2020-08-02 - That Poor Couch

You know, this was not fun to explain to Isabella. Alexander managed, somehow, and right now she's not in view. Cristobal has been cleaned up, patched up, and stuck on the tired old couch to sleep off the gunshots. Alexander has...not slept much, so he looks GREAT this morning, with his disheveled hair and exhausted face. He's brought in the suitcase of cash, and the large case of illegal firearms. The interior of Cris' car has been cleaned of blood, as have Alexander's hands. He's sitting crosslegged on the floor, with the weapon case on the coffee table, and he's carefully cleaning the clasps that Cristobal touched with tiny q-tips that have been wetted with an alcohol mixture. His movements are precise and delicate, trying to remove as much of Cris' blood and prints as possible without damaging any other evidence on the case. He's wearing black leather gloves for the work, and his focus is complete. His clothing is shabby - an old ratty t-shirt and sweatpants, no shoes or socks. He's singing to himself: Lawyers, Guns, and Money. His voice is a pleasant baritone, surprisingly enough, and he leans into Zevon's rasp at appropriate points.

The blood loss. The codeine. The stress of letting Alexander dig not one but two bullets out of his gut. Those all aided in Cris sleeping - nay, pass out - on Alexander's couch. Not that the sleep was particularly restful, every little movement causing a muted groan or cry of pain like the one now when he stirs. This time it must be enough to rouse him into some sort of wakefulness, because his hoarse voice starts up, even though his eyes are still closed. "I'm in hell. This is officially what hell is. Madre, sálvanos. Padre, mantennos."

"This isn't hell," Alexander says, stopping singing mid-verse, and thus probably relieving at least one source of Cris' discomfort. "You're just shot. Didn't hit any major organs or arteries." The you big baby is implied, rather than stated, but implied strongly. He frowns and looks over at Cris. "Do you need more painkillers? Or I have tequila. You can have one but not both. Not good to mix." He leans a bit closer to Cristobal, studying his color and the bandages for seepage.

Cris lifts his hand and makes a flick towards Alexander's face. He hasn't opened his eyes to see how close he is, but he can feel that fucker looming close by the shift of shadows on his eyelids and the sound of his breathing. "You're killing me, Smalls." One eye finally cracks open. "Painkillers. Booze will just dehydrate me and I think I need all my fluids right now."

Alexander leans back at the flick. "Alexander. My name is Alexander Clayton," he reminds Cristobal, patiently. He rises to his feet, one knee popping. He points at the case. "Don't touch that." Then he leaves, heading into the kitchen, where he's set up the medkit. It's a very well-stocked one, that many nurses would be happy to have access to. Considering how completely shabby the rest of the house is, it's clear that Alexander has a firm sense of priorities. He shakes out a dose of codeine, pours a tall glass of water, and returns. "Do you need help sitting up?"

"It's a quote from a movie, fucknuts, I'm allowed." Of course that doesn't quantify 'fucknuts' but who's counting. (Well, probably Alexander). Cris slings an arm over his eyes for a few more moments of darkness as Clayton rummages in the kitchen, but that's short lived as he hears the man returning. "I can manage." He half grumbles/half growls as he wedges his elbows beneath him and uses that as a base to drag his upper torso to lean against the arm of the couch enough to receive water and sweet, sweet painkillers. "You always take a man home on the second date?"

"Oh. I'm sorry." Alexander's voice floats in. "I don't watch many movies. What's it from?" He waits for Cris to arrange himself to something that can drink without choking, then carefully hands him the water, and the pills, making sure that he's got a good grip on both before withdrawing. The last actually makes him smile, just a little. "Only if he's bleeding. I'm old-fashioned like that." He moves to sit back down on the floor, and return to his work - the clasps are pretty much clean, and he's just carefully going over the rest to make sure it's clean.

"Hell if I know. I just remember some little fat kid said it." At least Cristobal has a legitimate excuse for being surly today, but being perforated by gunfire is enough to make a Saint a little testy, and he's surely not one of those. Cris takes the pills and a few extra gulps of water for good measure before he sets the glass down on the floor and sinks back to the cushions. "You're still determined to turn those guns in, huh?"

Alexander cuts him a look. "You quoted something and you don't even know what it's from?" Somehow, he's judging this way more than he is the whole criminal thing. Just look at that judgy expression, and the little shake of his head. He hesitates at the question, but then nods. "Yeah. I think I know who to give it to. Can't guarantee it won't go missing after it's in custody. But they might be able to find links to the suppliers. And I'm gonna weaken the guns. Anyone trying to fire them if they do go astray is gonna get an unpleasant surprise. Which will also encourage Reyes' people to think the suppliers were gonna sell them bad weapons. They'll have to find a new dealer, and one of their dirty cops will have stuck his or her neck out for no profit." He glances at the suitcase. "Gonna put one of the stacks of cash in here, too. Maybe there's some prints left on it."

Cris doesn't have the strength to deal with Alexander 'looks' right now, so the man just gets a middle finger. "Fine. You got me. I'm quoting an internet meme, but you probably don't follow those either, so as far as you know, I'm just making shit up. And I'm okay with that." He does seem rather pleased with Alexander's plans for the gun, especially the notion that if they do still fall into the wrong hands, Clayton has ensured a misfire. "Along with a thumb drive of the video, which we also need to send to Kelly and de la Vega so they know these fuckers are upping their game. We need to start being active instead of reactive."

"I know what memes are," Alexander says, with a frown. "I have a computer. I just don't like fiction. You're a pain in the ass when you're shot." About this time, his phone goes off, and he reaches out to check it. His face is expressive; there's worry, surprise, reluctant amusement as he texts back and forth for a bit before putting it aside. "Good idea. I can give you a memory card with a copy. It's not great; they started shooting at us pretty fucking fast. But I might have gotten a decent plate on one of the cars, and a bit of their faces. It might help." There's a pause. "They saw our faces." It's apologetic.

"Who the fuck doesn't like fiction? You at least have to tuck into some rom-coms or a Classic Disney film once in awhile? Shit, real life sucks. Sometimes you need a goddamn happy ending." Which, apparently, neither of them are going to get when Alexander reminds him of the fact that they were both made at the scene. "Fuck me. And we both know they're not above a literal collateral damage. Text that piece you've got, tell her to get someone safe. And I need my fucking phone."

Alexander exchanges more texts with someone, and frowns. "...August is in the hospital. There was an attack at the church. Apparently trying to get at Itzhak." Proof in point of the whole 'collateral damage' thing. "And my parents didn't want me reading fiction when I was a kid. I don't need things to distract me from what's real. It's hard enough to remember." He gets up so that he can locate the man's phone, and hand it to him. "Also, Isabella is not a piece. She's brilliant, and I will hit you."

Cris' face goes from worried to a hard line of pissed off. He thumbs on his own phone, talking even as he sends out texts. "Fine, a brilliant pi-..." His eyes flick up and then back down. "Isabella." A brilliant Isabella, yes. "You'd really hit a guy with two bullet holes in his stomach from saving your ass." Yes, Cris believes he would, and that's likely why - for once - he cut back the knee-jerk-jerk reaction. "We gotta put an end to this. Now. No more laying down and taking it." He tries to sit but immediately regrets it, and with a sharp sound of pain, he lays back down. "Maybe a little more laying down."

"I love Isabella," Alexander says, simply. He looks back at the clasps, then sighs. "These are clean. You shouldn't be linked to it." He glances at his phone. "August says you're only an asshole on the surface. So I'm being patient. But Isabella is off limits." When Cris tries to sit, he hisses in mingled rebuke and sympathy. "You have to rest, Cruz, and making it worse isn't going to make these guys stop. Nor will just trying to go out and crack skulls at random. You have to use your brains." He studies the other man with dark eyes. "Soup?"

Cris holds his stomach with both hands, putting on pressure like he's afraid his guts might spill out at any moment. Meanwhile his phone is buzzing angrily back, like it's transmitting the feelings of the person on the other end. "Fine." Is that an agreement that Isabella is off limits or that he'll accept rest and soup? With a grunt of frustration, he lifts his head and slams it back down on the couch. "Soup." He snatches his phone back off the couch and fires back a response.

Alexander watches Cris, his brow wrinkling. "Soup," he says, and rises to his feet. He doesn't immediately head to the kitchen. Instead, he reaches over, carefully, and tries to gently pat Cristobal on the shoulder. "Thank you. For protecting me. I'm sorry you were hurt." And then he immediately straightens. "Soup. Beef and veggie okay?" It'd better be, because it's all that Alexander has in the house. So he doesn't wait for a response, but rather moves to the kitchen, and the sounds of pots being used in something vaguely like cooking can be heard.

Alexander has gone into the kitchen to make some soup for a very surly Mexican and perhaps to put a bit of distance between them before things get ugly with said surly Mexican who is currently stretched out on the couch in blood crusted jeans and bandages around his midsection. There's an overly large plastic hard cover case taking up the majority of the coffee table, cleaning implements nearby. "FUCK." Cristobal cusses again, but this time not because he moved or jarred himself. "You better make three bowls, Clayton. We're gonna have motherfucking company."

Motherfucking company drives a Yaris and parks it around the block as instructed. It takes a little longer than one might expect for Dante to get there, given he's limping. There's a rap at the door and the man on the other side looks a little worse for wear. He's wearing glasses, his hair curly and still slightly damp, bicep bandaged with tinges of red coming through. He's also favouring one foot from the way he winces as he stands.

Alexander frowns. "Is it the sort of company where I'm going to need to get my knife?" It's not a teasing question; they have five figures of illegal weapons and five figures of illicit cash in the living room, and there's no question that someone who shows up might not be friendly. And then there's the rap on the door. "Already?" Alexander moves to the door, and there is indeed a knife in his hand. He doesn't stand in front of the door like a guy who wants to get a shotgun to the stomach. Instead, he glances out the side window, and frowns. "...Taylor?"

A pause as he thinks. "Oh. Yes. You're together." He moves to open the door. "Come in. I'm making soup. Don't touch the case or the suitcase." A quick look over. "You're injured. What happened?"

Cris doesn't warn Alexander against answering the door with a knife, because even though Cruz is expecting Dante, one can never be too careful. At least Clayton has the presence of mind to remember that, "Dante is my Isabella." He grumbles, then throws a hand over his eyes again, mainly because he doesn't want to see Dante's face when he sees him laid out like this. Even if that precludes him from seeing Dante's state.

"A Dream happened," says Dante to Alexander. He is a little surprised to see the other man here, of all of Cris' associates, but doesn't ask about it just yet. "Headless Horseman and a sword." He hobbles in, taking stock of the living room and of Cris. "Bloody hell," he mutters. He swallows a lump in his throat. "What happened?"

"Oh," Alexander says, sounding just a little surprised. Then he offers Dante a bright, unshadowed smile despite the circumstances, as he closes the door behind him. "Hello. He was shot. A couple of times. Nothing vital was hit, though, and he'll be okay. I've got him patched up pretty good as long as he doesn't try to dance or anything. He just needs to rest." He makes sure the door is locked, and checks outside again, before waving Dante (with the knife) to Cris, and returning to the kitchen. "You want soup? Or codeine? I have both."

Alexander tries to be a good host.

There is a wince on Cristobal's features at Dante's verbal reaction. "Too late to say I shot myself cleaning my guns?" Twice. But who is counting. He gives a long exhale out of his nose and the draws his hand away, letting it drop slack next to the sofa crooking a weak finger at Dante. "It's not as bad as it looks. Clayton? I think he may need that tequila, instead."

Dante eyes the knife tip, but again, doesn't comment. Instead, he just moves further in and sits on the edge of the couch next to Cris. He winces as he moves his arm in the wrong way. "I'm all right," he says a bit absently to Alexander. Then he reaches up to touch Cristobal's cheek, then to look down at his wound. "Well, aren't we a pair?" he murmurs. There's a bit of a raise along his back as well where a bandage was applied. "Did someone heal you at least partway?"

Alexander puts the knife down, and gets the tequila from under the seat. He doesn't have shot glasses, so Dante gets a standard-sized plastic cup filled with cheap tequila. "Drink it," he tells Dante, although not without gentleness. "Soup's heating up." He watches them for a moment. "I haven't healed him. I can." His eyes shift to Cristobal. "If you want. I'm not...I'm not a real healer. Not like August, or someone. Just a little And you don't want me doing creepy things to you. So. Your choice."

Cris, despite himself, turns his head towards Dante's fingers to indulge in a touch for just a moment. "No." He mutters, wedging himself up onto an elbow and then some how finagling to a seated position with a lot of swearing a little grace. "August is in the hospital himself, and if any of you call Sparrow, so help me I'll gut the both of you without even knowing which one sent the message." He turns his face towards his shoulder, wiping off a bead of sweat from his upper lip onto his skin. "I'm fine. Clayton got the bullets out, sewed me up. I'm well on my way to being A-Okay. Now both of you. Drink something, because you're making me nervous."

"Sit back," says Dante gently, but firmly. "I'm going to try and heal you." It's not often the Brit employs the 'don't argue with me' tone. He looks Cris in the eye as he swigs a mouthful of cheap tequila. He hisses as it burns down. "I think I can. I've been trying to focus on what I can do." He reaches out towards Cris' wound, but then directs his hand just above it.

"I don't know Sparrow well enough to call her," Alexander points out, even though no one asked. He smiles as Dante takes control, and bobs his head in approval at the writer. "Let me know if I can help," he tells him, but otherwise seems content to let the other man handle the non-mundane healing. Instead, he retreats to the kitchen to catch the soup before it boils over, and start putting it into bowls.

"Dante..." The Brit invokes the Brit voice and the Mexican invokes the Mexican growl of warning. Neither is patented, but they should be. He wraps a hand around Dante's wrist as he touches above his wound, but it's not deployed to push him away or cause pain. "This. Is exactly why I didn't you around." But as the man concentrates on trying to focus his healing attentions, Cris wrings him around the back of the neck and kisses his forehead. "Clayton here is trying to take advantage of me, it's a good thing you came."

"It's too late, you bloody idiot. You're not getting rid of me, and I'm not getting out of the way of all this. So you can deal with it and let me try and help you." Dante's voice is perhaps disturbingly even. But he's had A Day, so his tolerance for BS is at an all-time low. "Let me guess. You shoved Sparrow away." He sounds unimpressed. "I'm sure that went over like a lead ballon." He glances towards Alexander to say, "Thank you for your hospitality."

And then he's returning his attention to the wound. This is all new to him, but there is a certain amount of it that comes from instinct, and he has spent a lot of time lately trying to get more in-touch with his abilities.

Alexander returns with bowls of soup, blinks a couple of times at Cruz, a flicker of distress on his face. "I'm not. I don't think I am. I just didn't want you to bleed too much on my furniture. I'm not particularly attracted to you. You suggested my mother was a whore." Yeah, he remembers that. Then he offers Dante a smile. "You're welcome. It's fine. It's my fault he got shot. He was keeping me safe. I'm sorry." He looks down at the bowls. "I have soup. When you're done with that."

Cristobal himself has a bit of the healing arts, but that doesn't mean he's used to being on the receiving end. As the warmth spreads throughout his stomach, he cranes his head away, focusing on a spot on the wall. "Yeah, so will you check on her?" Cristobal asks of Sparrow quietly. "Alexander here is got stuck with me. So better my ass than his, otherwise I'd be shit at my job."

"Ah, you bloody idiot," Dante murmurs, though he's clearly distracted with focusing on the healing. He pulls back after a moment, breath quickening, a little sweat dappled on his forehead. "Did...that do anything? It felt strange." He takes another mouthful of tequila, coughs, then nods in belated agreement to checking on Sparrow. He glances up at Alexander. "How are you tied to all this? I didn't think you were in on the criminal spheres."

Alexander gives Dante an offended look. "I'm not. I'm an investigator. I solve crimes. I don't commit them." Please ignore the illegal firearms case and stolen money sitting not a few feet away. Those were taken from bad guys and they don't count. "I'm looking into all of this fucking mess. Someone decided I needed a minder, and Cruz drew the short straw."

Cris grits his teeth, not because he's in pain physically, but because Dante drops that little nugged. "He's not." He mutters, about the same time as Clayton. Despite that, he lifts a hand to smudge a thumb over Dante's forehead and a bit of that sweat. "Look at that, I'm cured." No, not really, but perhaps he's just trying to mollify Dante some. "And starving." No. Not really, but mollifying two people instead of one couldn't hurt. Afterall, he did apparently say rude things about Alexander's mother that he can't quite remember.

"So, do either of you want to fill me in on what's happening in this town? As I pointed out to Cris..." pointed look from Dante - "...I'm in this not just through him, but through the casino. I'd like to know what's going on so I can watch my own fabulous arse." He shifts back, wincing a little. He gives Cris the 'I'm still mad at you' look, but he luckily chooses not to berate him in front of Alexander.

Alexander offers the bowl directly to Cris, since making him lean would be cruel. There's a spoon and everything. Then he retreats to sit on the floor, crosslegged, and watch the two of them. "Seems like one criminal organization is attempting to oust the current organization, and take over for themselves. It could be argued that nothing appreciable would change, but they're out of towners, and I have concerns. I prefer stability. The casino attack was a hit. It failed. You need to be careful how many details you ask for. It could put Cruz in a difficult spot." A pause. "But I'll answer any questions I can."

"Don't look at me. I'm just eating my soup." Cris says blandly as he cups the bowl with one hand and shoves meat and vegetables into his mouth. He has no appetite, and everything tastes like sawdust right now, but he's happy for the distraction.

"I just want to know as much as I need to to keep myself safe. Perhaps there's a way that I can make it more obvious that I'm just a waking suit with money who took on the restaurant as a vanity project," mutters Dante. He takes the soup, but like Cris, he's not really hungry. He slides to the floor, with his back against the couch. He winces as that puts pressure on the wound, so he's forced to hunch forward a little.

Alexander considers. "You're unlikely to be harassed at the casino, honestly. It's got security, it's well defended, and a restaurant - while valuable for money laundering - isn't a soft target under these circumstances." He completes the trio of not being particularly hungry, although in his case it more appears to be that the questions have his mind working. "If you're attacked, it'll probably be because you've been flagged as a dependent, and they think they can send Cruz a message through you." A pause. "Might not be a bad idea to pick up some protection. Not a weapon unless you're good at them. But stay with people, don't meet anyone in new or unfamiliar places, practice observation." He stares at Dante. "Do you know how to use your abilities to hurt people?"

As Alexander explains things to Dante, especially the part about being collateral damage as a way to get to the latino, Cris' spoon raises from the bowl of broth and vaguely gestures at Dante with it in an 'I told you so' manner. "Nobody went after Joseph because he's retired Navy."

"Unless these new players see blowing up or messing with part of the fancy new casino as a way to make a statement." Dante swats Cris' waving spoon hand lightly. "You two might know criminals, but I know people and motivations. It's my living, after all. And if I were writing this? I wouldn't be safe not just because I'm shagging an enemy soldier."

As for Alexander's question? He shakes his head. "Well. I do know how to chuck medium-weight objects at peoples' heads. But beyond that, no. And observing people is what I do."

"It's possible," Alexander admits, "but it's less likely based on their current pattern of behavior, and doesn't match their assumed goal. A casino is a valuable instrument for money laundering and other financial crimes. Destroying it or hindering operation in a way that makes it hard to get it up and running if they win would be a desperation move." He finally reaches for his bowl of soup and takes a couple of spoonfuls. "More, there's nothing you can do about that, as a threat, so it's just a distraction."

He pauses at the mention of throwing things, then grunts. "Then have an idea of good escape routes where you go. Try to vary your routine. Do you live at Bayside? If not, maybe Thorne will rent you a short-term apartment. Security is good. You want to be a less tempting target than other people, mostly. And if someone does attack, just surprise the hell out of them with a couple of tosses, then run for populated areas." A pause. "Not just cops. You want public. Scream, shout, cause a scene."

Cris makes a noise at Dante as he swat at him, "You keep on talking and giving me reasons to stick your ass on a plane until all this blows over, English, go ahead." He scowls down at his bowl, pokes at something that may be a carrot with his spoon until it drowns. "He's been studying with August like I have. But neither of us are there yet, and I haven't had much of a chance to train Dante in self defense." Guilt. It's what's for dinner.

"I figured you might have trouble punching me, so I asked Itzhak about it." Self-defense, that is. Dante looks over his shoulder at the other man. "But maybe not now, mhmm?" He gives one of his fierce little grins, but there's a look of fatigue behind it. He rubs a hand over his head. He never touches his hair when it's straightened and coiffed, but he didn't do anything to it after he showed after the Sleepy Hollow adventure.

"I do live at Bayside, and yes, it's a bloody fortress. I can more or less go parking garage to parking garage between home and the casino." He glances to Cris, "I promise to do my jogging on the gym treadmill for the next while."

Alexander glances at Cristobal, and his expression is sympathetic. That guilt, at least, is one he has a lot of sympathy for. He says, "That's not a bad thing, in this case. These guys were able to take Cavanaugh, and he's a trained soldier and has abilities as well. Sure, he's not in his prime, but he was armed last I saw him. My recommendation, if I were asked, would be not to try to fight, but just to try to get the fuck away. Disengage immediately if something seems off, even if it means canceling an event or an appointment." He nods at the information about where he lives.

Adds, after a moment, "That's...just my thought on it, though. I'm not an official anything." He looks back to Cristobal. "I wouldn't. Put him on a plane. Or push people away. It just makes them vulnerable because it puts them in an environment where it's harder to identify threats. And we don't know what kind of pull these guys have in Seattle or Portland."

Cris' spoon clatters back to the bowl, handing it down to Dante so he can set it aside for him. "Well this has been a fucking blast. Thanks for the patch up, Alexander, and a place to crash. I'm going to get this one back to Bayside and handcuff him to his bed for the next month. Likely stuff a sock in his mouth so I don't hear about what else I've manages to fuck up lately."

Now it's Dante's turn to send the 'I told you so' look to Cris. He sets the bowl aside, along with his own. He ate some, bt not all - which is a testament to his bad day, not the soup's quality. "Yes, thank you, Alexander." He says quite genuinely. "I'm glad someone is watching his back." He struggles to stand between the injury on his back, the ankle twist and his arm. "Sitting on the floor was a mistake."

"You're welcome," Alexander says. He doesn't argue with the idea of Cris leaving; Bayside is safer. If he could shove Isabella there for the duration, he probably would. Even the handcuffing only gets a twitch of his mouth, like he's not sure whether to smile at a joke, or frown at a statement of intent. He looks to Dante for guidance. And, after a moment, commiseration: "Cruz is difficult. Prickly. Aggressive. But he helped with my investigation, and he protected me. He didn't have to. No one would be surprised if I died. So. Take care of him?"

He stands, and grimaces. "Sorry. I don't have a lot of furniture." And the soup is canned, so really, it's nothing to get excited about anyway. "But, Taylor. If you see something unusual. Threatening. Call me? If I'm around, I'll help."

And despite his own injury and his sour behavior, Cris is still reaching out to help Dante stand, a hand on his elbow and a bit of strength and stabilization provided. "You should write Hallmark cards, Clayton." His eyes goes to the briefcase, a little nod given to it. "You know I'm taking that with me, right?"

"I intend to," says Dante of taking care of Cris. Said prickly man gets a gentler look as he's helped to his feet. "I shall definitely report if I see anyone stalking me. I intend to be smart, don't you worry."

"I didn't clean the blood off of it," Alexander says, which means yes, he figured. He does add, "I took a stack. There might be prints on the bills that can get identified by the cops, maybe cause some trouble for these guys." He doesn't sound entirely convinced, but it's a chance, so he's going with it anyway. He crosses to the door and looks carefully out of the windows. "It's clear."

He looks back at Dante, smiles. "Good. We could use smart."

Cris' hand goes to Dante's hip, not only as a mark of affection and/or possession, but to help himself get to his feet, grimacing as he takes up the suitcase of money. He gives the Brit a little squeeze but then is fishing in his pockets for something. His keys it seems. He thumbs off the ring from his carabiner that contains just his car keys and those? Get tossed to Alexander. "I'll be back for her -" Apparently he's riding with Dante tonight. "- but just in case she needs to stretch her legs while I'm gone."

Dante presses a quick peck to Cristobal's forehead at the hand on his hip. "I parked round the corner to be safe. And my car is pretty nondescript." It's a Yaris. Never mind that Itzhak souped it the hell up and it now runs like three times the car it appears to be.

Alexander beams as the car keys come in his direction, his whole face just lighting up as he catches them. "Really? Thank you. I'll take care of it." For this second, he's completely forgotten that someone tried to run Cris off the road in that very car. He's just happy. He shows them to the door. "Don't die," he tells them both.