2020-07-23 - Real Friends Are Willing to Threaten You

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : Interim Chief.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : Clayton. What the fuck do you want.

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : I wanted to know if Cavanaugh was recovering.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : He's going to be fine.

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : Good. I'm glad. He seems nice. Have you had any other trouble? With Miss Celeano or anyone?

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : I.. no, why?

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : Just checking. We should keep an eye on the people we care about.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : She came to see me a couple of days ago. I'll check in on her again. Thanks for the reminder.

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : Of course. And you? Are you okay?

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : The hell does it matter to you?

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : You are my friend. Why wouldn't it matter?

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : (dots, then nothing)

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : We need to talk. I'm angry at you. But you're still my friend, and I want you to be okay.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : Talk. About what

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : What you did.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : (more dots, and more nothing)

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : (a couple of minutes later) I did what I had to do, Alexander.

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : That's what people always say.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : I told you.. I told you I wasn't a good person, Alexander.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : I told you.

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : Yes. I believe you. You're still my friend. And we still need to talk.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : I don't know what there is to talk about.

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : Sarcasm?

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : No, I.. look. We can talk. If you want. But you have to stop fucking calling me Interim Chief, or I will fucking hurt you

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : I want. I think I said that. Yes. I just scrolled up. I said it. And I'll stop calling you Interim Chief if you stop refusing to look at me.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : Don't you fucking get mouthy with me.

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : Or?

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : (many dots, then obvious backspacing)

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : Nope, not letting you bait me. We can talk. Where and when.

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : ::smiley face emoji:: Gray Pond. There are some picnic tables near the forest. And whenever you have time. You're busy, I know. I'll slip my watcher.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : All right. And what the fuck do you mean by your watcher?

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : Kelly has Cruz following me around. It's fine.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : Cruz? He has Cruz following you? Why?

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : If I have to guess, a combination of making sure I don't get unexpectedly killed, and trying to keep me from doing anything that will get me expectedly killed.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : Well I guess on the bright side, if Cruz is busy watching your ass, he can't harass me.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : Just make sure your babysitter stays home, if we're going to talk. Yeah?

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : Does he harass you? And yes.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : Monaghan put him on the payroll to keep the cops in line, so yeah. He harasses me.

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : Interesting.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : Anyway, tomorrow after I get off shift work for you?

(TXT to Ruiz) Alexander : That should be fine. Thank you, Javier.

(TXT to Alexander) Ruiz : (after a couple minutes) See you soon, Alexander.

The next day is a hot one, as the summer's proven to be thus far. By the time Javier gets off shift around eight, it's cooled off enough that they can at least find some respite in the shade. Which is where the cop's parked himself, at a picnic table, halfway through a glazed donut, while a congregation of seagulls looks on from the ground (with one bold bird having hopped up onto the table itself). He's in a button-down shirt with the sleeves turned up to his elbows, dark pants and heeled boots; a slight sheen of sweat is visible on his swarthy skin, and traced through his dark hair. Not that it seems to be bothering him. He's probably accustomed to worse.

Alexander arrives, slouched and furtive as he always is, and dressed slightly too warm for the weather, in a flannel button down and faded black jeans. His hair is damp with sweat, and most of the people he passes give him a wide berth; Gray Pond is popular in the summer, and there are fireflies in the air, flashing their bottoms and being chased by children closer to the water. His expression is...well, it's Alexander, so his expression is his default of paranoid calculation and resigned acceptance of the state of the world. He doesn't brighten when he sees Ruiz, but rather skirts the congregation of seagulls, and moves to sit down beside him. He eyes the seagull. "Did you bring enough donuts for everyone?" he asks. "Or at least for me?"

Javier's dark eyes track the interloper steadily as he approaches, but perhaps predictably, there's no smile from him either. No sign of recognition, no shift in his demeanor. Just the slightest stitch of tension through his shoulders when he recognises who it is. Because how could he not?

Then another bite is taken out of his donut, as Alexander claims the spot next to him. He's got a cigarette, too, scissored between two fingers of his donut-holding hand. And he pauses to drag off it before responding. "Nope." The seagull eyes Alexander in return. "Look, this is my fucking lunch. You want a bite?"

Alexander returns the seagull's stare. "I don't have any food," he tells it. "I'm sorry." He sounds sincere, even actually guilty, that he did not remember to bring anything with which he could feed the ravenous horde of skyrats. He gives the donut a thoughtful look. "Not if it's your lunch. For someone who can cook better than I can, you eat poorly." His gaze moves from the donut to the man's face, staring with that fixed expression that means he's thinking.

Of course Alexander's sincere in his apology to the seagull. Because that's the sort of man he is. Crazy fucking Clayton. And Javier is the sort of man who'll execute someone with a round to the head while he's on his knees, and unarmed, and posing no real threat to anyone.

The remainder of the donut vanishes into his mouth, icing licked off inked fingers and dusted off his beard. He chews and swallows while watching the pond, rather than Alexander. "Didn't have time for anything else today. I'm.." He brushes his hand off on the thigh of his pants, then goes for a drag off his smoke. It seems to settle his nerves a bit, but he still won't look at the other man. "Anyway, talk."

Alexander frowns. "You're very busy. But you should eat," he chides, his voice soft. It remains soft, and he doesn't look away, as he says, "You murdered that man. He was down. Disarmed. It was murder." A long pause, where his hands curl into fists and he lowers them onto his thighs to keep them out of sight. "Why?" The seagull hops forward a little, trying to see where the hands disappeared to, just in case they're hiding food. Alexander ignores it.

"I should do a lot of things," murmurs the cop quietly, dark eyes squinting up slightly as a sliver of sun melting below the horizon catches him slantwise. Crow's feet sit heavily on his weathered face, and linger for a time as he smokes and thinks. And seems to decide, eventually, to qualify that with a response. "I murdered that man," he agrees, voice a rough scrawl in the warm gloaming. The why gains a faltering start, stop, silence.

"Yes," Alexander agrees, calmly. It's true, after all; although it could be argued that both of the men sitting at the table should do things that they don't do. And he bobs his head, once, at the statement. And he waits. He waits with a patience that's most unlike him, although he doesn't stop staring at Ruiz, and there's something raw and open in his face: a terrible sort of yearning sadness.

The silence that sits between them is a visceral thing. It breathes, it lives, it bleeds, and then it dies when Javier finally turns to look at the younger man. He meets his eyes, dark to even darker; the cop's are grey, in truth, much as they seem black from a distance. "Asesiné a ese hombre porque era todo lo que me quedaba," he tells him. Gently, almost. Smoke trails from his lips and nose, a lingering trace of it, and then another drag taken of his cigarette. He doesn't take his eyes off Alexander now.

"Porque Reyes ha hecho de esto un juego. Un juego que tengo que jugar para ganar, o no jugar en absoluto." He tips his head in a fraction closer, though not quite broaching the other man's personal space. "Entiendes?"

Alexander listens. There's a certain twitch of his body after the first sentence; as if he'd like to protest what the man says. But he strangles it back, sits on it and waits in silence. And then he thinks about what Ruiz has said. The silence returns, growing long and pregnant. Finally, he says, "No. I don't understand. Not really. What you did was wrong, Javier." It's his turn to look away, to stare at the seagull, instead, who is still hoping that eventually one of these talking monkeys will materialize something interesting, like food. "And you did it in front of Felix Monaghan. And cameras. I don't know what to do about it." He ducks his head. "Since Isolde left, you're probably my best friend, and I don't know what to do about you."

Javier blows a breath out through his nose, and scruffs his fingers through his hair. The sweat's beginning to dry a little as the sun goes down and the heat fades. He nods, once. Then nods again. "Yeah." Swallows. "What I did was wrong." Some ash is flicked from his cigarette, and he squints up at the remnants of the sun before glancing back at Alexander. The seagulls are ignored; a couple of them take wing, in search of greener pastures. "Felix needed to know I was in his pocket still. Reyes needed to be sent a message. That man was the message. This is a war, Alexander, and in war, people die. None of it's right." There's a twinge of something in his eyes, an unsteadiness in the hard line of his jaw. "I'm.. I'm only sorry you had to see it." He cuts his gaze away again, abruptly.

"You're in Monaghan's pocket." A muscle in Alexander's jaw jumps. His fists clench hard, then relax. "The drugs?" It's only barely a question. He glares at the seagull, who just stares back, probably wondering what Alexander's eyes taste like, and if it could be fast enough to get one if it tried. He doesn't say anything more for a long moment, then says, "I've seen it before. I have bad taste in friends." He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "And I'm a bad friend. Because I let my friend murder someone. I didn't stop him when I could have. I don't want to be a bad friend, again."

The first statement is not corroborated, not confirmed directly. But Alexander's given a look, like how could you not have known this? It's pained, that look. He isn't proud of it. He isn't proud of doing that man's dirty work, under the guise of serving and protecting. Under the banner of what's supposed to be good and right. Men like Javier don't wind up in positions of power. Mexican street trash doesn't become the Captain of the local precinct, and then the acting Chief. "You're not a bad friend," he murmurs. Then reaches out unthinkingly, and touches Alexander's hand. "You're not." He digs his teeth into his lower lip, to keep it from quivering. "I'm just not who you thought I was."

Alexander's hand jumps, and his whole body twitches, at the unexpected touch. But he doesn't snatch his hand away. The feel of Ruiz's hand on his draws his eyes from their unseeing staredown with the seagull, and he looks at their hands, instead. His brow furrows. "I am." A faint, self-mocking smile. "Isabella says that I'm inclined to be submissive to murderous sociopaths. She's not wrong. I'm a bad friend because I don't stop my friends when they do bad things." A pause. "I want to be a better friend. To you." He turns his hand to try and grasp the hand touching his. He looks up at Ruiz. Meets his eyes. "Which means that if you murder someone else, I'm going to have to hurt you. War or no war. There have to be lines. Every--everything else, I will try to deal with. Try to help you deal with, Javier. But there has to be a line. Defense, yes. Murder, no."

The startle, and the resulting full body twitch, is a primal enough response to have the seagull finally abandoning ship and getting the fuck out of dodge. It scrabbles away quickly and takes wing like its less persistent brethren, and heads off to find someone else to bother.

Javier's unperturbed by the other man's jumpiness, and waits with characteristic patience for him to settle, and decide what he wants to do with the contact. When it's reciprocated, there's something that almost wants to become a smile at the corners of his mouth. Just for a moment. Then it's gone. "So you're calling me a murderous sociopath now," he offers wearily, allowing the turn and reciprocal touch. His fingers are callused; from handling a rifle for a number of years, and from handling fishing line. The pattern of the latter may not be so obvious.

"You're going to have to hurt me," he repeats after a time, then chuckles low. "You're fucking welcome to try. I can't promise I won't return the favour."

Alexander twitches again at the sudden movement of the seagull, but he doesn't withdraw his hand. "No," he says, after he thinks about it for a bit. "You're not a sociopath. I've seen your mind. It's filled with pain and anger and grief. That's not what a sociopath's mind looks like. It's just a tendency that I have." Now that he's committed to the touch, he explores the rough skin of the other man's hand with all the concentrated curiosity he unleashes on any other mystery. His own hands are calloused, but in different places. And carry a number of old, thin scars, the detritus of his history of getting sucked into hellscapes and having to fight his way out.

"I would expect you to," Alexander says, without a returning chuckle. "But I want to be a good friend. I've been a bad one. I've stood by and let my friend hurt people. I've helped my friend hurt people, and so he got worse and worse until," a pause, "until I couldn't take it any more. You deserve a better friend. Even if that means one who makes you stop when you do wrong. Because even if you didn't deserve that kind of friend, Itzhak does. August does. Miss Celeano does. They don't deserve having to pick up the pieces when you get caught."

He looks away. "So you're going to be better. Or I'm going to hurt you. And it's okay if you hurt me back. You're still my friend."

His brows furrow slightly, maybe at the concession to him not being a sociopath. Maybe to the exploratory touch, instead of the recoiling he perhaps expected. Javier's own hand stills, palm down, with those faded tattoos scrawled along the backs of his knuckles in full view. Phoenix, crossed swords, infinity symbol. The letters K, E and H done in an overblown, heavily shaded font. Alexander must have some idea what they signify by now. This isn't the sort of ink someone gets on a drunken lark, or to impress a girlfriend, or to complete a piece. It's done almost entirely in the same style as what Reyes and his associates wear.

"You've done the best you could," he replies quietly, patting himself down with his unencumbered hand for his pack of cigarettes. "This town.." He grimaces a little at whatever else he was going to say, then taps out a smoke, and tugs it loose with his teeth. The carton's shoved back into his pocket.

"Things are going to get worse, before they get better, Alexander," is what he says once he's pulled the cigarette free between two scissoring fingers. And if he can, he'll try to snag the other man's wrist with the hand that had stilled under Alexander's. He's quick, Javier; far quicker than he has any right to be. "Maybe you should leave. Go somewhere else, for a little while. Yeah?"

In truth, Alexander has done research on many of the tattoos he's noticed on Ruiz. Data, added to mental (and sometimes physical) files. But he asks, when he asks, because he wants to be told. To know if Ruiz will tell him, and to understand the story from the cop's perspective. Thus far, he has been disappointed - but what Alexander lacks in patience, he tends to make up for in sheer, dogged persistence. Now, he doesn't ask, but does trace a few of the inkings with his fingers, committing the feel of them to memory.

"No," he says, quietly. "I haven't. I could do more. If I decided to. But some of the things I could do would be wrong. More wrong than letting other things happen. So I try not to." He looks up, gives Ruiz a smile that could be called sweet, if it wasn't so sad. He doesn't resist the grab on his wrist - although Ruiz can feel by the way his body tenses, by the tautness of the tendons under Ruiz's hand, that it takes an effort not to flinch or panic. "And no. I'm not going to leave. None of you are very good investigators," he says, with a breathtaking lack of modesty or tact. "I'm the best investigator in the city, and just cracking skulls until someone tells you what you need to hear is inefficient. More people will die. If I have the right data, fewer people will die. And it's my town. Fucked up as it is. It's mine. They can't have it. Monaghan can't have it. Not all of it."

That research would have led him back time and time again to the Los Zetas cartel operating out of Portland. To have wound up with ink like that, he'd have needed to be in for a few years at least, and fairly well trusted. Probably not a lieutenant, but close. Deep enough in that digging himself back out must have been a monumental effort.

"I didn't say you'd done everything you could. I said you did the best you could." The cigarette's left unlit for the time being, and held scissored still between two fingers. Dark eyes on dark, and there's an infintessimal tightening of his grip on Alexander's wrist, when he feels that ratcheting of tension under it. Like a chinese finger trap; the more his prey struggles, the more pain is applied. The blunt honesty, though, produces a bark of laughter in sincere amusement. "No, you're absolutely fucking right. I haven't done detective work in years." And let's be honest, that's not what they hired him for, as a captain. It's technically below his paygrade.

"You are the best investigator in the city." A fraction more pressure is applied to his grip, perhaps to see what Alexander does with it. Will he try to pull away? Push back? "Happy?"

Alexander thinks about the distinction for a moment, then frowns. "Maybe. I'm a bit of a coward. I don't think I've done the best that I could, either. I don't particularly want to die, especially if it doesn't accomplish anything." His breath hitches at the first increase of pressure, but he smiles at the laughter. And, let's be honest, the acknowledgement. "Yes. Which is fine. Good detectives in the force - the really good ones - die. Or disappear. Which is the same as dying, but with less official paperwork. I don't have any power, and I'm a," his tone shades dry as he quotes, "complete whack-job. So I get away with more." He notices the tightening on his wrist, and he looks down at it. He doesn't pull away or push back. If anything, the tension in his arm is deliberately eased in acceptance of the pressure. And he watches, his brow furrowed, to see how far the pressure will go. "Not happy," he says, after a moment. "But it's nice to be good at something."

"I believe you." About being a coward? Or about the dying? Probably about the dying. The pressure's maintained, just on this side of painful; and given how easily he sits with it, given how it doesn't seem to bother him one iota, perhaps Alexander might question that earlier dismissal of his lack of sociopathy.

But then it's over as abruptly as it began. Alexander's wrist is relinquished by roughly callused fingers paradoxically gentle as they withdraw in a near-caress of vanishing contact. Then he lights up his cigarette, and brings it to his mouth for a drag. "You're definitely a whack-job," he agrees, dark eyes creasing at the corners once again in amusement, smoke funneling from his nose and lips. "And you're good at plenty. Like pushing my fucking buttons. Like.." He waves his cigarette-holding hand in the general direction of his head, perhaps indicating his Gift. Their Gift. In which Alexander is quite a bit stronger.

Alexander waits until the hand is withdrawn, then lifts his wrist to study it for a moment. He bobs his head in acknowledgement of Ruiz's belief. His smile flickers to life again at the other man's words. "You have a lot of buttons and they're very easy to push, Javier. It's not a major accomplishment." But he shakes his head, lightly, at the last. "Not good enough. Not at that. Alice--" he takes a breath. "Alice nearly broke my mind. It was easy for her. She threatened to rot all my memories, and I think she could have done it. So. I'm not good enough. I don't understand enough. All I can really do is find new ways to get hurt."

He looks down at his wrist, again. "I don't like pain, you know."

Something about the turn in conversation seems to have killed his momentary good humour. Javier pauses there with his cigarette at his lips, brows furrowed, thoughts turned inward like they are when he's about to simply cave in on himself and flee. He does spare a brief glance toward the other man that finds his knee, rather than his face, when he mentions Alice. Then back to the ground at his own feet. "I'm sorry," he offers, voice low and rough and weary. After a long while of weighing his next words, "Why did you allow me to do it, then?"

Alexander watches him, his expression that blank one he gets when he's focused. He reaches out, carefully, and rests his hand on the other man's shoulder, if he allows it. "It's alright," he says, and appears to mean it. He continues to watch, and wait, until Ruiz continues. Then something like confusion crosses his face. "You're my friend." And it seems like he's just going to let that lie, as if it explains everything. But maybe he recognizes that it's not that simple for most people, so he tries to explain, "You don't hurt much. Minor displays of social dominance. I don't mind. Once I sat still while someone peeled the skin of my hand off; he wanted to see what the tendons looked like when they moved. It's actually very interesting. He healed it afterwards." He offers a smile, then asks, "Why do you want to?"

The response is swift; a crack of his knuckles against Alexander's forearm when the other man attempts to touch his shoulder, shoving him away as the cop surges to his feet. His dark eyes are ablaze, boring veritable holes into the investigator's. "No." He glances away, does a quick survey of the immediate area, like he half expects someone to be watching them. Watching this. Because if this past few weeks has taught him anything, it's abject paranoia.

"No, I.." There's a pained, horrified look on his face when Alexander describes what someone did to him once, and he takes a step back. "No," he repeats. "Not if you don't.. not if.. no." His cigarette's flicked away, ground out with the heel of his boot. "I've got to go. I'll see you around, okay?"

"Oh." Alexander recoils at the crack of knuckles, snatching his hand back and huddling defensively in place. He scoots a few inches away as Javier rises, and just stares at the man, blinking. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--" he pauses, clearly not sure exactly what he did, in this particular occasion, so he just repeats, "I'm sorry," and rises to his own feet. There's a bob of his head. "I...okay. See you. Don't die." Shoulders hunched, he sidles away towards the shore of the pond, running a hand through his dark hair as he mutters inaudibly to himself.

Ruiz lingers a moment more, like he might be willing or able to elucidate upon it. Then there's an agitated noise in his throat, a thump of a rock being punted with the toe of his boot, and he turns and strides away in the opposite direction without another word.