He doesn't, however, deign to answer that non-question; it gets a look, and the cabinet in question is shut as soon as it's opened. "Yeah, I have eggs and bacon." They're not in the cupboards, of course.

Another tired-sounding sigh as he drops back into a lean against the counter, and runs his hands over his face. No answer for long, long moments to that last query. Which, once again, may be answer in itself. Then, in a scratchy-soft murmur, "Tal vez. No estoy seguro." A heavy sigh as his hands drop, and another squinted look sent to the window. "Food would be.. nice."

Alexander doesn't fight the man for his cabinets, although he returns the look with a half-smile, a lift of the eyebrows. He eels around Ruiz in the kitchen and goes to the fridge to get bacon and eggs. "Toast? Sit down. Rest. I'll keep an ear out for anyone coming by." He means more than an ear, of course - Ruiz can feel the shiver in the air around them as Alexander's mind goes casting outwards, sweeping over sleepy animals and the occasional hunter. His pupils go wide, then contract as he finds his balance between the inner world and the outer to let him do two things at once.

He goes through cabinets again, looking for a pan, then starts frying up bacon. "What happened? With Thatchery. Did he piss off Monaghan, do you think?"

Rest. Right. Like this man ever really rests. Though as Alexander's mind slivers outward, he'd feel the other man's retracting in like a coiling fern. A shudder of breath, like he'd perhaps been exerting some effort this entire time, to keep watch. And then more silence while he comes down from it. While he processes the fact that his friend is actually here to help. To do what friends do.

"Nothing that simple, I'm afraid," he murmurs. Starts to say more, then seems to decide to leave it at that for now. "I really can't.. I shouldn't talk about this. With you. It isn't safe."

There's a brush of mind against mind. It can't even be called communication, really. Just the mental equivalent of a light touch on the shoulder, Alexander's brain doing what his body struggles to. His head ducks, eyes ostensibly focused on the pan as the bacon starts to sizzle and pop. He doesn't break the silence, or seem remotely bothered by it. He just stands there, waiting and watchful, until Ruiz speaks.

Then, his eyes come up. He stares at the cop for a moment, before bobbing his head, looking down. Bacon gets carefully flipped. "You remember? About a week ago. When we crossed over to another world, an asylum run by a horrible thing that had never been human that could have popped our heads like balloons?" A silence. "You think I care about safe, Javier? Really?" His lips press together. "Or is it something about me that isn't safe?" A pause. "I didn't kill him. Promise."

The contact, as always, is accompanied by a subvocal snarl. The scent of blood, the glint of sharp teeth and heat of a body burning, burning, burning without succor. And then it's guttered away into a spindle of smoke, a breath of a sigh, the tang of ozone left behind.

"Por supuesto que recuerdo," he rumbles low, dark eyes ticking up without an accompanying movement of his head. A chuckle, then. "You've got a deathwish, mi amigo." His gaze flits away again, back to the window, the hall, the door. "No. Not you. Things have gotten complicated, Alexander. You know Monaghan wouldn't do something so brazenly fucking stupid. I'm trying to figure out how to contain this."

Alexander smiles, slightly. "I don't," he says, after a moment's thought. "Have a deathwish. If I wanted to die, I would have done that long ago. Wouldn't be hard. Even when I probably should die, I don't want to." It's simply a statement of fact, his gaze remaining fixed on the bacon. When it's done, he moves it to some paper towels to dry, pours off most of the grease, uses the rest to fry three eggs. This is not, in any way, going to be a healthy meal, but at least he's not setting anything on fire.

"And it would be uncharacteristic of Monaghan to remove someone so publicly and abruptly. But Thatchery didn't really have a lot of enemies, and being found in the woods - he never struck me as the forest hikes and nature sort of man. It's an uncharacterstic place for him to be, and somewhat unusual for random violence. He wasn't currently cheating on his wife, that I knew of," and it sounds like Alexander must have looked into that at least once from the thoughtfulness of his tone, "and he hadn't made any particularly unpopular public decisions. I haven't seen the autopsy report." The yet is left unspoken. He pauses as he looks down. "Do you like 'em scrambled, or just fried? And how so, complicated?"

The lack of setting anything on fire is noted, and certainly appreciated. "You've improved," he murmurs, with a little chuckle as he pushes off to rummage around in the cupboard. And, "Whatever's easiest. Scrambled's fine." Two plates are dug out and set down beside the stove, a sidelong glance when the autopsy report (or lack thereof) is mentioned. "Is this-" He nods toward the food. "-you bribing me to see the report? Because if so, the answer's no." A furrow forms between his brows, and he shifts away to tug the fridge open. "And complicated, complicated. As in, not fucking straightforward. You want something to drink?"

A smile flickers to life on Alexander's face at the praise, his shoulders straightening out of their slump. "I can do one ingredient things fine, as long as I don't get distracted. It's just when there are more ingredients, and I start wondering what happens if you put this instead of that that things get--"

His rambling cuts off at the question. So does the smile. He stares at Ruiz, expression utterly blank, before ducking his head. "No," he says. "This is me trying to make sure a friend doesn't work himself into a physical and mental shutdown because he's too much of a paranoid fucking idiot to ask for help from any of the people who care about him. But thanks. Answer received." His lips press shut and he breaks the eggs up to scramble them. More to have something to attack that isn't Ruiz than anything else. "Water would be fine. Thank you," he responds to the last, woodenly. He pauses to check the doneness of the eggs, and reaches for salt and pepper.

Javier, failing at friendship since nineteen seventy-three. He stands there, just as awkward, as Alexander delivers his scathing little retort. And there should be something fierce waiting in response. There should be an f-bomb or two ready to trip off his tongue, a snarl, a flare of temper. But there's nothing. Just that aching silence as he contemplates what's been said, then goes about shutting the fridge and fetching a glass and switching on the faucet. Water poured, glass pushed across to the other man, and he prowls off slowly while taking a slug of his beer.

"Lopez," he supplies finally, quiet. "There's a guy named Lopez, but that's not his real name. You want to help, you find me his real name."

Alexander was expecting the retort. His body was tensed up and bracing itself, even if he didn't look up from the eggs - they burn easily. When it doesn't come, his eyes flicker up, and he almost DOES burn the eggs watching him, both wary and worried all at once. He hastily transfers the eggs to a plate, adds bacon. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I know you try to protect. Everyone." He thinks about it. "And I do want to see the autopsy report. But I'd just ask. Or take it. I wouldn't pretend to do something nice for you." He cuts off all the eyes, and brings the plate in to put near where Ruiz was working. "Sit. Eat."

He stares at the plate. "Fork." Back into the kitchen to find forks. When he emerges with one, he has his glass of water in the other hand, and takes a sip. A blink at the return. There's a shadow of a smile in his eyes, but his brow also furrows. "Do you have anything other than a fake name? And presumably a gender?"

Dropping into a seat at the couch, the cop simply looks tired. No fight in him, today. None whatsoever. It's like his energy's being conserved for.. what? He's not saying, if even he knows. "It's fine," he murmurs low, tipping his bottle back for another swig. Then he joins in the staring at the plate, and makes a little sound in his throat that might be amusement when Alexander remembers the, "Fork." Once the man's returned, "I know. I'm sorry. I'm a little on edge, I guess. Uh.. here. I can show you what he looked like." And, after a moment, an image of the man is projected into the other man's mind. There's little other context to be gleaned; just his face. "I'll let you know once I have more information. That's about all, for now."

Alexander smiles at the apology, although he says not without amusement, "You're always on edge." He folds himself down on the floor near the couch, the water class held in both hands as he considers the other man. He closes his eyes for a moment as the image is shown, committing it carefully to memory. "Not local. I don't recognize him." Like he totally recognizes all of the criminals in the Gray Harbor area. Then again, it is a small town. "Outsiders tend to stand out. I'll poke around. No one will find it weird coming from me." He takes a sip of the water, watches Ruiz. "This hit you hard, didn't it?" His head tilts. "Because it's a cop?"

Ruiz merely grunts at the comment about him being always on edge. There's plenty of room at the couch without necessitating them touching, but he doesn't bother pointing this out. Just a breath, then the fork's brandished, and he digs into the food in relative silence. Tink, tink, tink as it's carved up and shoveled into his mouth with none of the delicacy that some might attempt. He chews, swallows, rubs at his nose with his knuckles. "That's my hope, yeah." With regards to Alexander being able to skulk about in the shadows on this, probably.

Then a tick of his eyes at the last, and he pauses eating a moment. Then resumes, shoveling more eggs before responding, low, "Something like that."

But sitting here allows Alexander to stare much more directly at Ruiz, and that seems to be what the investigator wants to do, at least at the moment. "I will do my best not to disappoint," he says, solemnly. Not sarcastic solemnity, either - it's clear Alexander treats the suggestion as a very serious Task To Complete. He smiles to see Ruiz eating, although it falters a little at the last response. "You told me not to blame myself. You shouldn't, either." A longer pause. Then, because he has absolutely no tact, he says, "You said something about names. Before. Tattoos?"

"You rarely disappoint, Alexander," murmurs the cop, head down as he continues digging into the food. And, "This is good. Thank you." A quick smile that creases up the corners of his eyes in a network of crow's feet, and teases a dimple out of his bearded cheek. Then it fades as they get back to business. "What names? I gave you the only one I know. And he did have a tattoo, now that you mention it, yeah. Right here." He gestures to his throat. "Scorpion. Pretty sure it's cartel or gang related. He's some sort of lifer. Might help you narrow your search. Second generation Hispanic of some variety, though hell if I know which. Didn't have an accent I could pick up."

There's a bright and sunny smile at the low murmur and the smile, Alexander visibly perking up at the compliment, eyes brightening. "It's just eggs and bacon," he says, with a little shrug, although his voice brims with pleasure. He clears his throat and looks away. "Oh. No. That's helpful, though. Thank you. I meant. You said something about your tattoos, once. That you had names?" He shrugs. "It was probably nothing. I was curious. That's all."

It's not missed, of course. The effect his praise has on the other man. How easily it could be used against him. Javier chews his food and considers this, too, for a few moments, then drops his fork and collects his beer bottle. Breakfast for dinner, washed down with Tecate. Little weird, but that's the kind of week he's been having.

"Mine," he repeats, setting the bottle down again. His hand lingers on it, then turns it a few degrees clockwise, and releases it. The condensation's wiped off on the thigh of his pants. "Yeah. I did. What about them? I mean, what do you want to know." There's food left on his plate, and he watches it, then watches Alexander.

"Everything," Alexander says, simply. Look, Ruiz - ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer. When he drops the fork, Alexander unfolds and reaches for the plate and fork, to stand and take it back to the kitchen, where it will get a careful rinse before being stacked neatly in the sink. "You have a number of tattoos. They clearly have meaning for you. But you've never really talked about them. I'd be interested. If you wanted to." A shrug as he dries his hands off. "If not, that's okay. They're yours."

Ruiz is not expecting to have his dishes bused the moment he's done with them, and startles slightly when Alexander swoops in for his plate like that. A pair of dark eyes follow the younger man as he makes the trek back to the kitchen. Silence follows while he cogitates on that, and it seems for a minute like he might just ignore it entirely. But once the other man's done drying his hands, Javier clears his throat and offers haltingly, "They're men I served with. Mostly in Afghanistan. Killed in the line of duty. I like to be reminded of them; that they were people. That their lives had meaning. So I.." Had their names tattooed into his skin. After an even longer moment, "Do you want to see?"

Alexander may not cook all that well, but he knows how to clean up, and he is meticulous about it. He returns, and takes his position back on the floor, elbows resting lightly on his knees. "It's good that you remember them. Everyone should have someone to remember them. Especially someone who remembers some of the good, brave things about them. Along with what is probably a lot of other things," he admits, with a faint smile. He bobs his head. "It's interesting. I would." He tilts his head to one side. "I never got any tattoos. I find them interesting, especially the meaning they have for people."

Alexander's watched carefully as he reclaims his seat on the floor, dark eyes aflicker with some fleeting emotion that isn't given voice. He swallows, nods once. "Yeah." His voice is still that low, warm rumble. Audible, but only barely.

Then a flicker of his gaze to the window once more, and away. And he shifts slightly onto one hip, and catches at the hem of his tee shirt with inked fingers, dragging it up his ribs as he speaks. "Todo debe ser recordado: un viento que gira, los hilos en el evento gastado deben reunirse, yarda tras yarda de todo lo que habitamos, la larga trayectoria del tren y las trampas de la tristeza."

Names, several of them, arranged in neat rows marched from his hip to nearly his armpit, and sprawling along his back. He's predictably well-muscled, clearly works out regularly. Though he does have a little bit of a belly. Nothing huge, just.. there.

Alexander follows the glance to the window. "No one's there," he assures the older man, quietly. There's still the faint pulse of his power, sweeping the area and finding only beasts and birds, sleeping or scavenging. His attention returns to Ruiz as he starts to move, and his eyes widen. He listens. "I don't know that one," he admits. "But it's beautiful." His eyes fall to the names Ruiz bears, his head tilting one way, then the other. There's something curious and clinical about the regard, although not cold. His fingers twitch, once, just a little. But despite his curiosity, he's not a man to invade someone's physical space. Just their mental and social space. "That's a lot of names," he says, after a long study. "I'm sorry, Javier."

The twitch of fingers is noticed, but not remarked upon, and the tee is dropped back into place a few moments later. For want of something else to do with his hand, Javier reaches for his bottle of beer again, and finds it empty. "Nothing to be sorry for," he murmurs, grasping it by its neck and hoisting himself to his feet. "Anyway, I've got to get back to this.." He hitches his chin to the laptop. He means planning the funeral. "You're welcome to stay a while. If you want." The fridge is cracked open so he can grab himself a fresh drink.

Alexander unfolds himself when Ruiz stands, and also rises to his feet. He glances at the laptop. "Yes. I want," he says, simply. He doesn't try to interrupt the planning, though, but rather takes a seat on the couch that Ruiz abandoned. Although he sits there, and even talks when spoken to, he doesn't even really try to hide the fact that he's staying to watch over Ruiz, make sure no one that doesn't belong approaches the cabin unseen, and eventually starts pestering the cop about getting sleep.

Turns out Alexander can mother hen with the best of them, just with creepy staring and short directives rather than the more traditional sort of fussing.