2020-08-31 - Geese and Other Troublesome Folk

It's a beautiful summer day - just the right temperature, not too hot, not raining, not even overcast. And as summer is dying, giving way to fall, every one who can is out there enjoying what remains. There are children playing, old men fishing, a couple of would-be artists trying to do sketches of various bits of late summer beauty, and people just...hanging out. Enjoying themselves. For Gray Harbor, it is one of those rare wonders: a peaceful, lovely day.

Alexander is here, apparently trying to be...normal. For some definition. He is sitting by himself on the shoreline of the lake, watching the water ripple under a light breeze, his expression faraway and as relaxed as he ever gets. He's wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans.

The Pond may seem peaceful on the surface, but Vic Grey knows it's anything but on the other side of the Veil. It's her go to place for dumping bodies or other evidence that needs to be disappeared before the police find it. That's not why she's here today, though. She's just here to drink and think and keep an eye on some people which are of interest to her boss. Her real boss.

The tall blonde is in yoga pants, a tank top, and a light windbreaker. The latter seems wholly unnecessary but she seems unwilling to show her back, no matter the occasion. Her hair is down and blowing about her from the breeze off the water, and she has a sports bottle that may or may not be full of whiskey.

A woman who almost hits six feet tends to stand out, and even while Alexander is trying to relax, he can't help but pick out...outliers when he sees them. So his eyes flick in that direction. And then stay. His eyes narrow slightly, and he continues to watch her, although the lovely sun has made him lazy enough that he doesn't immediately approach. He's not subtle about his scrutiny, though, and if she looks in his direction, he'll acknowledge her with a nod.

Part of the issue with stress eating was it was a quick way to get morbidly obese without at least some sort of physical activity. Rekani was no stranger to a little lifting and gym work, but sometimes it's just nice to stretch your legs. The growl of his modded exhaust had long ago gone silent, parked somewhere nearby. Rekani was having a little walk, one Airpod tucked into an ear, phone in his hand, and an uncharacteristically thoughtful expression on his face. No ulterior motives from the tubby DJ today. Idly, he digs into a new, white fanny pack, pulling out a bottle of water that should not have fit inside it. What was nice and normal temperature for regular folk was less so to a dude his size. Gotta stay hydrated.

Vic exhibits a few mannerisms that Alexander can probably peg as familiar. Many of the sort Ruiz exhibits. Cop behaviors. Her eyes move almost constantly, and stop briefly on certain things, certain people, like Alexander himself. Threat assessments. She's seen him around though, in the Twofer of course, so rather than bristling at his scrutiny, she simply returns it with her own cold blue eyes, and begins heading his way. She's wearing running shoes, so maybe there is water in that bottle? (Hint: It's not).

Alexander doesn't miss those mannerisms, or fail to draw the proper conclusions. Of course, he's already heard about her from others, so although he doesn't stir as she approaches, when she gets within conversational distance, he says, "Ms. Grey. Hello." His eyes flick around, past her, towards Rekani. He blinks a couple of times. Then he says, "Ah. He's alive. That's good." A hand is lifted towards Rekani if the DJ looks in his direction.

Rekani seems pulled out of his musings at the wave, eyes open and blank for a moment, then quickly recovering into a slightly sleepy looking grin. Maybe all that thought was just a little THC addling. The faintly spicy smell was near the latino, anyways. A man used to boisterous and jovial greetings, he ambles up to Alexander, a fist lifted slowly, as if to pound one in greeting, "Heeeyyy, man! You lookin' good." This would undoubtedly lead to an awkward hand float, but those were the breaks. His eyes distractedly slip toward Vic, "Ayyy, and Señora bartender, wassup?"

At her name, Vic gives Alexander a nod. "Clayton, right? Private Eye? I was planning on coming to talk to you about some possible business." Her head turns to follow the man's gaze to Rekani. Oh, the one who called her something in Spanish she only vaguely recalls, when he ordered a beer. Someone may have saved him from her that night. "Vic. It's Vic." She takes a pull from her sports bottle. There is a slight haze of whiskey scent drifting on the air around her.

"Alexander Clayton. Yes." Alexander's acknowledgement is a little wary, and he adds, "I cannot call myself a private detective. I'm not licensed. But I look into things. Sometimes." He studies her again. "You were injured protecting my friends. Thank you." And then he glances back at Rekani, and smiles a little. "And you're not dead. I'm glad. You seem," he sniffs a little at the air, "stoned," he ends, bluntly. Although without any particular judgement.

"Yeah, I got a lotta layers." he jokes. Rekani's hovering fist is airborne just a few seconds longer than comfortable... for others... Then he seems to realized soon after that, "Oh, you don't do touch! Got it. That's ok, lotsa strippers don't either." His attention is briefly drawn by the smell of the whiskey, nostrils flaring, then that grin turned on grin, "Aight, Vic. I see you." Rekani's little pen is dug from his pouch, raised to her in salute, then sucked on. His eyes turn to Alexander as this wordlessly answers his question. "Yeah, how you deal with it? That shit got my sis the other day." Obviously, there were some details left out, but Alexander was the deductive type. Always a sharer, and having taken his pull, the little silver device is held out in an offering wave to either one of them, because why not.

Vic looks momentarily surprised at the thanks. That is not something she hears often in her (real) line of work. "I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don't call soaking up a bullet protecting people." She shrugs a little. "And I'm not worried about proper licensing. Would you be agreeable to a short job out of state? Shouldn't take you more than a couple days. I need someone checked up on, and maybe have some, ah, security equipment installed in their home and business." With the unspoken 'without them knowing about it' hanging in the air there.

The blonde waves off the vape. "Still can't smoke anything, vapor or otherwise." Her lung resembled swiss cheese when they patched it up. She pulls up the sleeve of her windbreaker to show off the nicotine patch on her arm. "This is pretty much the only thing standing between peace, and me destroying Gray Harbor like Godzilla rampaging through Tokyo."

Alexander tilts his head to one side, and studies Vic for a long moment. "What is protecting people, if not taking a bullet for them?" It seems like a rhetorical question, at least in part, because he doesn't wait for the answer before he says, "Depends," to her business offer. He glances at Rekani again, and doesn't elaborate on what it depends on. Nor does he make any attempt to stop that poor fist from going unbumped. He grimaces, instead. "Is she okay? Your sister, I mean. Gray Harbor's a son of a bitch. You get used to it. Or you kill yourself, or someone else. Also popular choices." A shake of his head at the offer of the vape.

The Godzilla crack is probably not as funny as Rekani makes it seem, but at least his laugh is bright and jovial. "Shit, I could almost see that. Big scaly monster stomping on buildings," He pantomimes the stomping, then brings a hand up and makes a swatting motion of his shoulder, the real diva hair flip, "Just with that lion mane flapping in the breeze," Her hair was striking, anyhow. The vape is tucked away, the DJ not seeming offended to the refusals. Sharing was caring, but peer pressure was lame, yo. A finger is briefly wagged at Alexander, "That's summa that dark shit I ain't need to be hearin'. Yeah, she's healin' up. Mostly bitchin about all the blotchy peelin'. We ain't used to sunburns, yaknow?" He makes a tapping motion to his tanned skin, as if any of that made any sense. "Now, uh... ya'll talkin business, and I worked enough clubs to say I'ma walk my happy ass out." His footsteps start to fade backwards, hands up, though fingers curling in to give little opening and closing waves. He was grinning, amicable.

And so very, very stoned.

"Depends on what? It's my father. He lives in Portland, and owns a bar there. For reasons I'd rather not discuss, I can't set foot in that city, and I need to make sure he's ok -- without him knowing I'm checking up on him, because he's a stubborn bastard and wouldn't want me worrying over him." And Vic has reason to worry. Depending on how this turf war here shakes out, if Felix Monaghan goes down, so does his deal with the cartel cell that kept her and her father off limits to Sinaloa's tender non-mercies.

"I can provide the equipment to install and a copy of the house and bar keys if you're willing," she says.

Alexander eyes Vic. He doesn't say anything for a while, but finally, there's a dip of his chin. "If it's your father, then yes. I'll send you my fee schedule and a contract, and if it's acceptable to you, I can arrange it." His eyes flick back to Rekani, and he shakes his head. "You don't have to go. I don't even know your full name. Or what you do. Or why you're here." Some people would say things like 'I'm enjoying talking to you' - but Alexander? He lists information he doesn't have but wants. Still...it's sort of an invitation.

A heel is placed a little awkwardly, and Rekani is reaching into that damn fanny pack again, because any serious musician needs business cards, right? It's the real obnoxious kind, full color picture of a purple and starry depiction of what was supposed to be a black hole. 'DJ SuperMassive' and his full name, Rekani Nazario. It had a bunch of social media links and Soundcloud info. He steps back over to hand it off to Alexander. "I spin some over at Platinum. Oh, and I work on cars too at Jack's." Because why not just word vomit answer back to Alexander's questions, that seemed like a good idea. "But like... Why is anyone anywhere? That's a heavy question, yo."

"Great, you can drop that stuff at Two if By Sea and I'll get it on my shift," Vic says to Alexander with a faint smile. She looks like he just lifted a weight off her shoulders. She'd clearly been stressing over her father's safety. She digs out a little notepad from her pocket and jots down her phone number in it with a pen she procures from another pocket, holding her sports bottle in the crook of her arm as she does so. She hands that to the PI as well.

"Gimme a call a day or so after you drop off the stuff and I'll let you know the specifications." She watches Rekani with a narrow-eyed gaze, listening to him list off his qualifications. "Does Bennie know you DJ? She might hire you for events at TiBS."

Alexander leans forward to take the card, careful not to let their hands touch. It's withdrawn, and he scrutinizes it carefully. "You don't play metal, probably," he says, sounding mournful. No one plays metal. Especially not at a strip club - headbanging and bumping and grinding don't go together quite as well as you'd expect. "And you're a mechanic? That's interesting. Nice to meet you. I don't have a business card. I'm sorry. But you can have my number, if you want." There's a pause. "If you want to be existential - people are places because of blind chance and personal intention." He then takes the number that Vic gives him, and pulls out his phone; she soon has a text from him, in case she wants to add him to her own contacts. "She might," he agrees, absently. "Maybe a dance night to go with the festival."

"I just don't like other dudes touchin' my ladies, right?" A thumb is hooked back toward where he was assuming that sleek E60 was parked, maybe or maybe not in line of sight. He wasn't sure. The offer for his number is answered by Rekani pointing to the card, then shaking his phone. Probably easier for Alexander to just text him. "And I mean, It's not like I hate some metal. Kip's into some dope Russian shit. Just not my like... stuff I make." Rekani's head does a slow turn toward Vic then back to Alexander, eyes a little glassy and neck tilted just a bit, asking a question that would likely get him shot or at least bludgeoned anywhere in Gray Harbor proper, "Uh... Who's Bennie?"

Ruiz is probably on break from work, or something of that ilk. He's not in uniform, but then, he rarely is; a faded black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, jeans shoved into battered converse, and a ballcap that totally doesn't obscure his identity mark him as being in civilian mode. He's got his cell phone out, a cigarette scissored between two fingers of the same hand, and his badge and gun are visible as he strolls along the edge of the pond and scrolls through his Friendzone feed.

"Bennie runs Two if By Sea when she's not being super woman and saving lives as an EMT. Gimme a card and I'll pass it along to her," Vic explains as she confirms the text from Alexander on her phone. Then her Spidey-Sense seems to kick in and her head raises, turning to lock onto the tattoos scrawled on the arms of the man in the hoodie. She taps a text out on her phone with a faint smirk.

(TXT to Ruiz) Vic : I seeeeeeee you

(TXT to Vic) Ruiz : What, do you want a fucking gold star?

Alexander waves his phone towards Vic at Rekani's question: what she said, apparently. He looks down and taps out something on his phone, and soon Rekani has a bright little text message to add to his contact info, if he wants. "She is the nicest person," he adds, quite seriously, "and if someone hurts her, I think I'll have to kill them." He looks up from his phone and also catches sight of Ruiz. A sunny, uncomplicated smile takes ten years off his features, and he waves. "Javier! Hello!"

(TXT to Ruiz) Vic : You are really shitty at blending in. You used to be good at that undercover thing you know.

(TXT to Vic) Ruiz : That might be because I'm not undercover.

Rekani's fingers dig out a second card, passing it over to Vic with a shrug, "Aw, dope. I like that place. Thanks." There's a short bark of a laugh at Alexander's murderous joke, the kind of laugh that starts out like it was at a joke, then becomes that awkward trail off when you realize someone was serious. More a' that dark shit. That's ok, Rekani is as good as a goldfish, his attention following first the little text message, going to add Alexander to his phone, then quickly snagged toward the not-so-incognito cop.

Looking vaguely irritated at some message or other that he receives, Ruiz fires off a reply and veers in closer to the little grouping containing Alexander, Vic and Rekani. The latter gains a glance like he recognises him, but he can't quite place where from. "Alexander," he greets the private investigator, on the heels of a gruff-sounding sigh, and a drag off his cigarette. He glances away, and toward a flock of geese coming in for a landing on the water with a chorus of honking. "What are you up to?" The question's casual. Maybe a little too casual.

"Yeah get in line on that one, Clayton," Vic quips about murdering anyone that hurts Bennie. The woman is sunshine and rainbows and boozy maraschino cherries. She must be protected at all costs. At Ruiz greeting just Alexander she looks utterly amused. "Well hello there, Chief de la Vega! How nice to see you too! How are things at the precinct?" she asks, faux-cordially.

Alexander gives Rekani an apologetic sort of shrug. "I'm mostly filled with dark shit. Sorry." He's the only one sitting down on the warm summer grass, but that doesn't seem to bother him. In fact, as Ruiz approaches, he lowers his back to the ground and stretches out his legs, letting the sun soak him and closing his eyes a little against the brightness of it. You had to store what sunlight you could find in Gray Harbor, after all. "And I'm glad there's a line. But it's Interim Chief," he corrects, patiently. "We're just...hanging out? I was thinking about serial killers. I'm not sure about the others."

"¿Qué pasa, Jefe?" That look Ruiz gives the fat DJ is returned as a bright, jolly smile, because the singular thing that would likely get him picked up by the cops was a hundred feet away and not running. Ignoring the interim part probably wasn't going to score him points, but sometimes Rekani's mouth was just faster than his brain. Sometimes. Vic gets a look at the confirmation of how murdery people would get over Bennie. Note to self... Alexander distracts him again, though, "Hey man, people love Linkin Park, too. You good." Then, he has to make a side-eye at the investigator, "Ok, yeah, not that."

Just hanging out. "Mm." The captain glances around idly, like he's certain if he looks hard enough he'll find some evidence that the investigator's absconded with, and gotten his grubby little paws all over. Surely this is how Alexanders operate. Another glance at his phone before it's shoved back into his pocket, and a long drag taken off his smoke. Then a glance Vic's way. She's taller than him, in point of fact, so he has to look up slightly to meet those blue eyes.

And then he pauses, before his expression suddenly shifts to an answering grin. It transforms his face, much as Alexander's smile had earlier. This one, though, is clearly false; he's learned how to fake it from months of having to stand in for Thatchery during press conferences and other such insipid PR work. "Fucking amazing, Miss Grey. How the fuck are you?" Okay, so his language could use some work. Rekani gets another assessing glance at the jefe, and a chuckle as he drags off his cigarette again. "Quien eres? No soy tu jefe."

Vic drops into a southern drawl, like some Georgia belle of the ball, the taste of sweet tea in her voice. "Why ah do declare, this day is just pretty enough to make roses bloom, Captain. All the tourists though, manners of billy goats. They just dill mah pickle!" Oh God, someone shut them both up. She gives Alexander and Rekani a wink, like they have some conspiratorial shit going on that the cop doesn't know about.

Alexander appears blithely oblivious to Ruiz's scrutiny of the surrounding area. After all, he has a room for stolen evidence, and hardly needs to haul it around with him like a barbarian. Instead, he lets his eyes mostly stay closed, just listening to the voices around him. "What were you thinking about doing?" he asks Rekani, since apparently he's too good for murder. Then he tells the DJ, "That was sarcasm," at Ruiz's faux cheery response. Then, "Also sarcasm," he notes, at Vic's riposte. "Apparently their relationship is complicated. Did you know each other when you were both cops?" he hazards, nevermind that might be a sensitive subject.

"Just a humble musician." Rekani responds in Spanish, because everyone here can understand it, so his player can't be arsed to translate. There's a bunch of back and forth that the Dj doesnt seem to catch the intracacies of, but luckily, Alexander was there to save the day, and Rekani's lips circle into a large round, 'Ohhh.' If he'd been slow to retreat before, this time he seemed a bit more faux stealthy about it, whole body cartoonishly creeping backwards, "I'ma go this time before they eat eachothers face." which could be violence or carnal, give or take...

There's a snort from de la Vega, but he doesn't deign to actually answer the blonde when she starts on about roses blooming and pickles.. dilling. Instead, he sinks down onto the grass beside Alexander while he asks his question, and reaches away from the man to ash his cigarette with a flick, flick of his thumb. "Yep," he confirms, watching the pond again rather than any of the others nearby. "We were working a case together." Nope, no eating faces. He turns slightly to watch the DJ.. retreat. Or whatever it is he's doing. "See you later," he offers, in English this time, along with a salute with his cigarette.

Alexander's comment gets a snort from Vic. "Yep," comes in perfect concert with Ruiz. "Bout two years, wasn't it?" she queries the cop with an arched brow. She eyes his cigarette mournfully. A few more weeks and she can smoke again. Maybe. If her body doesn't decide it's better off being able to breathe freely and shit. She doesn't sit, just shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and takes a pull off her sports bottle.

"DJ Supermassive," Alexander supplies, helpfully. "He has a card." As Rekani retreats, he lifts a hand and calls out in what is downright cheerful for Alexander, "Don't die." His eyes open and he watches Ruiz sink down on the grass nearby, and offers the man a pleased smile. A flick of attention from one to the other. "Mm." It's a low, thoughtful noise. "Seattle?"

"Portland," the cop corrects with a flicker of.. something at the corners of his mouth. It's not quite a smile. He looks from Rekani, back to the pond, squinting slightly as the sun hits him full force despite the ballcap tugged low over his eyes. And, "Yeah. Two years. Something like that." Then there's a grunt, followed by the sound of him levering himself back and back until he can drop his head and shoulders into the grass. His eyes close, and a moment later, his hat topples off. A huff of breath's expelled out his nose, and then a silence broken only by the geese arguing over by the water's edge.

"Portland," Vic confirms. "I was a Detective there." Was. Past tense. And can't go back to that city, from what she explained to Alexander earlier. Curious. She looks for a moment like she might sit and join them, but then her gaze moves back around the pond and the people visiting. She may be watching someone out here for Joey Kelly. Maybe. Or not. With a sigh she finally grabs a patch of grass for herself, handing the sports bottle over towards Ruiz. "Clayton here is gonna check in on my dad for me," she explains.

Vic doesn't receive quite the same smile that Alexander gave Ruiz when she takes a seat on the grass, but he does open his eyes to watch her for a moment. There's a flicker of surprise when she mentions the job to Ruiz, but he doesn't disagree, just gives a curt sort of nod and lays his head back on the grass again. "And you both ended up here. How weird." He takes a breath, lets it out slowly. "Pitcher plant, I guess."

Ruiz feels around for a moment until he finds his hat, then sort of.. squashes it back atop his head awkwardly. Smoking, too, is non-ideal while lying flat on his back in the grass, but he makes do. "You need a protection order or something, you let me know," he murmurs to Vic, dark eyes ticking over for a moment when she passes him the sports bottle. A pause before he accepts it, takes a sniff of the contents, then shifts his gaze to Alexander. "Pitcher plant?" he repeats, brows furrowing.

"Pitcher plant?" Vic queries curiously. She stays partly propped up on her elbows, not willing to be in a more vulnerable position than that. Her head is still on a swivel as she 'relaxes' with the two men. Face it, relax isn't in her vocabulary these days. Ruiz's words have her slanting a glance his way, part suspicious, part surprised. "If shit here goes sideways," and Reyes gang takes out Felix, "I'll be sure to ask for one for Walt."

"Gray Harbor. It's like a pitcher plant for people who stand out. Something draws them in - a sweet perfume, or a nice color - and then they fall into the heart of the plant. Splash around helplessly, unable to leave even though they should. Until they die and it eats them." His eyes remain closed and he sounds surprisingly cheerful about all of this. Still, Ruiz, at least, would recognize that from the minute shifts of his head, he's certainly following the non morbid and creepifying parts of the conversation with interest.

His sniff test tells Ruiz what he likely already knew; he's well aware of Vic's predilections for sub-par (in his opinion) liquor. And tempted though he might be by it, he has to remind her that he's, "On duty in ten," before passing it back with an unduly salacious wink. Alexander just gets a soft snort as he goes for another drag off his cigarette, and leans away to blow smoke toward the water. "I was here first. She fucking followed me." Of pitcher plants and being unable to leave, he has no particular comment.

"Huh, that's a pretty decent analogy," Vic admits to Alexander with a frown. "I haven't tested it much but even taking a trip up to Hoquiam it felt like something in my insides was tethered to this place, trying to pull me back." She takes back her water (whiskey) bottle with a snort. "I didn't follow you anywhere. My coming here wasn't my choice."

Alexander scoots, after a moment. He wiggles in the grass to put himself closer to Ruiz - still far enough away that nothing but a deliberate effort would touch him, but close enough to be clearly in the cop's space. He nods towards Vic. "A lot of people feel like that. Some go away for years. But we eventually come back. I don't know why." A thoughtful pause before he opens his eyes again and lifts his head to study her. "Oh?"

Ruiz might, or he might not have been completely serious about the following him bit. He doesn't say anything more about it, though does watch as Alexander scuttles in a little closer. Like an old dog that's prone to biting, occasionally. He glances away again, eyes slivering as the sun hits them; ballcap smashed back onto his head as it tries to fall off once more. He smokes and he listens to the other two, but offers no commentary for the time being. Could be his mind's elsewhere, when Alexander mentions leaving for years, but being drawn back.

"Long story," Vic mutters at Alexander. Her eye catches something across the way, and she starts getting up. "Need to get back to the old trailer and take my meds. Doc says I'm healing up faster than expected at least. You two be safe out there. I'll get those details to you soon, Clayton."

"I like long stories," Alexander says. "I'll ask again, later." He's not kidding about either of those things, so THAT'S something for poor Vic to look forward to in coming days. She doesn't get a 'don't die'. He nods, instead. "I'll be by in the next day or so with the paperwork, barring another victim." He lifts a hand in a cheery wave to her, but his eyes don't open.

The not-so-incognito cop, meanwhile, just grunts something that sounds vaguely like a farewell as Vic takes her leave. He doesn't open his eyes either, but remains reclined in the grass with one knee bent, wrist draped against it, cigarette smoking away between two fingers. In which he almost passes for someone who doesn't have the weight of the world on his shoulders, for once.

The blonde makes her way back out of the area of the Pond, trailing a ways behind a person, possibly, though Vic makes it look like she's just taking a stroll back to where she parked her truck.

Alexander seems content to let the silence stretch, or maybe just to allow Ruiz the rare time to sit and soak in the sun without anything in particular demanding his attention. The investigator's eyes open up again to watch the few clouds floating by, and after a while, he starts to hum a song that Ruiz likely doesn't recognize to himself. Not unless the cop's suddenly become a fan of Iced Earth, at least. Even so, he keeps it low enough that it's easy to ignore.

The geese that'd been squabbling by the water seem to decide, as a group, to take wing. As if in a moment of sudden clarity, whatever petty grievances they'd been clamouring over became second fiddle to getting the fuck out of dodge. For whatever reason.

Ruiz cracks an eye open to watch this, briefly, then closes it again at the unfamiliar tune on Alexander's lips. It takes him a good while to ask in that rough murmur of his, his accent itself almost musical in its cadence, "What's that you're singing?"

Alexander twitches when all the geese take off at once, and Ruiz can likely feel the other man's mind stir for just a moment, sweeping the area for threats that might have startled the animals. "Dystopia by Iced Earth." And then he does actually start to sing. It's metal. It's not MEANT to be sung at least than a scream, but Alexander has a surprisingly pleasant voice even if the lyrics are, "Enter the nightmare, the future does implore. A techno city state, a prison nothing more..."

They don't get more cheerful from there, or more complex, for that matter. Definitely meant to be screamed.

It's certainly intended to be pitched a few decibels higher, to a crowd a fair bit more drunk. Or blitzed. Or both. But Javier's distant look softens to one of disarmed fondness, just for a moment there. Maybe if Alexander blinks, he'll miss it; the almost shy smile that takes him, before he has a chance to suppress it. "You're not bad," he admits. "But uh.." flick, flick as he dispenses some more ash from his cigarette. "Maybe pick a different song next time. I mean a.." That's not quite what he meant. But he's already shutting down, clamming up, and nothing else manages to come out.

Alexander grins, bright and sunny, at the praise, even if others might consider it minimal. He glances to the side, just in time to catch the fleeting trace of that smile. "You think so?" He doesn't seem offended about the critique of the song, only curious. He turns on his side to consider Ruiz. "What song?" he asks, and waits. It's not a rhetorical question, although he does add, "I really only know metal, some classic rock, and hymns. So I'd have to learn it, if it's not one of the three."

What song? Alexander asks. There's a soft sound of snapping grass as Javier turns to watch him from close quarters, inked fingers tap-tapping against his knee as he considers the question. Then he clears his throat, turns away again, and furrows his brows like he's trying to recall some old, dusty memory to mind.

After a minute or two, he begins, falteringly, "Oh Dios eterno, tu misericordia, ni una sombra de duda tendrá; tu compasión y bondad nunca fallan y por los siglos el mismo serás." He pauses to hum through some of the chorus, before chiming in halfway with what words he remembers, "..cada momento la veo en mí, nada me falta, pues todo provees, grande, señor, es tu fidelidad." His singing is wobbly, and strictly speaking off-key here and there. He isn't good. But it bears the marks of something he was taught to do, once upon a time as a child. Stood in rows with other children, perhaps, in Sunday school.

Alexander waits, patiently, his eyes fixed with unwavering interest on Ruiz as the cop turns towards him, and then away. Whatever he expects Ruiz to come up with, though? It's not the half-remembered hymn in Spanish. He doesn't recognize it, that's clear from the quality of the attention he turns to the other man, considering the song, drinking it in as his mind and its strange gifts translates the meaning even as he's able to enjoy the rough beauty of it being sung in Ruiz's voice. "That's lovely," he says, and off-key or not, he seems to mean it with simple sincerity.

He trails off as abruptly as he'd started, sniffs sharply. And follows that up with a drag off his smoke. The geese don't return; just a couple of fat mallards hunting the bullrushes near the pond's edge, and a mosquito that's slapped as it tries to make a tasty treat out of the cop's arm. "I'm not religious," he points out. In case it needed mentioning. "I just thought. You mentioned hymns." And heavy metal. Which, he doesn't even question the juxtaposition. This is the measure of their friendship. "I need you to make someone forget," is put right the fuck out there, apropos of nothing.

"You don't have to be religious to enjoy hymns. They're some of the finest songs in history - not all, of course. I mean, there's a lot of lousy fucking praise music out there. But the good ones are," Alexander hesitates, "sacrifices. Faith and talent made manifest. Beacons to keep us on the path." And then he breaks off, clears his throat. "I'll learn it. And sing it." Then that is just thrown out there and Alexander goes quiet and still for a long moment. He returns to his back, and stares up at the sky. "Okay," he says, at last. "Who and what?"

Ruiz makes a little noise in his throat at that. Not quite derision, not quite amusement; wry, perhaps. And maybe he detects a little of that something in Alexander. The words that don't belong to him, rattling around in his head like smooth, polished, pretty stones. He watches the other man, glancing away only once he returns to staring at the sky. And then shifts slightly, and digs something out of his pants pocket with a rustle of clothing. A folded slip of paper, passed over between scissored fingers.

"He saw the security footage. From the attempted hit on Felix." The slip of paper is waggled. "I need him not to know about it." The way he's looking at Alexander, maybe the implications of him continuing to know, and what that might mean for his life expectancy, need not be detailed.

If Alexander even realizes how many pieces of that something, /someone/ else he's still got floating around in his head, stuck to inconvenient places and leaking out when he gets stressed or lost and wants something to guide by? He doesn't show it. His expression is actually rather warm and content as he looks up at the sky - until that piece of paper is waved. He looks at the paper, his expression going blank. He reaches out and takes it. Instead of saying anything, he opens up the paper and reads whatever name might be inside. He stares at it for a while, then nods. "Okay." He folds it, and tucks it away in his jeans pocket before rolling to a seated position, and then to his feet. He offers Ruiz a warm, if brief, smile. "It was nice to enjoy the sun with you. We should do it more often. Be good." And then he starts to walk away, humming some metal song to himself again.

The cop pushes up to his elbows, adjusts his ballcap on his head, and looks like he's going to say something else as Alexander makes to depart. Something about how it was nice, or how they should do it more often, or how he's really trying to be good. But in the end, he says nothing at all. Just watches the other man leave, and then checks his watch, and it's time to get back to the station. And so he hauls himself to his feet and tosses his cigarette in the pond and departs shortly after.