2020-06-29 - Journeys End

He's been in town six months, and here enough times that he's officially a regular. Joe's at the bar, settled at that awkward hipshot angle that means his bad joints are giving him grief....and by the look of things, he's regaling the patient bartender with some war story. Pretzels, salt packets, peanuts, straws, and shot glasses have been pressed into service as little representations of the combatants. Apparently the pretzel Marines are holding out against the peanut Taliban, fighting over a road delineated by straw wrappers. Joe himself is a little flushed and bright-eyed, but nowhere near to fully drunk. His own drink seems to be some dark rum-based concoction. Summer tourist, perhaps?

He's been in town for six months, and she's been out of town for six months. Well, that is assuming Gray Harbor is what she considers... in town. Home? Unfortunately, the tattooed youth seems to be part of the demographic that truly does hail from the place, even if she's shown a recent propensity toward disappearing acts.

But Lex is back in Gray Harbor, and that sure as fuck requires a drink or seven. The sapphire blue curls seems to have lost out to the original 'look', with silver hair falling in choppy layers from shoulder to lower back. She's pulled a black wifebeater on atop a black racer-back bra, with a pair of faded jeans below. It's probably faux-fading, but at least holes are stylish, right?

She moves toward the bar without hesitation, and chance has it that her eye-shot destination has her walking straight to Joseph's side, mid-siege. Not bothering with so much as an introduction, the woman is flickering jade green eyes first across the man, and then his.... arrangement.

"How drunk are you?" She queries, a pierced eyebrow arching slightly as she watches the man sidelong. There's a glance toward the barkeep, and two black-painted nails tap the countertop in an unspoken order. And then it's back to Joseph and his troops. "'cause this could either be funny as hell, or depressing as fuck."

But don't worry -- everything's fine.

"So, the wreck's here..." One inked finger, the F of 'Fast' on it bright in ocean blue and black, taps an upended shotglass by his left elbow, "But de la Vega and his guys are over h-" Joe's breaking off at that interruption, blinking at her a little owlishly.

The blue eyes are clear enough, as he raises them from the staged battle - for once without his glasses. Contacts in, presumably, for he's not squinting at her. She gets a considering look for a beat or two, then his gaze flicks to the glass, which is half-full, then back to her. Lime, rum, what's presumably cola. "Not really, yet," he says, mildly. Even those few syllables are weighted down with a slow southern drawl. "Only had about half a Cuba Libre and that ain't much. I dunno, wasn't funny at the time, was kinna sad, we lost some men."

"This de la Vega of yours," she's half-sighing the echoed name, tone and expression a bit wry as she studies the apparent stranger. "Ye high," -- a hand raised to approximately Ruiz's height, which requires some arm raising -- "nasty temper, carries around a gun?" She could mention the cop part, but where's the fun in that? She tips a look back to his makeshift battlefield as he voices the outcome, then offers a shake of her head that has the silver of her various piercings glinting in the light.

That question conjures up a lazy smile, warm, crooked. "You do know him," Joe concedes. "That'd be him. Saved my life in Afghanistan," A turn of his hand and spread of long, inked fingers indicates the little mock battlefield. "Long while back." Presumably, by the lines on that face, the silver mixed in with the dark gold of his hair.

"I almost killed him with a table chair, and he saved me from a grease fire," Lex counters, tit-for-tat, when it comes to summing up their Mexican In Common. "He still around town?" She questions after a moment, actually glancing behind herself before looking back at Joseph. What can you say? Lex and cops have a... special relationship. Ruiz makes that even more complicated, charming souls that they both are.

"And who're you, anyway? You're not Gray Harbian." Surprise! A tattooed hand is extended toward a tattooed hand, and she's leaning against the countertop with the unused elbow. "Or Mexican." Surprise #2.

"He is, indeed," Joe affirms, still all lazy good nature, but volunteers nothing more. Javier being something of a local celebrity, especially considering his recent (if temporary) battlefrield promotion. An inclination of his head to her, as he takes that offered hand, wraps his own around it, shakes it firmly. Worn and callused from rope and wheel, the ink on his fingers too new to be faded by the sun, unlike the older work on each forearm. "I'm Joe. Joe Cavanaugh, an' I got here 'bout six months ago or so, not long 'fore Christmas. No, I'm not Mexican, though I've lived there for a li'l bit."

You know who has two thumbs and is Mexican? Cristobal walks in from the patio entrance, shoulders rolled up with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Wearing a pair of low slung jeans and a white wife beater tank, his other accessories happen to be the fact he keeps his wallet on a chain and there's an empty gun holster on his hip - illegal to open carry in a bar, you see. He must've left it somewhere before coming into the Twofer. His focus is down at the tips of his black cowboy boots, his forehead crinkled in thought and he must be thinking about something hard because he almost misses Jospeh and Lex at the bar. Almost. Really, it's that mint julep and kudzu accent that catches his attention.

"Jesus Christ, the Southerners have found us," is Lex's deadpan reply to Joseph's introduction, and what appears to be a solemn breath in drawn before she offers a resigned sort of nod. It's about then that the barkeep is bringing by a pair of double shots to drop pre-filled before her, the contents dark and nicely unidentifiable. Speaking of cops. Lex's eyes drift toward Cristobal as the man enters, and after a moment of half-squinting at him, she's snorting audibly, "Mistletoe."

The smile only broadens as Cris puts in an appearance, and Joe lifts his glass in salute. "Cruz," he says, "Hey there. This lady seems to know you, but she hasn't given me her name yet. Care to make the introductions?"

Then he slants an amused look at her. "Found this place half a year back, though it took me a year and a half or so to get here." That blue gaze darting between them, he asks her, "That a reminiscence, or a request?" He hasn't yet bothered to clear away the little impromptu battle diagram from the bar before him. Blessedly, he's not one of those veterans who wades in on the war stories every time he's had a little to drink.

Whether or not Cris takes 'mistletoe' as a greeting, Cris saunters over and leans his head down near her ear. "You know you loved every second of it. Missed you around the club." The club in mention being the underground Fight Club. His rumbled voice like velvet covered gravel before his pale eyes flick up to Cavanaugh and a grin splits his mouth. His hand is offered up to Joe like a he's looking for an arm wrestle instead, bro grip style. "Boatswain. 'Fraid I only know her by her glare."

Yes, Mistletoe, why don't you make the introductions? Lex offers Cristobal a raised eyebrow as he approaches, and she's snorting again -- loud enough to make sure anyone who heard his line heard her response -- before she's shaking her head. The movement sends a few silvery strands of hair over her shoulder to pool on the bar top.

"Mmm... no, you didn't, dollface," she's drawling back to Cristobal, giving the man a dubious sort of smirk. "Only time I was there was when Poe was there." It's anyone's guess if anyone else even knows who Poe even is, but her tone seems to indicate that the other man may've been less-than-fond of her presence at the 'fight club'. "He's off in Cali now, goin' for the big bets. I got no reason to be there." Then, attention turning back to the swarmed Joseph, she's finally offering, "I'm Lex. He -" a nail-tipped finger pointed at Cristobal "had mistletoe hanging off his banana hammock last time I saw him." Fond memories.

Cris's upraised hand gets a grip in return, one of those elaborate ritual handshakes, and a conspiratorial grin. "Glad to see you, I was borin' the bartender there with tales of de la Vega in Afghanistan," he explains, tipping his head at that little arrangement of peanuts, straw wrappers etc. But it's all cleared away with a peremptory motion of his hand.

Lex's explanation of the nickname makes him laugh, softly. "Nice," he says, "Sounds like somethin' you'd do," Then he glances back to her, eyes alight with amusement. "Pleasedameetcha, Lex. 'specially since you just gave me ammunition to hassle him with later. I'm grateful to ya. Drink's on me?"

When Joseph shakes Cris' hand, the latino holds Joseph's fingers tight for a moment so they can't retreat just yet. "New ink." He notes a bit dryly, then finally releases him after a quick examination. "You bore everyone with tales of de la Vega. You seen him lately?" There's a firm pat-pat to Joseph's arm and then he's turning to upnod at the bartender, ordering, "Mezcal." Before that intense gaze layered under a thick layer of bravado goes back to Lex. "What can I say, it's all about the show, amiright? Got the money flowing. That's what counted."

Joe permits the examination of the ink without yanking his hand back. In fact, he spreads his fingers to show it off, like a woman displaying a new ring. "Yeah. Not healed long. Been meanin' to get it, finally gave up an' got it done. Kind of a ...commemoration." He's changed since his arrival in the depths of winter - longer hair, the new ink, a greater ease. "I have, though he's busy as a one-legged man in a ass-kickin' contest these days."

Cris gathers his drink and makes a nod towards the deck. "C'mere a second, Cavanaugh. Gotta ask you if this rash on my balls looks suspicious." A half-glance back at Lex, "Don't worry, sweet cheeks. I won't keep him long." And then Cris' hand is going to Joseph's elbow just in case he forgot how to stand and needs a little assistance. Or rather. Insistence.

Speak of the devil, and he shall turn out to be a Mexican in a GHPD hoodie with the sleeves pushed up over an ex-convict's worth of tattoos, and dark, snug jeans he couldn't bother tucking into heeled boots. That still, for note, don't quite have him crossing the six foot mark. Close, though. He's replying to a message on his phone as he prowls his way distractedly toward the bar, a muttered disculpe offered to the guy whose armload of drinks he nearly upends in passing.

"'course it does," Joe retorts, without missing a beat. But he's slipping down from the stool to follow Cristobal. The grip on his arm has him blinking, but he doesn't protest.

Then there's Ruiz, and he glances over, "Well, there you go. We been talkin' 'bout him too much, and it done drawn him outta hidin'," More loudly, to the man himself, "Hey, Javier." Not that he seems in need of rescue.

Maybe handsy Cris is just being handsy, but there seems to be a bit of an urgency to that grip. As Joseph calls out the man in question, Cris gives Ruiz the same motion of 'outside' as he did to Joseph and then keeps on hauling the sailor in that direction. "Good, it never hurts to have a second opinion." Once they're out in the night air, Cris turns to Joe with an explanation that sounds half accusation, and if Ruiz follows he'll get the same earful. "People were concerned. Some sort of rumor about a disappearance, same as that bartender. You know anything about it?"

It's official. Joseph is about to be mobbed. Or... wait, who's on whose side this round? Lex rolls her eyes at Cris's mention of balls, while Joe's offer of buying the unlabeled shot glasses in front of her earn him a slight smirk and nod. "Thanks." And then the devil walked in. One that everyone seems to want a piece of. "He said he's sorry." She raises her voice for the waiter's sake, still leaning against the bar counter as she watches Ruiz make his oh-so-graceful entry. A shallow breath is drawn as she watches Cris drawing Joe away, and already starting in on Ruiz. Both shot glasses are downed, one after the other, and then she's pushing away from said counter. "You boys... seem to have yourselves occupied."

Ruiz is just shoving his phone back into his pants pocket when he spots the other Mexican in the room, and that little motion that presumably means.. actually, what is he going on about? Get to the chopper? Huh? "..Alexandria. Hola." He sort of stares at the tattooed girl for a few long moments, like he thinks he might be seeing a ghost. Then cuts his eyes to Joe. Then back to Lex. Then back to Joe again. "Hey." The wink might be missed by anyone not the blond. Or maybe it isn't.

Joe has that look, like he's suddenly uncertain as to what's wise to say. Lex is bright enough to know all about that other world. "I think," he says, in the doorway that leads to the deck, and not going further, until Ruiz either decides to follow them both out or stay in and talk to the silver-haired girl. "It was one of those little unscheduled vacations that people take 'round here, you know?"

Cris works his tongue over the front of his teeth as Joseph explains or rather, not much at all, but whatever it is seems to suit Cris because he's giving a firm nod and another one of those slaps to the man's shoulders before he slips back into the bar. "Good news!" He announces, "Turns out it's just a little chafing from free balling. De la Vega. Good to see you man, your friends down at the gym missed you. You should check in with them." You know, so they can call off the search dogs, or whatever. The younger Mexican is eyeing the older vintage with a gaze hellbent on ferreting out any differences or changes. "C'mon, let's all drink to my balls."

That wink may have been missed by anyone but the blonde... but unfortunate for both blonde and Ruiz, it is not missed by Lex. And then there's Cristobal. Never did a wink appear so... subtle.

"... gentlemen," she's offering slowly, and the looks she's flashing between the three are... questioning, at best. Cristobal, at least, gets un unquestionable glare. He missed it, remember? Joe and Ruiz get another stare, and then she's looking toward Cris and his ongoing effort to usher the other two away. "Javier." It's not exactly in order, but at least she's not tossing racial slurs anymore? "Seems that... four is a crowd," she offers after a moment, not bothering to mask the awkwardness from her voice, as she offers Cristobal the sort of long-suffering look that one might give a screaming child in public. Because that Mexican doesn't have a gun.

The swarthier, vintage Mexican, unfortunately, does. Have a gun, that is. Everyone knows the asshole carries, on or off duty; he doesn't even particularly bother to hide that fact. And since Cris is ushering Joe back inside now, he resumes his path toward a seat at the bar, settling in with a slight wince and grunt as he puts weight on his left leg. "Three," he corrects Lex in a low murmur. "The saying refers to three being a crowd. Not four. You can stay, if you want. Buy you a drink. Tequila?" He tips a brow to her, then goes ahead and orders it anyway. "Tequila for the bitchy looking hot one. And I don't know what the fuck Cavanaugh's drinking tonight, but better make it another Mezcal for Cruz." He makes a gun with two tattooed fingers, points it at Cris. "I am not drinking to your balls."

"You know I don't like tequila," Joe retorts, without missing a bit. "And I ain't finished my Cuba Libre." He flashes his teeth at Ruiz, a feral little grin. Now it's his turn to wink. "Though I'd be one to argue that four's not a crowd so much as it is just gettin' started."

He comes sauntering back to reclaim his former stool, snags his drink, and lifts it to Cristobal. "Dunno about your balls, but I will drink to your very good health." And then he turns to Javier, "To your timely return from an untimely vacation." Lastly, to Lex. "To new friends in strange places."

"Oh, pero ellos dolor por ti." Cristobal retorts to Ruiz' little finger gun maneuver, clenching his fist to his chest to make to really sell the notion of ache. The bouncer hoists his glass to Joseph's toast and downs his first glass of mezcal if only to graciously make way for the second that's being ordered for him by the interim Chief Of Police. "But don't worry your pretty little head, you elven haired minx. I'm not sticking around for long. Then you can fulfill your dream of being sandwiched by two branches of the military."

"Leave the tequila to the ones who need it," Lex is countering Joe, and whatever 'oh shit' moment had her ready to bolt seems to be... dissipating. Somewhat. She remains at the bar's edge, where she first took her spot beside Joseph, and uses the edge of a booted foot to kick the stools into a position she can actually perch on. Nonetheless, she's downing the tequila shot as soon as the barkeep sorts out enough of the banter to pour the right drink for the right person. Elven haired minx? It's not until Cristobal gets to the part about sandwiching that Lex seems to realize she's being referenced, and after a deliberately long look first to Ruiz, and then Joseph, her eyes flicker back to Cristobal. "Christ. He always this jacked, or did somebody get into the sugar?" It's hard to tell who she's asking, as she's looking at Cristobal as the actual question is uttered. Rhetorical. Right? "You really should hurry. The older they get, the harder it is to keep them going." Hey. He started it.

Judging by the look de la Vega gives the blond and his feral little grin, the Navy boy has won this particular little salvo. "Mm." Hot and bitchy, indeed. He's still watching him throughout the toast that's made, until Cris starts going on about his balls aching. To which the cop makes a bit of a face, and goes for a slug of his tequila. Which he impressively manages not to spit out when the younger Mexican starts insinuating that Lex is after a threesome with he and Joe. He swallows, rubs at his beard with an inked thumb. Starts to say something to that harder it is to keep them going comment, then opts right the fuck against it. Nope, not gonna go there. Instead, murmured into his glass, "Don't talk like we're on such friendly terms. You think we ever forgot about Guadalcanal?"

Cris's comment has Joe suppressing a smile, but he can't manage to dim the gleam of amusement in his eyes. "I think you're projecting, Cruz," he notes, after a sip of his drink. He's nursing his, rather than tossing it back. "But everyone should have a fantasy."

Then he turns that puckish expression on Lex. "Fair enough," he says. "Though are you so bad off that tequila's the medicine to cure what ails you?" He lifts a hand to Ruiz, forestalling his reply. "I know, I know," he says to the cop. "It's the only medicine you've ever needed, but she's half your age and half your size, Papi." An aside to Lex, "He's always like that."

To Ruiz, he says, amused, "It's always been an uneasy partnership, the Navy and the Marines." On the macro and micro levels, it seems.

Cris tsks at Joseph, "Todos sabemos que no soy la carne en ese sándwich de fantasía, Boatswain." The man clicks his glass on the edge of the bar than lifts it to down this next round with a whoop! after it's swallowed. "It's all part of my natural charm, sweet cheeks." He assures Lex, "Just like drinking on another man's tab and splitting before I reciprocate. Still got a long night of work ahead of me." Even if he doesn't look dressed for it to be at the Cabaret. A reach to pinch Ruiz' cheek, "Call Kelly, yeah? Save me from wild goosechasing your ass when you're just up here drinking with Joe."

It is a damn good thing that Lex already swallowed her shot of tequila by the time Cristobal starts in with that Spanish. Spanish which, judging by the near-horrified look she's flickering Cristobal, she understood every word of. Or maybe she's a really good guess? Whether in response to said Spanish or on some unknown quest, Lex is on her feet by the time Cristobal is making that first clink of the glass, showing every sign of a runner as she glances between familiar and unfamiliar faces. Too many unknown factors here.

"She knows," Javier murmurs, then downs most of what remains in his glass, "perfectly well what I'm like." Because they used to fuck, is the short answer. Not that he's quite drunk enough to offer it up. But Joe's a smart boy, and where de la Vega's concerned, the options are either a) arrested 'em, b) fucked 'em with the very distinct possibility of c) both. He finishes off the tequila, nudges the empty away from him and calls for another, right as Cris goes in to pinch his cheek. It's swatted at ineffectually, with a grumble of, "Yeah, sure, it's probably one of the five hundred fucking text messages my phone blew up with." Including about two hundred from Alexander alone. The thing buzzes again, and he rolls his eyes.

"Quizás," is all Joe says on the matter, but his eyes are still bright. He's finally finished his own drink, but that's a relatively paltry amount of liquor to bring that flush to his cheeks. "One among his many virtues," he deadpans, re: Cris's charm. "Have a good night, Cruz."

For his part, he looks neither offended nor surprised....and he doesn't press Lex for an answer to his question. Once Ruiz has his next round, he's ordering another Cuba Libre. Not his usual, but perhaps he's cutting down.

It only makes it better that Lex knows precisely what he said, Cris' grin wicked and toothy as he turns to leave, parting with a vague: "So many beautiful things to call that marker in on."

Lex's gaze trails Cristobal as he makes his exit, before trailing back to bore a metaphorical hole into the bar in front of her. Apparently she's not actually breaking things now. Just... directing a bit of venom here and there. "Enough," she's snapping the word as Joe offer up his bit of Spanish, though she's offering the man an apologetic look even as she pushes away from the bar. Enough of... what? Hard to say, as her most likely target has already departed. "Good to see you're on your feet, Javier." The tone is believable enough, but the sentiment expressed may seem a bit odd, as she seems to be looking everywhere but Ruiz. "Seeyou around, maybe." Awkward, much? That would be why she is now walking toward the door.

The cop in question is staring fixedly at his empty glass, as if hoping it might magically replenish itself with tequila if he just believes hard enough. "Gracias, fue agradable verte de nuevo, Alexandria," he replies in his scratchy, smoke-roughened murmur. Her name is pronounced alay-HAN-dria, throatiness on the 'x'. Then after a glance at his watch, he digs out his wallet and tosses down a few crumpled bills to pay for their drinks, including the next round they won't be imbibing, seeing as, "We're leaving." And something else intimated in Joe's ear, the Mexican's fingers pushed into his hair briefly.

Bemusement in the cant of his brows, but Joe doesn't seem disposed to pry there, either. Not now. "Have a good evening," he wishes, though that farewell wasn't apparently to him.

The sailor attends gravely to that murmur, nodding. The blue eyes have gone hooded, almost sleepy, and he doesn't at all seem disposed to argue the implied command. If Ruiz wants to, they're going.

"Tu paciencia es apreciada," Joe replies, after a beat. He relinquishes his stool and his drink, without a backwards glance.