2020-07-13 - Friends in Odd Places

It's just wet enough out that it's worth keeping inside and off the deck. The lights of the ships moored and on the Harbor are haloed in the near mist. And Joe's keeping vigil in his usual place at the bar. At the rate he's going, he should give up and work here. He's certainly staked his claim on that particular space. At the moment, he's gazing thoughtfully out at the dark water, expression tired, a little solemn, as he swirls his drink in his glass, making the ice chime.

Cecil comes in from outside, in khakis and a blue button up shirt. He smiles as he sees a familiar face at the bar, and he heads over to Joseph. "I thought you might be here." He leans against the bar and holds up his hand briefly to get the attention of the bartender. "Just a pint of stout," he says. It's what he orders every time. Once the order is put in, he looks to Joseph. "How have you been?"

His hair's getting longer - Joe hasn't really cut it since he arrived in the depths of winter, and it's grown out from that severe crop into a tumble of loose curls, tinted with brass by the summer sun. And there's a set of new tattoos: across his fingers is emblazoned HOLD FAST in shades of ocean blue and black. They're old enough to have healed, but are still vivid and bright. The forensicist gets that lazy smile in reply. "I been better," he says, after a beat. "But overall, could be a lot worse. How 'bout you?"

'Look for the girl with the broken smile~!' .... yeah no. No Maroon 5. Feck that. No no no get that song out of your head right now

Cheesey songs aside, Meredith Hartwell is having a Shitty Day. To even see her from a distance is to see a slight young lady, collecting her wine.. because booze is a great idea when one feels shitty. Yeah, she has her glass of chardonnay and Merry is ready to just watch others having a good time, tonight. Her hair hangs in a thick braid, her body outfitted in a pretty sundress and skin already given over to a summer tan. She turns on a heel and looks at the room-at-large, debating where to wander. Was this a good idea? Should she have angst'ed at home with Ben & Jerry's and booze?

Cecil nods to the bartender with a quiet, "Ta," when the stout is handed over. He takes a drink, licks the foam from his lips, and tells Joe, "This town keeps me busy. Was up at three, called to a crime scene. It's getting to where it's easier to guess where a crime hasn't take place here." He takes another drink, and he gives Meredith a sidelong glance, with a small smile should she look his way. "I'm not complaining. It's good to keep busy."

"This place is pretty crazy," Joe admits, but his tone is almost fond. Gray Harbor is what it is, and he's adapting. "What was it?" he asks. "Or c'n you say? I realize I don't know what kinna confidentiality binds you," he allows. He's got some dark, rum-based concoction in hand....and he lifts it to Meredith in amiable greeting, offers a nod to her. He's seen her around before, at least.

It's out, at least, even if the bar's not particularly hopping this evening

The blonde notices the smile + glance her way in the manner of one who typically does so. Surely people just 'feel' eyes being cast their way and Merry looks up from her sad!drink, realizing that she has the sob sister look. She startles at Cecil's smile, offers a flutter of a smile in return.. and when Joe gives her a nod? Well, it'd be rude for her to just stomp past. She ambles over with her 'basic' wine, gives both men a glance. "Enjoying yourselves?" She has a sweet voice and is, yes, a local. Vanilla, unassuming, comfortable like fluffy socks.

"Suspicious death," Cecil says. "I can't say much more than that. Just that a seemingly healthy person was found dead by their adult son, who suspects foul play." He takes another drink. "Pretty tame stuff, really." His smile broadens as Merry comes their way. "I'm doing all right," he tells her. Then he offers his hand. "Cecil Harvey. How do you do?"

The sailor's grin broadens, and he's also extending a hand to her. "I am so far. What 'bout you? I'm Joe Cavanaugh." His accent, like Cecil's, isn't remotely local....though his isn't from quite as far abroad. Only the southeast coast, rather than another country entirely. "'ve seen you around before, haven't I?"

"I-I live here," Spoken in the tone of one whois not used to being noticed. Sure, she's there in a dress that may as well incorporate an Empire waist -- Merry is not known for being 'current -- but honestly? She lives beneath the radar. "Sure, we've crossed paths. I am generally boring and in bed by 9pm, and not here on a Sunday night--" Wait, did her eyes just become... shiny? Oh shit, tears. Merry blinks hard, presses a palm to her forehead, swigs her wine. "S-sorry, it's been a bastard of a week. My name is Meredith, but please just call me Merry... it's a pleasure to meet you both. M-may I join you?" Ugh, she feels so pitiful.

Cecil's brow furrows. "Of course," he says, and he scoots to make room between himself and Joe. "Please, dear, have a seat. Whatever is the matter, Meredith?" That English accent and kindly demeanor does rather give him the air of a gentle old librarian, never mind the fact that he's not really all that old.

"Oh, honey," Joe says, with ready sympathy. "You look like you really are havin' a bad time." And he also hitches his stool over to give her sufficient room to take her place at the bar. "What's wrong?" He even reaches into a pocket, comes out with a clean handkerchief in some boring blue plaid. Meredith's not the only one a bit old-fashioned, it seems. "And nothin' wrong with bein' early to bed, early to rise. Used to have to be that way myself."

BLESS YOU JOSEPH--

This gesture, and the overall friendliness of the pair, results in Merry lowering her arse down to seat herself in their midst. "I have been stood up." Well, there's the long and short of it. "I planned to meet this.. t-this person at the Waffle Shoppe earlier on and then--" Hiccup, sip, gulp. She sets her glass down. "I-I waited and they did not show. It was set up. I am certain the time was right but.." She shakes her head, braid swaying. "Cripes. pitiful... p-please tell me how you week has been, the pair of you. Distract me from something so silly." Merry bids as she wipes her eyes.

Cecil says, "It's not silly. It's disappointing. Just look at it this way, Merry, he's already weeded himself out, hasn't he? Now you don't have to waste your time getting to know someone who isn't worth it." He glances at Joe with a small nod. The handkerchief wins Proper English Approval. Such a valuable thing to have. "Let's see, my week. Well, I've been pretty busy with work, but that's good. I enjoy my work. I, er, visited a cattery to look at cats, but I haven't made a decision. That's about all, really."

And 'they' probably weren't a 'he', but that's okay. Joe's about the last person in this town to judge, considering. "I'm sorry to hear it. That's awful rude of 'em," he agrees. "But Cecil's right. Better to have it out of the way, if that's how they are."

He takes a sip of the whatever it is - there's lime in there, at least. "Me, I haven't done much. But then, I'm mos'ly retired, so I don't have to. Been sailin', fishin', pokin' at a new book, pondering doing some consulting work....but I think they really want me to be full-time, and I got no interest in goin' back to work on anything other'n my own schedule."

This is pure reassurance.... Merry isn't looking for much beyond that. Sure, she met this arsehole at a recent 'parent-teacher' meeting for one of her littles... that doesn't excuse them from.... well, this! She dabs her face with the offered handkerchief, inwardly appreciating such an oldshool gesture. She blinks as she lowers the square of fabric, gives Cecil a polite look: "Whatever do you do, for work?" What year is this? Seriously 2020? She brightens, "I love cats, but I've a dog at home. He is afraid of cats. Were there any possibilities, when you visited the cattery?" She asks of Cecil.

To Joe, next: "Consulting? A new book? Are you an author? What is it that you do?" She asks of Joseph, blue eyes wide and watchful. The lives of these two men are are far more interesting to Merry than a floundering love life.

Cecil inclines his head as he says, "I'm a forensic scientist. I work with law enforcement. Crime scenes, mostly, but I also work back in the lab. Unfortunately it means I keep odd hours. I work at the criminal's convenience, and they rarely do their thing 9 to 5." He takes a drink of his beer, then tells Joe, "Have you thought about writing true crime? I've consulted on a few books in my time."

The mention of pets makes him grin. "What kinna dog you got?" he wonders, content to make small talk, if it diverts her. The company's distracting him, in turn, from any possible ghosts that might rise up out of a bottle of rum.

He bobs his head at her question. "I'm retired Navy, but I write. Right now, it's fiction. Science fiction, in fact. Gotta novel published called Martian Dawn, workin' on the sequel. Just....slowly is all." He pulls a face. The question of true crime has him giving Cecil a thoughtful look. "Can't say it'd occurred to me," he admits "'s not a genre I know much about."

A glimmer (not literally) of awareness at the forensic scientist bit... blue eye rove in Cecil's direction at the mention of his livelihood. A very familiar calling.. though not on Merry's behalf. Sweet Merry with her simple life.. who in her life could possibly know Cecil's life? It's a long story. Her gaze softens, "That cannot be easy.. I would not have the resolve." She is silent then, sipping her drink of choice, grateful to be in the company of a retired author and a forensic scientist and not looking quite as much as a loser as she initially felt when coming here.

At Joe's query: "A... a golden retriever." A beat, "His name is Cheddar.." A blush, a glance into her glass. "He is four... and sweet and.... ridiculous, truly."

"There's a ginger tabby named Theodore that I got on with," Cecil tells Merry. "But he's got a sister named Esmerelda he's bonded with, so they have to go together, and I'm on the fence about whether or not I want two." He digs out his phone to show them both a picture of a young ginger tabby curled up with an equally young torbie. So he liked them enough to snag a photo at least. "I don't know if I've got all that much resolve," he mentions. "I find it helps to be methodical and to know when to detach from the moment. Crimes involving children bother me the most, but thankfully those aren't common."

To Joe, he says, "If I had any talent at writing, I would try true crime. The authors I've consulted with are usually interested in the process of solving the crime. The nuts and bolts, as it were."

The confession of the dog's name makes Joe laugh, but there's no real mockery there. "Fond of cheese, is he? Most dogs I've met are," he says, taking another swig of his drink. "Haven't owned a pet since I was a kid, I used to travel too much to make it viable. Like both dogs and cats....and I grew up on a farm with horses. My mother still raises Arabians, albeit with my little sister's help."

He cranes his neck to eye the picture of the cats. "They're real cute. If my boat were bigger, I might consider a ship's cat, but honestly, it's too damn small." He swirls his drink, absent-mindedly thoughtful, "I mean, it sounds interestin'. God knows it's a genre that sells like crazy."

Leave it to Merry to love that tangent. She eases in, the Pancake Asshat forgotten... "Aw, but they are lovely... I think you should take the pair, or look elsewhere." She eases back, eyes as soft as a doe's: "Never break up a bonded pair." Meredith admits gently.

Joe's laughter cranes her gaze back 'round to him, and Merry's smile returns.. slow, sure and earnest. "It's silly, yes? Honestly, when I had him as a puppy, his coat resembled the color of cheese... and of course, he once got into the fridge and helped himself to twenty-six pieces of Kraft cheese singles... he spit the plastic wrap out with all the daintiness of a lady discarding her tissue...." Blush. It's wine loosening her tongue, "... then he went and vomited a glut of orange fluff. O-oh.. no.. is that too much?" She presses her palm to her face, "That is why he is called Cheddar." She peers out from between slender fingers, "Arabians...? Oh wow!" .. so much more majestic than a derpy dog puking up processed cheese.

Cecil says agreeably, "I'd never split them up." He's no monster, and splitting up a pair of bonded kitties is right up there with tying a hapless damsel to a railroad track in his book. "I don't know. I'll go back later today and see if they're still there, and if they are, I'll put in an application. Esmerelda's a bit shy, but she'll probably warm up." He puts his phone away and comments, "And now I'm a middle-aged man who carries pictures of cats on his phone. Next thing you know, there'll be an Instagram page." He sighs quietly. Ah, what has his life become? "People are fascinated by crime," he says to Joe. "I think it's probably something primal that wants to know when and how bad things are happening. Same reason we gossip, really."

Joe chuckles again, at that story. "Sounds like a lot of Goldens I know, really. Sweet, but not the sharpest pencils in the box. Hard-workin' as hell, though, when they're field dogs. My dad used to have one called Rusty, back when I was a kid." It's apparently his turn to share pictures, because now he's pulling out his phone, hastily paging through pictures. What he turns around is an image of a silver-haired woman, standing by the head of a beautiful dark bay horse, her hand on its muzzle. "That's her favorite, Jagger. He's smart as hell, comes when you whistle, just like a dog."

Cecil just gets a sympathetic grin. "It's inevitable," he agrees, re: the Instagram page. "Yeah, they do. Apparently it's a genre purchased far and away mostly by women. Like the inverse of romance, I guess."

The blonde's laughter is easy and sweet, not borne from a cruel space. "There is nothing the matter with that," Says this twenty-something with a sixty-year-old soul. "All of the best things; the truly amazing wonderful things take time." Damned straight she has said such a thing to the children whose care is entrusted to her. A kind smile to Cecil, "Good luck... I've a feeling those cats will see a better life with you.. and likewise." Merry is a firm believer in animals enriching lives. She pulls her glass closer, having spied someone waving to her across the room. It's a work colleague; go figure teachers really know how to knock them back.

She is quiet and grateful, easing her body in; back and forth to look upon the photos provided to her upon cellphone screens. Meredith smiles with pleasure, "Jagger... how beautiful/..." A whisper, "Thank you for showing me... thank you for taking my mind off of a truly unsavory night.."

When does a twenty-something speak so carefully, so.... well, like an old woman? Merry pushes back and stands, "I am being called... by a girl friend. Thank you for letting me sit here, even for a little while. It has cheered me up." Merry means it. Eventually she will flutter off to join this friend, buoyed by images of kitties and Arabians.

Cecil says warmly, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Merry. Thank you for gracing us with your presence for awhile." Those are easy words to come off sardonic, but Cecil's delivery is just so sincere. Truly, he is missing his calling as someone's kindly British uncle. Glancing to Joe, his brows lift a touch. "Now that, I did not know. I don't do a lot of reading of true crime myself, because it's like knowing how the sausage is made. I just point out every niggling inaccuracy and it drives me nuts. But I'm not surprised it's popular."

She's walked off with his handkerchief, but apparently he's writing it off as lost in a good cause. Meredith's bid farewell, then he tucks away the phone. "Yeah, turns out it is. I don't do a lot myself, either, really. And.....yeah, I imagine a lot of the popular, sensationalist stuff would be maddening. It's like me reading or watching certain kinds of SF. The part of you that knows better just pipes up and won't shut up."

Cecil nods morosely. "Fact always ruins fiction. I think one of the reasons I like science fiction is because I don't know too much about technology. I know what I use, and I understand basic ideas, but you can sell me a tricorder because I don't know whether or not it's impossible." He turns slightly toward Joe. "If I asked you what you thought the most common vital element in a forensic investigation is, what would you say?"

Joseph lifts his hands. "Got no idea, to be honest. Not a clue at all. I mean, it's more....for me, anyhow, when it's tryin'a be reasoned out, as opposed to space opera where you just handwave FTL and relativity, or whatever. Though I got respect for those who at least nod at it." More of the drink disappears - he doesn't have even the beginnings of a flush, though. Must've been nursing it all evening.

"Most people will say DNA," Cecil says, "and DNA is certainly important, especially in cases where there are multiple suspects. However, more often than not, it comes down to fibers. Something that's so easily overlooked, that most criminals don't even think about. If I can find a fiber at the crime scene that matches, say, the rope you've got in the trunk of your car, that's it for you, isn't it. Rope fibers, clothing fibers, strands of hair. Back in Texas, we caught someone whose dog's hair was found on the victim. Turns out he'd had her in the back seat of his car, where his dog rode." He shrugs a shoulder. "Fibers. A forensic scientist's best friend."

Joe's listening, thoughtfully. "Huh. I wouldn't've guessed...but that's never been my field of science. My original training was as an engineer, and part of me keeps being tempted to go back to the field....but Jesus, I'm spoiled by being retired. That's right, you were in Texas. Man, Texas I don't miss so much. Parts of it were pretty, but....the parts that ain't're as ugly as they come, right?"

Cecil, master of diplomacy, says, "It's certainly different from England." He couldn't possibly say it in a nicer tone, and if one were to guess he's glad to be out of that damn place, one would be absolutely correct. "Washington reminds me more of home, but not too much. I don't miss London traffic. And I think Americans, for the most part, are delightful. I'm a big fan of opitimism."

Joe apparently sees right through that attempt, but only grins like a fox. "I'll bet not. Never spent a lot of time in London, but when I was there, yeah, traffic was a bear. Optimism, misguided or no, is both our blessing and our curse, isn't it? How long did you say you'd been over here?"

"It's been a decade now," Cecil says. "I've been back to visit, but I've resided in the United States. I technically gained citizenship through marriage, but the marriage didn't last, so I don't know what my status is. They haven't seemed inclined to kick me out yet." He takes another drink of his stout, sitting at the bar with Joe. "When did you spend time in London?" he asks. "Was it long?"

August wanders in from outside, a simple squall shell in black and orange over his work clothes of a black, green, and white plaid camp shirt, dark gray tee, denim jeans, and heavy hikers. He knocks the hood back and meanders towards the bar, angling in Joe's direction once he spies him. Cecil he vaguely recalls from some months ago, so he gives him a nod of greeting as he draws closer. "Evening, gentlemen," he says. There's a small scratch on his neck, probably from an errant tree, and a few dirt and greenery stains on his pants. Such is the life of an arborist.

"Couple summers doin' study abroad when I was in college," he allows. "And ....how long were you married? I think once you got it for real they don't take it back. It's only iffy if you're...like, only on green card status."

August's appearance has him looking over with a grin. "Hey there, Roen. Come over an' take a load off, why don'tcha. You met Cecil here before, right?" He beckons the arborist with a flick of a hand....and then he's summoning the bartender. He, at least, needs more to drink.

Cecil nods to August amiably. He finishes his stout and signals the bartener for a second. "Evening," he says to August. To Joe, he says, "Four years. I was already here legally, so the marriage was for the sake of the marriage which, upon reflection, wasn't a great idea for either of us. She wanted the white picket fence, I would rather have bamboo shoots shoved under my fingernails than mow a lawn in suburbia. The job was an issue, too. Up at all hours, late nights in the lab. She wanted children, I was nowhere near ready to be a father. There are just a lot of reasons it didn't work. It ended amiably, at least."

August makes use of the summoned bartender to order a black and tan. "Thank you, Cavanaugh, I shall do just that." He sits with a wince, sighs. After a moment to consider Cecil, he says, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure we've met before. But," he sets a hand on his chest, "August Roen, since it's probably been a bit." He helps himself to a couple of pretzels from a communal basket, glances between the two as Cecil continues his story. "Mmm, doesn't always work out," he says with a nod both sympathetic and amiable.

There's a rueful little purse of Joe's lips, at that. "I never did get married," he says, quietly. "Engaged, once, but she died. I honestly wonder if I coulda pulled it off. My old careers were hell in terms of the strain on marriages, both of 'em. I mean, I can be glad I didn't marry hasty and young as so many officers do. Military culture encourages a very, very old-fashioned mode of things...." He shakes his head. "Never did want children."

The rum concoction is apparently a Cuba Libre, at least, that's what he orders.

News of criminal activity at the Casino likely hasn't quite officially broken yet, but anyone with a police scanner (or their ear to the grapevine) probably already has a decent sense that shit's gone down earlier this afternoon. And certainly if anyone's in the know, the (interim) Chief of Police certainly is. Which is precisely who rolls on into the Twofer, intent on getting himself something to drink. Preferably something starting with 'tequi' and ending with 'la'. The Mexican's in snug black jeans and a black tee shirt with the logo worn right off, heeled boots and a ball cap. He's already digging for his wallet as he heads for the bar.. with a slight hitch to his step.

Cecil is handed his stout, and he raises it to August. "I remember. Cecil Harvey. It's good to see you again." He takes a drink. To Joe, he says, "I think I'm ready, barely, to commit to two housecats. That's about where I am these days. Someone who is self-sufficient and won't ask me how my day went. Some of the things I see, I don't want to talk about."

Speaking of which, in walks the (interim) Chief of Police, who may or may not know how Cecil spent his afternoon. It starts with 'cri-' and ends with '-me scene.' A bloody one. This is why he drinks, Ruiz. "Captain," he says with professional aplomb.

"Sorry to hear that," August says, a small frown creasing his features. "About your fiance." He sighs, nods in comiseration about the early marriage thing in the military. "Maybe half the guys in my unit were engaged, a lot of them married, some with kids already. Mind you," he gestures at Joe with his glass, "I'm happy to make up for you not having kids. You can babysit for me and give them back at the end of the day, get a full night's sleep." A small smile for Cecil. "That's where I was, for a while. Well, but it was goats and ducks and chickens and geese for me." A small shrug, as if one can compare a pair of house cats to the varitable farm August keeps.

His head turns the second Ruiz comes in, and all his good humor fades. He can feel that injury from across the room, and it makes him frown. "Hey," he says once Ruiz is a little closer. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I couldn't even do that, not even pets," Joe says. "I was out on the road one day of every three....and when I was home, the training schedule was fuckin' punishing. Then I was in Russia for more'n two years...."

He tips his glass at August. "'xactly. And how many of 'em ended in divorce? I didn't even seriously think about somethin' steady 'til I got to Houston." A beat, and he adds, "Mind you, I like kids. Got a whole slew of nieces and nephews, and they're lots of fun, but yeah....never really thought I was meant to be a father."

But Joe's going silent, still, and he fixes on Ruiz like a dog orienting on its master's footstep. "What happened, mi rey?" he asks, quietly, even as he kicks out the stool Meredith vacated for Ruiz to claim.

The cop's wallet comes out, and a crumpled bill's extracted, and sent across the bar. "Mm, tequila, por favor." It's smoothed between two fingers inked right up to the knuckles, then pushed forward toward the 'tender. August, after a few moments, is addressed with a simple, "Hola, Roen." He looks over at the botanist, then the forensic specialist nearby when the younger man greets him as well. A furrowed brow that smoothes eventually into tentative recognition. "Hayes? No. Harvey, right?"

The stool that's nudged toward him gets a tick of dark eyes, which lift to Joe a moment later as he eases onto the proffered seat with a wince. "Accident at the range." Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Cecil glances at Ruiz's leg briefly, and he says not a word about it. Instead, he says with a small smile, "Harvey, yes. Cecil Harvey. I see you know Roen and Joe? Joe's my token friend in town. I always know where to find him." He takes a drink of his stout. The talk of children causes him to shake his head. "I'm sure children are lovely, and I'm sure I must have been one at some point, but I have no idea what to do with them. Unless they're interested in biochemistry and microscopes, that is."

Of the marriages of his comrades-in-arms, August says, "Oh hell, most of 'em," and has a drink of his beer in honor of kids tricked into marriage before they were ready. "I should check up on a few of them, see how they are." A small grin, despite the sobering reality of Ruiz's mood. "Being an uncle's amazing, isn't it." He gestures at Cecil. "See, they get there eventually. I mean, some of 'em. My oldest niece is into sports and video games, the middle one's a cellist and loves to play Minecraft, and the young one's still sorting herself but she can play a mean game of Mario Kart. So, you know, sometimes I just sit and listen."

August watches Ruiz approach as he relays all of this to Joe and Cecil, arches an eyebrow for the baldest face lie he's ever witnessed being said out in public for God and everyone to partake of. "Mmmm. Rookies aren't what they used to be, I guess," he murmurs. His jaw sets for a half a second at the wince, and he turns his attention to ordering some tots for everyone to share.

Joe purses his lips at that....and pointedly does not call Ruiz out on it. This is the public story, and the cop will stick to it. He just nods, somberly. A fond smile at August's comments. "Yeah. Most of mine're a whole lot of fun. All my siblings have at least one kid, most more'n one. Got a whiner or two in the bunch, couple of little prigs, but....you love 'em anyway."

His expression remains wry, thoughtful. But....he's not getting this call from Itzhak in a panic. Not being summoned to the hospital, or even to their house. So ....surely it's not that bad, right?

The door the patio opens up, Cris typically choosing the seaside route of entering the bar, and the man enters in a cloud of exhaled smoke as the last puff from a flicked away cigarette. He eyes the usual suspects at the bar and looks as if he might turn around and press back out again but then his stomach rumbles to remind him why he chose this particular gin joint tonight. He goes to stand by the server's station, waiting for attention without calling it to himself.

Token friend? That little turn of phrase gains a curious look from de la Vega. From Cecil to Joe, and back to Cecil again, like he's trying to parse something there. "He does like to drink," is his contribution to the veracity of the younger man's claim as to where to find him. And by like to drink he really means can drink me under the table. Which is no small feat, because the Mexican can just about drink his own weight in Captain Morgan's rum. True fact.

Then August is talking about video games and other assorted shit he doesn't care about, and since his tequila's conveniently arrived, he turns to take a sip of it. "Oh, fuck off, Roen," he murmurs once he's swallowed. Courtesy of the rookie comment, presumably. Unfortunately for Cruz, he's spotted fairly easily by the cop, and.. well, simply watched for the time being, while he drinks. He'll leave the garrulousness to the others.

"I don't get out a lot," Cecil explains to Ruiz. "I don't really know anyone else in town outside of work. Joe's somewhat reliable at least in terms of location, and his company is pleasant." Man, he wasn't kidding about being standoffish in terms of relationships. He might end up being more aloof than his cats. Still, his demeanor is amiable and at ease. He glances at Cris curiously, though it's Roen he addresses. "Listening I can do. Comprehension is another matter."

August sighs at Ruiz. "I'm almost positive we've had this conversation about how I did all my bad boy fucking in college." He sees Cris come in, frowns. "Or maybe that was Cruz I said that to." He ponders that, shrugs. When he sees Cris head to the server's station, he indicates his newly arrived basket of tots, bobs his eyebrows at Cris. 'Don't you go hiding over there' those brows say.

He then half-turns to Joe, nodding, and explains to Cecil, "So, when they're young--say, under twelve--it's often enough to be interested and listening. It's fine if you don't know a fucking thing about Frozen or understand why Unikitty is hanging out with shady scientists. It's enough that you're interacting with them about a thing they like." He has some beer. "After that, well, it helps to actually know what's going on so you can hold a conversation. But now we're talking almost teens, that's a different story."

His attention drifts back to Ruiz for a moment. He might be thinking the same thing Joe is; no panicked texts from anyone like Alexander or Eleanor or Itzhak, so, everything's okay. Right? Right.

Indeed. Joe's got enough rum in him to get that faint, betraying flush. At least he hasn't launched into some interminable story. Cristobal's presence does not go unnoticed. "Hey, Cruz," he says, gently. But that's all - the younger man has that aura like company might not necessarily be welcome, and he's not drunk enough to go be a pest.

Well, that was how Itzhak described him. Certain age, drinks like a fish....and very much a fly in this particular bar, door to the land of horrors below not withstanding. "Thank you," he says, gently. "Like to think I'm not a complete pain in the ass."

Cristobal is dressed like a typical vato banger, jeans that sit a little too low on his hips with a white wife beater tank and a pair of cowboy boots, his wallet strung on a chain to where its tucked in his pocket. He makes a noise as he sucks against his teeth at the silent invitation from August and he saunters over with a swagger that you don't get from being shot in the hip, RUIZ. He eyes the Captain turned interim Chief for a moment and then drops an arm over August shoulder to snag a one of the offered morsels. "Knew you always wanted me to finger your tots, Roen." And then gives the man a noisy smooch to the cheek. "Boys, which way's it hanging tonight?"

Vyv is definitely not a usual suspect where this bar is concerned, but there's only so many options in town and while the piano bar may be more his style, it's also a lot farther away and for some reason there's an unusual amount of traffic involved in getting a person there and back this evening. Hm. And he's definitely not going to the Pourhouse without both strong reason and protest, so TiBS it apparently is. Today's suit is a three-piece wine-red chalk-stripe, perfectly cut as usual, with the boldness of the pattern offset by the crisp white shirt and pocket square. Cognac brogues, simple bronze cufflinks. It is not a notably TiBS sort of ensemble, but he doesn't seem to notice or at least care if it's out of place. He does notice the assembled throng, most of which gets an assessing scan that is not particularly impressed with the result, but heads toward the bar nonetheless. The knot of August and Joseph and those accompanying them gets an extra moment's look and the faintest of upward turns at one corner of his mouth, along with a rather less faint head-tilt of as-yet-silent greeting. It's not until he's actually passing within coversational range that he adds a simple, "Good evening." Which is plenty for the accent to be obvious to anyone who didn't already know to expect it.

Ruiz pauses mid-sip of tequila to tender a puzzled look August's way. He finishes swallowing, sets the glass down with a solid thump, and swipes the back of his thumb across his mouth before responding, "First off, I'm pretty sure I said fuck off, not fuck me, so I don't know what you're trying to imply, Roen. Second, you've only told me that about eight thousand times, like you think it'll make you feel better for getting married and settling down with a perfectly nice girl. How's that going, by the way? She hasn't gotten cold feet yet, has she?"

Cris just gets an odd look as he saunters over and asks his question. Which he seems at odds, as to how to answer it. Never mind that he was shot in the leg, not the hip, CRUZ. "No," is his eventual answer. Which makes no sense. Or perfect sense, depending on how you look at it.

Cecil chokes a little on his beer when Cris lays down that smooch, and Ruiz's conversation with August leaves the Brit looking somewhat scandalized. Maybe more than a little. While Ruiz may not be Cecil's boss per se, he definitely has a lot of pull where Cecil's concerned. He's never really encountered the man outside a professional setting before. So the egghead needs a moment to set down his beer and gather his composure. He glances to Vyv with a tremulous smile and says, "Yes, quite. How do you do." Ten years in the US and he still sounds like he's from London.

August leans his head delicately for the kiss to the cheek, like it's his right. "Why else would I buy these but to bribe all of you into keeping company with me." He has one himself, shifts the basket so it's in easy reach for Cecil and Joe as well. "You're nothing remotely like a pain in the ass Cavanaugh."

He coughs a laugh at Ruiz, flicks a glance Cecil's way when he hears the tell-tale sound of him choking. Oh. Right, they have a professional acquaintance. Well whatever. "Eight thousand times, as if you're so lucky to have had that many opportunities. Once, maybe twice." The rest of what Ruiz says earns him one of August's sad, put upon sighs. "I get it. You don't want to be talked to. Fair enough. But no, she hasn't wised up just yet. Time will tell." He gives Vyv a nod of greeting, chases it with a concerned half-frown of of 'I absolutely wouldn't have expected to see you here under pretty much any circumstances, is something wrong'.

"Oh, y'know, slightly to the left," Joe says, lifting his drink to Cris in greeting. He's not grinning, not with Ruiz clearly hurt by something. Cue the internal chorus of 'fuck this town, amirite?'

Then he turns an expectant blue stare on August. Not that he's really dying to know all about the travails of their wedding planning, but hey....

Vyv, however, is very much not a regular here, even less than Dante. Joe greets this vision with a cheerful, "Hey there," though, and no comment. Trying not to smirk, presumably at Cris's antics. "To you," he says to August. "Maybe."

"No? That because you tuck?" Cris says to Ruiz' bit of answer, innocent as pie, if that pie is from Mrs. Lovett's after Sweeney Todd took over. He turns to August to eye the side of the man's face, arm still slung over his shoulder after all. "I wonder why that is." That de la Vega isn't in a chattering mood. His arm gives Mr. Branch & Bole a squeezed hug, "Thanks for filling the bank." Murmured down to his ear, though his eyes are tracking Vyv like someone just threw chum in the water. "Saved by the Bell, boys." The dinner bell, because the waitress is bringing out a to-go order. That wink is meant for Joseph, but no doubt Cecil gets caught in the friendly fire.

That, there? Cecil choking on his drink? Might have just made de la Vega's night. He finishes off his own tequila, checks the time on his watch, and starts pushing off his stool and to his feet. Slight wince again; training accident, dontcha know. "Well, you'd better invite me to the bachelor party," he murmurs to August, rapping knuckles against the other man's shoulder. "Estaré encantado de ayudarte a salir con estilo." There's an exaggerated wink, a lingering touch for Joe's back as he passes, and his phone is dug out of his jeans pocket as he heads for the exit.

Something is terribly wrong, yes! ...Vyv does not have anything to drink. He solves that by ordering a whiskey, and otherwise looks like he has, at the least, not been shot in the leg recently. So a better day than some. He gives the barstool a quick suspicious glance but, as it does not appear to have been left in a state likely to be either contagious or staining, deigns to slide onto it and get comfortable, turned just enough to watch the group of more-familiar people nearby. It's the least familiar of them all that really catches his attention, though, brows up a bit at Cecil's accent. More than the choking, even! "Oh, hello. Not a local either, then, are you. Vyv Vydal, how do you do." They are not questions.

The ghost of a smile has returned along with the arrival of his drink, and there's a bit more amusement watching the interactions there, wink and all. The wince from the cop gets an extra moment of focus as the man takes his leave. More fun to watch the winking and such, really, though both Ruiz and Cristobal get glanced after as they go. "Everyone still living in the proverbial interesting times?" he inquires of those remaining. As if this were a perfectly normal place for him to be.

Color comes to Cecil's cheeks as he's swept up in the wink. Surely it's not intended for him and surely the coloring is coincidence. He stares straight ahead, kind of how people who are shell-shocked do. Then, sitting ramrod straight on his barstool, he finishes off his stout in several long gulps. Then he sets down the pint glass and says, "Captain," with a nod toward the departing Ruiz. It's like if he can just be more proper to compensate, everything will be all right.

Vyv is greeted with a polite smile, somewhat stricken, but very polite. "Cecil Harvey. What a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vydal. I take it you know these... people?" He gestures to the others there, and he says 'people' the way someone else might say 'miscreant.'

"Always glad to provide," August asides to Cris, raising his beer to him. Saved indeed. "Go feed yourself, you don't eat enough."

He shifts to sit on a bartool properly. Catching that look from Joe, he says, "It's been fine, we're doing things small. Immediate friends and family for the wedding only. Stag and bridal shower in Seattle, probably. We'll do a town reception once we're back. Everything else is sorted. Chuppah, rings, location," he waves a hand. "Nice and low key, nothing fancy. Who needs to go into debt on a wedding.

"And of course you're invited you ornery brat," he adds as Ruiz raps his shoulder. There's a shift like nudge him in the calf, except, injury, so he withholds for the moment. "Itzhak's my best man, you think he's doing any of this without you?"

His attention shifts to Vyv once Cecil calls them 'people'. August has to work to keep his face straight. This man is making his wedding cake. Can't piss him off.

That may not have been intended as a summons for Joe. But he's apparently decided it is. He's rising and offering his farewells, taking care of his usual tab and tip (the latter generous, but not absurdly so), and sauntering out after the departing cop. Not in haste, but not lingering, either.

Cris might be muttering something low to Ruiz as he passes, or he might just be eyeing the man openly like he's begging for a fight. Half of one and six dozen of another. He flicks over some cash for the food and takes his plastic bag of styrofoam containers. "I never realized that 'youse guys' would give my abuela a run for her money when it came to my diet. Later fools." He's on his way out, and for as quietly as he entered he's leaving the opposite. "Stag party is going to be EPIC." Because yes, somewhere along the line, he invited himself.

That particular tone on the collective noun has Vyv's eyes brightening faintly, though if it affects the lips that's hidden behind his glass and ensuing sip. Huh, the whiskey almost matches his shoes. That's probably farther than he'd be going intentionally on the coordination. "Mn. Yes, we're acquainted," he confirms to Cecil, the light in the eyes seeping into the tone and taking a little edge off the wryness that appears to agree with the other Brit's undertone. "I'll be making his cake," a slight tilt of the head toward August, "His fiancee won it in an auction. And then proposed to him on a piano at my friend's birthday party. It was quite dramatic. And that one there's a spaceman, I'm informed," another little headtilt, this one toward the back of the departing Joseph. "My boyfriend is extremely impressed." The lightness of the tone continues. "It's a small town; I think everyone knows everyone sooner or later."

Cecil glances between August and Vyv, and he nods as he follows along. "That's rather sweet," he says regarding the proposal. He toys with his empty glass as he considers a third pint, but for the moment he decides against it. "You're a baker, then? And yes, Joe's something of a spaceman, I've been led to understand." Then Vyv mentions a boyfriend, and normally Cecil would take this kind of thing in stride, but he's having a night, so he says, "Ah, I see. I have cats. Well, no. Not yet, but I will."

"It had better be," August calls after Cris. Then mutters to himself, "Only one I ever plan on having," and finishes off his beer. Thinking of the Control Pad, he belatedly says to Vyv, "Extremely interesting. But not totally bad, for all that."

He weathers the revelation of how he wound up engaged with a wry smile. "It was kind of a surprise for both of us." He bobs his eyebrows, expecting that Cecil either knows about the weird magic of the town, and so will get it, or doesn't, and so will think August is crazy. Both of these are entirely reasonable conclusions. He snorts, amused at the comparison of a boyfriend to cats. "Cats are easier to manage than boyfriends." This seems to be an indication of approval.

He tugs his phone out of his jacket in response to a ping, swipes out a response and pockets it again. "Looks like it's time to head home." He settles up with the bartender, pushes the last of the tots towards Cecil and Vyv (but mostly Cecil because he figures Vyv is unlikely to touch them). "Good to see you both again. Please feel free to drop by the shop if you need anything plant- or tree-wise." He eases off the barstool, tips his head to the pair, and heads on out into the misty summer night.

"Pātissier, yes," Vyv replies, more clarification than correction, "I run the pātisserie downtown." The accent disappears on the French words, or rather, it switches to one that sounds like it belongs to them. One corner of his mouth quirks up a bit farther again, and he adds with no unnecessary modesty, false or otherwise, "It's very good. You ought to drop by. We do a tea, should you get homesick." The delivery suggests it might qualify as teasing, but it's at least half serious as well.

August's remark on ease of management gets a faint snort from the chef in turn. "Generally, yes. And I'd been considering intentionally getting one of those. Good choice, bar the shedding." That bit to Cecil, and after a beat, "The cats, that is, not that shedding's favourite for either. A roomba can only do so much." Alas. He sips his drink again, giving it a slight lift toward August as the botanist takes his leave, and watches him go thoughtfully for a moment before looking back to Cecil. "So aside from cat wrangling and finding oneself unexpectedly surrounded by people," and yes that is definitely the 'miscreants' tone, "in barely-adequate bars, what is it you do?" It is starting to get a bit late. But he's still got some drink left.

"I haven't wrangled any cats yet," Cecil says. "I'm just going to put in an application for a pair. I'm too busy for a dog, and they can keep each other entertained while I'm at work." Just then, his phone chimes, and he answers it. "This is Cecil." He gives Vyv an apologetic expression. So rude, to phone while socializing. "You found something?" he says into the phone. "Great, I'll be right there." He hangs up, and he rises from the bar as he says, "That place is yours? I keep meaning to stop in. I think I will. I, ah, I'm a forensics specialist. "I spent most of the day at a crime scene, so I just popped in for a pint while waiting on some results from the lab." With a wry look, he adds, "I'm a bit of a nerd, but it keeps me busy. Sorry to drink and run, but..." But that's just what he does. Not literally running, but he heads out quickly. The lab must've found something good.