2020-08-11 - House...er...Trailer Call

Vic's trailer is shiny and new compared to most of the more permanent single and double wide mobile homes in Huckleberry. Of course, hers is also still actually mobile without renting a flatbed to relocate it. She just has to hook her truck up to the Airstream and drive off at will. It has been given more of an air of permanence with the edition of a deck out front made of wooden pallets, with a fire pit and a couple of Adirondack chairs flanking a cooler, all shaded by an awning.

The sounds of "Dust in the Wind" by Kansas can be heard filtering through the partly open windows, attempting to keep the air flowing through the trailer's interior without having to run the AC too much. Or maybe she had them opened the day she got shot, and hasn't had the strength to close them again. Her truck is parked where Joey Kelly had it deposited, and hasn't moved since.

The rumble of a truck's engine can be heard coming up the shared lot, a crackle of gravel being spit off the vehicle's tires as it turns and draws to a halt right behind Vic's. Then the ignition's killed with a shudder, and the driver climbs out and slams the door. Nope, it's not Joey Kelly. Nor any of the usual suspects, whomever those might be. Whatever business the acting Chief has here today, he's brought what looks like a tupperware container of food along with him. Unless it's actually grenades. Could be grenades.

Thump, thump, thump on her front door, followed by, "Open the fuck up!"

There is movement behind the dark-tinted window in the trailer's door, someone sliding something aside to look out a crack. Then the door is unlatched and opened. Vic is there, holding a pillow against her torso, looking like death microwaved. She's in a white terrycloth bathrobe that looks like she stole it from the hotel she used to work at. Her feet are in fuzzy slide on slippers. Her hair is blonde again, because she hasn't been able to darken it with the wash she uses on the regular, and half of it looks brushed, the other half looks like she stuck her finger in a light socket. Raising her arm on that side seems to be no go.

She also looks hella hung over and pale. "Javier," she says dully. Her voice is barely above a whisper, not having the lung power back yet for full volume. "Why are you here?"

He's about to start knocking again, when the door's tugged open, and he's greeted by the unedited version of Vic Grey. Complete with bathrobe, fuzzy slippers, and.. blonde. Yep, she's definitely blonde. That takes him a minute to process. "Uh." His brows furrow slightly at the question. The captain's in a ratty black tee shirt, snug-fitting jeans shoved into scuffed hiking boots, and a pair of aviators to keep the fading sun out of his eyes. Copious amounts of ink scrawled up arms that have tanned a dark, dark brown in the summer they've had, and bleached bits of bronze and red out of his hair.

"I figured you could use a fr-" He glances away, and then back again. "Some food." The tupperware container is shoved at her. "I, uh, hope you like enchiladas."

Vic looks really confused. Really. Confused. Clearly she deleted last night's text conversation, judging by the perplexed expression on her face. "A free meal?" She frowns a moment, then sighs hoarsely and opens the door the rest of the way as an invitation. She moves stiffly to where she'd been sitting on her little banquet. The trailer is small and cramped, but new and well accommodated for all that. It might seem bigger if it wasn't currently as much of a hot mess as its owner.

The dining table is currently covered in disassembled firearms that she was in the process of cleaning. She adds another, assembled one to the pile, the one she was holding behind the pillow. The pillow stays though, in case she has to cough or sneeze. Stupid shit one has to do after major surgery. On the counter, besides empty pizza boxes and Chinese takeout containers, is one of those spirometers for testing lung capacity. She's stuck using that several times a day too.

"Is there a Mexican place in this backwater town?" she asks, sliding onto one side of the banquet seating with slow, careful movements that only make her wince once.

He probably won't hold the gun-behind-the-pillow against her. He's got one shoved into the belt of his jeans, after all. You never can be too careful, especially in this town. The gun parts gain his interest however, and are eyed up curiously for a few moments as she gestures him inside. Hesitation, like being drawn into her web wasn't really part of his plan tonight. Drop the food off and GTFO, was likely how he'd narrated it to himself.

But then, with a breath blown out his nose, he pushes out of the entryway and follows her in. "Not that I'm aware of," is the reply, once the door's shut with a clack. The tupperware's set down, and the empty takeout containers collected and stacked up against the wall to make room. "I made it. For you." He keeps his back to her as he starts hunting for a cupboard containing plates.

"Is it poisoned?" Because face it, that's where her brain goes and she's still on a lot of painkillers. "Wait, you cook?" because she's not sure she knew he could do that. The cartel probably had its own chef. They had serious money in that cell.

The weapons are a wide variety, pistols, a nice rifle, various scopes and accessories, knives galore, and her preferred weapons when the perp has to be taken alive, a pair of metal coated escrima sticks. "There's a six pack in the fridge if you want a beer." Bottles, not cans. Cans are gross. She had someone make a delivery since yesterday, clearly.

He scoffs quietly at the question, bangs a cupboard shut. Paper plates it is, and he portions out some of the cooked enchilada atop the plate before tossing it into the microwave to heat up. "You think if I was going to try to end you, I'd use poison? You think that sounds like my style?" It doesn't. Not in the slightest. If Vic was Ojeda's gun moll, Javier was one of his sicarios. She's probably witnessed his handiwork on more than one occasion.

"And of course I fucking cook. I told you, you don't know me half as well as you think." The time's dialed in, and he hits what looks like the start button, then leans against the counter to wait. After a few seconds, he observes, "You went back to blonde."

The Kansas song ends, and Warren Zevon's 'Werewolves of London' starts up. She still has her father's taste in classic rock, apparently. She watches him putter about her miniscule kitchen with the same distrust she watches everyone do everything. It's a lonely way to live, but it's probably why she's still breathing, albeit shallowly right now.

"When did you tell me that?" she asks. Yep, she has no memory of that text conversation. "And no, I guess poison wouldn't be your revenge of choice. A hand moves slightly to pull at a lock of her hair. "Not by choice. I just put a darker wash in it, and I haven't been able to do that since I got shot. I'd have Nicole come by to do it but she's staying with Kelly for a while until it's safe for her."

"Last night," is his cautious response to the question of when. His dark eyes track the slight shift of her body, the way she tugs at her hair like that. She'd mentioned something about deleting the conversation, and she'd definitely mentioned something about being blitzed, so he doesn't look too surprised at her confusion. Though he's just asshole enough to mention, once the microwave beeps and he's distracted with pulling out her piping hot food and tracking down something resembling cutlery, "You were telling me how you figured we'd fucked. Back in Portland."

Vic nearly fumbles the gun she had just started putting back together at his words. "I WHAT!?" It would be a shout if she was able to shout right now, instead it's a whiny high pitched squeak that makes her double over in pain. "What did you just say?" Her eyes are wide and ultra suspicious.

"Yep." The plate of enchiladas (plenty still left in the container) is set down in front of Vic, followed by a fork. "Fucked. In Portland, while we were undercover." At least he doesn't mention the part about how they probably went at it like animals, given the bruises and marks the next day. A beat instead, and he glances at his watch. "You need anything else before I go?"

Vic blinks at him owlishly, as if she's having trouble reconciling this information. She thinks, and thinks, and thinks, and..."Oh shit. That night after Mike dumped me and announced he was moving to Brooklyn because he couldn't handle my job. Shit. I remember drinking...everything but that's it. But I had weird bruises and cuts the next day. And so did you, at that barbeque. Shit." This is why coke is her drug of choice. No blackouts from that shit.

He looks like he's not going to comment one way or another on Mike, or the breakup, or the quantity of alcohol Vic consumed that night. Or the fact that they did a lot harder stuff than tequila, but that's neither here nor there. "Eat," he grunts instead, snagging his aviators off the counter where he'd left them, and starting for the door. "Past's in the past. You need anything before I fucking go, or what?"

Vic seems stunned by the revelation he dropped on her, and she's still sitting there open-mouthed, blinking. Then he is heading out to leave. "No, uh, thanks, for the food. I...wait." She grimaces, wondering if she's just trying to be better, or if it's the pain meds talking here. "I didn't sell you out for cash and blow, Javier. They figured out who I really was. They were going to kill my father. He still doesn't know."

Well, turnabout's fair play, apparently. He dropped a little bomb on Vic, so he should've expected her to return the favour. Hand on the door, he pauses when she reaches the bit about the cash and blow, tonguetip skimming his lower lip, a noise in his throat that doesn't quite become a snarl. "This isn't a good time," he provides eventually, shoving the door open. "Rest up. We'll talk later." He cuts a glance toward her, then steps out unless otherwise stopped.

She just lets him go, having traded bombshells of information. He can hear the door's multiple locks click shut tight behind him.