2020-09-11 - Pizza and No Chill

It's a fairly typical summer evening in Gray Harbour, which is to say that it's warm, and probably thinking about raining. There's a tv set up on one wall of the pizza joint, currently tuned to some sort of sportsball game that a few patrons are glued to, and the majority don't seem to give a shit about. Mostly because it isn't Seattle playing, so why should they?

Seated near the window is the black-clad, slightly bulky frame of the town's acting Chief of Police. He's scrolling through his Friendzone feed on his phone with one hand while drinking what looks like beer, and trying to ignore a couple of small children from a neighbouring table playing loudly near his feet.

Friday night. Pizza. Why not? Olivia's housemate is the one to blame for the craving. The blonde pushes open the entry door and steps inside still enjoying summer in September, wearing a short, denim skirt, a white, sleeveless blouse, and a pair of red, strappy sandals that trace a ribbon back and forth atop each foot to end tied around her bare ankles. Blonde hair is drawn up from the sides of her head to an artful but messy cascade in back where it's left long, grazing past her shoulders. Without a glance around the place, she wanders up toward a counter, her eyes lifting to chalkboards with specials and images of cheesy, golden-crusted deliciousness.

Once she reaches the counter, she rests her fingers on the edge, thumbs tipped downward and drops her gaze from all the advertising to the teenager waiting there, looking at her oddly since she didn't follow the sign's suggestion to take a seat. She's given a bored, canned greeting. A wry smile quirks at her lips. "And good evening to you, too. No, I would not like to try whatever 'crazy bread' is and do you really think I want the double-dipper family special?" She gestures around herself to indicate her singular status. "But I would like a small, Chicago 6, but substitute basil for the sausage." Does she want a drink? "Do you have any of the sugar-cane coke?" The good stuff that comes from Mexico. She is pointed over to a refrigerator where customers can help themselves. "Oh excellent. I'll take two of those, too." She interrupts the monotoned question that invites her to try some sort of silly dessert pizza. "Nope. Thanks. Just the pizza and the Cokes. To go. How long will that take?" She asks this as she pulls her wallet from her purse and snaps down a credit card on the counter. It's Friday night, lady. She gets almost a smirk. At least forty-five minutes. "Then it's going to be pretty damn fantastic, isn't it ..." She reads the kid's nametag. "-- Jimmy?" A demand is implied. Payment is made and she's given a number and a receipt. "And you have a great night, too," she answers the non-existent dismissal by the teen and heads over to the refrigerator for her two bottled Coca-colas with 'real cane sugar'.

Turning, she scans the somewhat occupied establishment for a spot to sit. Most of the weekend business must be delivery. She almost misses that dark, familiar figure over by the window fantastically camouflaged by two already-sugar-hyped children. She stops after one step and watches the discordant image of Ruiz flipping through his phone while two kids jump off chairs and crawl around adult legs and play with plastic dinosaurs. If she was undecided before, that does it: Olivia strolls over to Ruiz's table and simply pulls out a chair, somehow stepping around an epic dinosaur battle without either stopping it cold or being bowled over by the kids. She takes a seat and sets two bottles of soda on the table and considers Ruiz. She'll wait until he realizes someone is sitting at his table before speaking. It's too good, watching him in an unlikely setting such as this one.

There's a thump against his tabletop, and at first, Javier assumes it's one of those kids. Maybe the little one wanting to talk his ear off about velociraptors again, which he didn't mind too much the first four times, but it's starting to get old. He switches off his phone, heaves a breath out his nose, and starts to explain that he should probably go ask his dad instead- when he realises it's a bottle of coke. Which is attached to a familiar blonde Criminal Psychologist.

Dark eyes on blue, he peruses her for a few beats before giving a little sniff, and hitching his chin toward the bottle. "Is that for me? I've already got one." A drink, he means. The beer in his hand. He lifts it to his mouth for a swig without taking his eyes off her. "You didn't strike me as a pizza sort of girl." His has already been eaten, judging by the crumbs and folded, paid bill.

Is that for me?

The query draws a more apparent smile upon the amused woman's face. "Not initially, no. But I can be convinced to share from time to time." Olivia positively soaked in all that resigned kid-tolerance and it's culmination before Ruiz looked up. "It's nice to see you too, de la Vega." She sketches a glance to his beer, then directly back to his face. "Craving Italian tonight, are we? Or was it the ambiance?" Those arresting blue eyes sparkle. What kind of girl is Olivia? "I clearly don't strike you often enough or with enough throw from the shoulder, then."

She leaves that right there before she continues, "Cecil ordered some the other night and it was surprisingly tasty. I thought I'd test whether it was a fluke or a valid option for future forays into the culinary delights that Gray Harbor has to offer." She lifts a hand and splays her fingers idly. "If it's not, I know he'll eat it." The fact that he's finished eating yet is still plugging away at his phone amidst the youthful version of 'Apocalypse Now' simply intrigues her more. Olivia lowers her hand to one of the bottles and deftly tips the cap into the table's edge, bumps the bottle with the heel of her hand and pops off said cap. She takes a leisurely drink, then sets down her bottle. "The Coke is yours if you enjoy chasing hops with sugar. I apparently have a bit of a wait."

She breathes in, swirls the liquid in her bottle, then sets it back down on the red and white vinyl tablecloth. "Pablo Neruda." That's all. Just the name. But it's unlikely he'll be confused by it. Her gaze sketches the line of his jaw, the line of his shoulder, the hand around the beer glass before skimming back up to meet his eyes once more.

So, Joe's apparently decided to lean in to this whole Russian spy nonsense....for as he enters, he's wearing a black mesh trucker cap with a swatch of black velcro on the front and the patch he's attached reads Soviet Space Taxi Service. Not that it's on long - he takes it off as the door shuts behind him, and he reaches up to run a hand through his hair, dispelling any trace of hat head. The sailor's got a certain rueful air to him, but he seems cheerful enough, as he ambles over to Ruiz's table, hooks out a chair with an ankle, and drops loose-jointed into it.

And who should wander in from the outside other than the allegedly murderous daughter of the Chief of Police, still free and clear and not in jail despite the attempt on her mother's life so long ago. Or so the people in the corner whisper as Finch comes in. The young woman is in denim overalls that are cut off to be knee length shorts, with a 'Como Se Llama?' tee beneath which should be in Ruiz's closet but has clearly been stolen by his spawn. She may be here to pick up something for her and Iggy and Granny Dove to nosh on for dinner.

In behind Cavanaugh comes trouble wearing the form of a tall Jewish violinist, but there's less trouble in him tonight than usual. He's got his left arm in a sling, a fancy open-mesh 3D-printed cast on his arm from palm to shoulder. The cast is pink. Underneath, he's bandaged up. He's got big dark circles around his eyes; he looks tired as hell, but is he going to let this stop him? No...at least...mostly no. Schlepping himself across the floor after Joe, he detours to get a beer of his own.

Olivia's pale gaze slides from where she sits diagonally across the red and white checked table from Ruiz over to Joseph as he pulls out a chair and takes a seat. "Cavanaugh, if I remember correctly," she greets with a small smile and another drink from the glass bottle in her hand. "Perhaps I took a seat prematurely. Did you and de la Vega arrange to meet?" Meet here? In the midst of Dino Wars: Raptor's Revenge? "I can certainly wait for my pizza at another table. Nice hat." The blonde is rather laissez-faire about the prospect, glancing over her shoulder for another table, ready to leave the men to their ... beers in a pizza joint. Others follow. Itzhak, Olivia recognizes, despite the fact that they've never met. Her attention shifts to follow after the man with the arm in a sling. Thoughtful, she taps a fingertip against the glass bottle. There's a younger woman to glance to as well. Olivia just may be considering how many years it's been since she was established enough in Gray Harbor to recognize most of the faces. Her attention slides back to Joe and Ruiz, the pleasant question mark lingering up there in the air somewhere.

It's Itz and his state that diverts Joe, for the moment, that easy smile of greeting fading down into something far more grim and intent. "Itzhak," he says. "Damn. Looks like you had a hell of a rough time." He's already kicking out a chair for the fiddler, even as he notices Finch, lifts a long, callused hand to her. "'mon, sit down," he urges the younger man, before greeting the younger de la Vega with, "Miss Finch."

Only then does his gaze dart back to those already present. "Oh, thanks," he says. "And I'm sure there's plenty o' room, up to El Jefe here." There's a sly flicker of a look at Ruiz at that, as if the title were more of a pet name than anything else. Yes, he's teasing.

The striking from the shoulder thing gets a snort of amusement out of the cop. Which is something, at least; she's gotten him to smile. Back goes the bottle for another swig of beer, and there's a brief tick of his eyes toward the de-capped bottle of Coke before her mention of Neruda drags his attention back. He's perhaps about to remark upon that non sequitur when a veritable who's who of his social circle begins to pile in. Heralded by none other than Joe Cavanaugh. In a black mesh trucker cap with.. what the fuck is that on it?

"What the fuck are you wearing?" he is, of course, not at all disinclined to ask. He hasn't yet spotted his progeny in her STOLEN SHIRT, though does seem to have caught the Jew on his radar, and tracks him briefly with his gaze as he awaits an answer to his question. As an aside to Olivia, he waves his hand and assures her, "There's plenty of room. Stay."

"Papa!" Finch calls out as she spots Ruiz, and she moves over to give him a kiss on the cheek before nodding to Olivia then grinning at Joe. The grin fades as she sees the battered arm of her best friend. "Itzy? What the fuck happened to your arm!?"

"I got dropped three stories on it," Itzhak answers Finch, voice raspy with fatigue. He gets his beer, and is he mixing beer and Vicodin on an empty stomach? Yeah, probably. It must be obvious to all that he's feeling pretty lousy because he doesn't even bitch Joe out for telling him what to do; he just drags over, smooches Finch on the cheek, and slumps into a chair. "Hey, baby," is for Ruiz, which normally, Itzhak tries not to say that kinda thing in public.

Olivia isn't particularly bothered by the abrupt tangling of lines of attention around her. A forty-five minute wait for a pizza goes by much more quickly with these sorts of diversions, all plastic dinosaurs aside. Joseph invites Itzhak to sit. He greets Finch. Joseph teases Ruiz and Olivia's smile tips into view for a few moments, glancing back to Ruiz, who finds her comment amusing. Her smile lingers, half there. If she's disappointed that her non-sequitor evaporated, she doesn't show it.

Ruiz's question of Joseph flicks her attention once more to the hat in question. There's a joke there somewhere, aside from the hat itself. But she doesn't ask. Papa! Olivia's brows tip upward and she takes another, longer swallow of the real Coke. "Mmhmm." That's addressed to no one at all, and quiet enough. She doesn't ask again.

Stay. That's enough for Olivia. This casual assemblage is fascinating. From Ruiz, her attention flickers back to Finch to whom she uptips her chin and smiles in greeting. The man in the cast is now called 'Itzy'. That's where pale blue eyes linger for the slouch and the greeting. Again, not asking. "But we hardly know each other," she protests in jest, not at all missing who Itzhak is addressing.

"Well, here in America, we call it a 'hat'," Joe retorts. Oh, someone's feeling his oats. "A sombrero, I guess. The patch is a joke my niece sent me, after listenin' to me complain about us havin' to hitch rides outta Kazakhstan, though that's about to come to an end." As if American astronauts were just standing there on the dusty steppes, their pressure-suited thumbs out, in hopes of an obliging cosmonaut granting them a ride. He peels at the patch, which obligingly comes away - it's got hook velcro attached to the back - and proffers it to Ruiz.

There's a wince and an indrawn breath in sympathy for Itzhak's wound, but he doesn't ask....and Finch gets an upnod. Even though non-Glimmerers might just overhear it as nonsense, that's clearly a story for a less public venue, to his mind. A snort of laughter for Olivia's comment. That hasn't stopped any of them, he doesn't bother to add.

"Ay, pajarito, como estas?" exclaims Javier, dark eyes lighting up, slivered with crow's feet at the corners and a big arm slung around the girl who.. one has to admit bears an uncanny resemblance to him. He takes the kiss to his scruffy cheek, and ruffles her hair before glancing back to Joe in time to catch his little quip in response. Thump goes his booted foot into the blond's chair. "Really? A fucking sombrero." He tucks his tongue between his teeth, eyes still slivered and glinting with teasing menace, and then he snatches the velcro patch away from the older man.

Itzhak, then, gets a double-take. "You what?" Fell three stories? "What the fuck happened? Have you been to the hospital? Does Roen know?"

"Soy bueno. Solo recogiendo la cena," Finch replies to Ruiz as she settles down in a chair and glares at Itzhak. "Why didn't you call me? You're coming by the house tonight and I'll do something about that. The last thing I need is to have to wean Iggy AND you off painkillers, for fucks sake." She is her father's daughter, potty-mouth-wise. She has that grumpy expression the mechanic knows too well. He's getting helped later whether he likes it or not, likely with a heavy duty side of bitching that he waited so long.

She looks back to Olivia as if remembering her manners. "Sorry, Finch de la Vega, nice to meet you." She says her newly official name with a glint of pride in her expression. "Joe, where did you get that hat with the velcro? Iggy needs one so he can wear random things when he's writing in the coffee shop."

Itzhak huffs a laugh at Olivia's tease, smirking a little at her, tired eyes flashing over her. "We don't, do we? 'm Rosencrantz. Itzhak." Which explains the 'Itzy'.

Then he winces as Finch and Ruiz both demand to know wtf. He hunches up, shamefaced, and swigs from the beer. "Roen was there. He got busted up too. And Isabella and Alexander. Yeah, I been to the hospital. They got this fancy 3D scanning printer thing now. Pretty great, right?" Sure, he wants to show off his futuristic openwork cast. But really, he wants to drink this beer. Maybe a couple few more.

Joe's playful demeanor fits in with the first time Olivia met the man: she sits back in her chair and enjoys the banter. The patch is passed across the table. Each individual present earns a thoughtful, pleasant bit of attention from the blonde in the denim skirt (as opposed to the one with the hat). A sombrero. Finch's apparent affection. The fact that no one present seemingly knew about Itzhak's slinged arm until this moment. If the language bothers Olivia, there's no hint of it in her expression or demeanor. She takes another swallow from her coke, content to watch and learn.

Olivia's pale blue eyes snap to Finch as she's addressed. "Olivia Kincaid. It's absolutely my pleasure." She tips her head just so, waves the bottle she's holding at the second, unopened bottle of Mexican coke. "Help yourself if you're so inclined." Once Finch is addressing Joe, Olivia's attention strays back to Itzhak and lingers there, enjoying the smirk a bit after the fact. As she just introduced herself to Finch, she simply lifts her bottle to Itzhak in greeting, "Definitely call me Olivia, Itzhak. Sorry about your arm." Another Event doesn't ruffle Olivia in the slightest. Either she doesn't care, or she's familiar.

There goes his patch. But Joe only looks amused. He'll get it back, or he'll buy another one....or show up with another one more ridiculous. Like you do. The mention of weaning someone off painkillers only makes him prim up his mouth a little. About that. Her question has him thinking for a moment. "Etsy, I think," he says, musingly. "Or Amazon. I got a lotta patches, I figured I'd start wearin' em."

Chagrin, again, for the next installment of Itz's story. He finally pries himself up to go get himself a cider, before returning. "Aren't those wild?" he says, quietly. "The new casts? It's not like the old heavy plaster crap. I had one like that after my wreck."

If Javier was a little more socially savvy, he'd have recognised the need to stop and introduce everyone to Olivia, about twenty minutes ago. As it stands, it pretty much only occurs to him now to point out that, "This is, uh, Olivia. Doctor Kincaid. We work together at the precinct." Like it's important somehow to qualify it with that. He watches her a moment, then glances back to Itzhak and his cast and his three fucking stories and the fact that he's only hearing about this now. It's not only Olivia who finds this fact interesting, perhaps. And by interesting, the tic in his jaw says that might be more like downright bothersome.

The patch, meanwhile, is fastened to the front of his own ballcap, and the brim adjusted. He pops an eyebrow to Joe. "What do you think?"

Finch sighs at Itzhak and he can be sure Roen is going to get an earful as well. At least he can split the griping with August, or commiserate with the man. She does seem interested in the cast and gives it a serious looking over. "They could probably do one for Iggy's leg, if we finally find a good enough surgeon." Which would also have to be one in the know, who can be trusted to let a couple of Spirit-and Mental- and Physical- heavies into the surgery to make sure it goes right.

Olivia's offer gets a shake of her head, tousled dark hair bobbing with the movement. "No thanks, I'm good. Once the order is ready I'm heading home for dinner. Gran made homemade lemonade; I'm just picking up the pizza and Iggy gets to do dishes tonight." She looks to her father and adds, "Gran wants you to come over for supper on Sunday, if that's ok?" As if saying no to Granny Dove is an option.

"Olivia. Nice t'meet ya." Itzhak offers his hand--his right hand is still operational, too bad it's not his dominant one. A big hand, that, broad palm, long fingers, well calloused, rakishly decorated with mechanic's scars and ink on his knuckles. He glances at Ruiz, his eyebrows going 'oh'. They work together! Ruiz isn't just chilling with a random blonde.

Then he mutters, "Yeah, yeah, you can fix me," in Finch's direction, "if it'll make you happy, Jesus Christ." Which is Itz-code for 'yes please I'm miserable'.

The belated introduction -- after she's introduced herself to the pertinent parties -- teases amusement behind Olivia's blue eyes. "At the precinct," she agrees or echoes playfully. Then it's about Itzhak's three stories and Joseph's patch, Finch and someone named Iggy. There's no harm nor foul when Finch declines the bottle of soda. "Homemade lemonade sounds perfect." Leaning forward in her seat, Olivia switches the bottle of soda from her right hand to her left and offers a Coke-cooled, slightly damp hand to Itzhak to shake. She isn't covert about following the callouses to the ink to the scars. A lingering shake of hands, then the doctor from the precinct slides her fingers back over Itzhak's to resume her elegant slouch in her chair. The last flickers her attention from Itzhak to Finch and back again. Watchful. The blonde work acquaintance is incredibly watchful. Perhaps even speculative. But pleasant all the while, and seemingly comfortable in a crowd that is clearly well-acquainted.

Joe snorts, as Ruiz appropriates the patch. "Nice," he says, but there's warmth in his tone. Evident fondness.....and a funny little smile for Finch trying to corral Ruiz into familial domesticity. Even the wildest wolf can be tamed at last.

"She's not the only one. I c'n help some," Joe adds, mildly, after a long pull off his bottle of cider. He's also clearly watching Olivia take in Itzhak, and it makes the smile lines at the corners of his eyes deepen, conspiratorially.

Javier might also be taking in that little interplay between Olivia and Itzhak, attention lingering a moment on the tension between them before returning to Joe. Riiip goes the patch as it's torn back off, and handed over scissored between two fingers. "Sure I'll stop by for supper on Sunday," he tells Finch, flickering her a brief smile. "Wouldn't dream of turning her down. You want me to bring anything?" His beer's slid toward Itzhak for a sip, if he wants it. Alcohol numbs pain, dontcha know.

"Yes please, some delicious dessert I haven't had yet from your side of the family," Finch replies to Ruiz. Her order number is called out at the pickup area and she rises, bending to smooch Itzhak's cheek. "You bet it'll make me happy. Drop by when you're done here, there's peach cobbler for dessert if you're a good boy." Wink. She gives Ruiz a tight hug as well. "See you Sunday, Papa. Be careful out there, ok?" Joe gets a shoulder pat, and Olivia gets a little wave, before the short brunette heads off to pick up her pizza and head to that rickety old, likely haunted, Bayside mansion.

Itzhak grumbles wordlessly and Yiddishly as Finch busses his bristly cheek, but it's undeniably affectionate. "Since when have I ever been a good boy?" There's a flash of a crooked smile. "See ya later, Fincheleh." Ruiz's beer, he accepts a swig of, gratefully, sagging back in his chair and looking all round like he's had A Day.

Realizing he's being watched, being studied, by Olivia, he tints a little and averts his eyes. "Ain't at my best," he murmurs. "Not like these two troublemakers."

Olivia lifts the bottle in her left hand to set it on the table, the Coke in it little more than half gone now. She follows Finch's departure, flickering a glance from the vivacious young woman to Ruiz just right there as the young woman exits the parlor. "I need to explore pizza places much more frequently than I have been." She follows patch transition number two with a faint arching of one brow, then lifts her gaze back to Itzhak. "Definitely feel invited to tell me what to expect of your best, then, Rosencrantz," she half-inquires, half-invites. Troublemakers. "Birds of a feather," is her simple reply.

He smoothes the patch back over its velcro swatch in a sweep of tattooed fingers. Ruiz has a type, doesn't he? But Joe doesn't don his hat again, not now. Oh, there's nowhere near the etiquette around a ball cap that there is with something formal, like an officer's cover, but old habits die hard. She saw him with the crisp white peaked cap at the Chief's funeral, after all.

No comment for Itz not being at his best. But that hint of a smile only deepens, leaving him looking positively impish....and then broadens into a grin, expectant, at her question.

Some delicious dessert might just be a challenge, far as Javier's concerned. For all his macho, snarling, tatted up, gun toting ways, he actually happens to like cooking. Finch's hug is returned, one-armed, and the girl is watched until she disappears out the door with an odd, distant look on his face.

Then the patch is being relinquished, and Olivia's pizza's being delivered somewhere in the midst of it. And there's that comment about troublemakers, and.. did Itzhak imply that he was at his best? Javier? The cop snorts audibly, though at least manages not to choke on his drink. "En-fucking-lighten us, Rosencrantz," he agrees, finishing off his beer and casually reaching for Olivia's Coke.

It makes Itzhak smile a little more honestly, that snort from de la Vega. "Both hands would work, first off, and I wouldn't look like my mascara was runnin'." He shoots Joe a sideways glance that's all what?? and bumps him with his operational elbow. "What is it ya do at the precinct?" he asks Olivia, like he didn't just poke Joe with the very pointy point of his elbow. Whew, that accent of his, sharp and New York and Yiddish, like driving over a hilly road at speed. And this is him slowed down.

Olivia remembers the cemetery quite well, including in some ways she'd rather not. But she remembers coffee, too. There's definitely a type. And Olivia is all about identifying patterns and motives and ... types. Even when she's not thinking about doing so it happens. She glances briefly to the hat not being worn, her attention sliding up to that already familiar sort of manner and amusement of the commander.

Pizza delivered in the to-go box, Olivia idly thanks the teen who shoves it at her. She sets it down on the table in front of her. Apparently dinner wasn't supposed to happen here. She tips a sidelong glance diagonally across the table at Ruiz, a faint query in her gaze just before he reaches for the bottle of Coke. Her smile curves once more as the captain addresses Itzhak in his inimitable style. Itzhak is back on stage. She listens to the mechanic's reply. "Criminal Psychologist," she answers easily, then feels compelled to follow up with, "More colloquially you've probably heard 'forensic psychologist'; it's the same difference, really." Then she observes at her own risk, "There's no prying the New York out of you, is there, Rosencrantz?" Among other things.

Joe is grinning unabashedly now. The expression takes years off his face, never mind the silver in the dark gold hair - it's getting so long, surely he'll get it cut soon? He elbows Itzhak back, gently. Like they're two kids trying to squabble in the backseat of a car without Dad noticing and getting mad. He's still got that look like he's contemplating mischief, but he listens, docilely enough, even as he shoots Ruiz a sidelong glance.

Cavanaugh, meanwhile, is getting eyed fairly intently by the Mexican like, who the fuck are you and where did Commander Motormouth go? The blond's been practically mute since he sat down, prompting Javier to ease a little closer while Olivia and Itzhak are busy conversing, and bump tattooed knuckles to the ex-astronaut's lap. A query, softly murmured in his ear, before Olivia's drink is remanded to her care. "What she means is, she dissects the minds of people who do terrible fucking things. Figures out what makes them tick. Do I have that right?" Dark eyes to blue for a singular, arresting moment, like a butterfly pinned to tarpaper. He doesn't quite smile, but what's suggested at the corners of his mouth is wolfish and spare.

Itzhak hesitates an overlong moment, going still like a slim forest creature that just heard a crackle of dead leaves and twigs. When he reanimates, it's cautious. "Yeah," he says, low, then, more normally, "Yeah, I know what it means." The smile he summons up is a devil-may-care expression on a long face that does an awful lot of expressing. "You can take the Yid out of New York, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"That's essentially correct," Olivia replies with a look back toward the pair of joseph and Ruiz close and murmuring quietly. "But not all of them are evil incarnate. At some point you stop seeing good or evil, right or wrong. That's when things click into place. And no, I'm not a sociopath. Most days." The playful bit at the end puts all the rest in question. If the warm pizza's inviting scent reaches Olivia's nose, she doesn't show any sign of it just yet. She drags her attention from the two men leaning into each other and tips a smile at Itzhak. "No, honestly. I haven't ever met ... a Yid from New York." Her words take on his cadence as she repeats them. "I hope I'll learn more soon. As for knowing what you're saying, be careful what you offer the Crim Psych. If you believe the boys down at the precinct I'm some sort of vampire." Her blue eyes dance. "Though yesterday I was apparently related to Mother Teresa. It all depends on the day." She pushes her chair back, "So nice to meet you, Rosencrantz. And you, Cavanaugh, it was as pleasant as last time to watch you do your watching. de la Vega, we'll finish that talk another time. For now I'm going to take this pizza home and have my way with it." She slings her purse to her shoulder, leaves the mostly empty coke bottle on the table, and picks up the unopened one, sidestepping and pushing in her chair. "Have the weekend you deserve, boys." With that, all pleasant and sincere, Olivia turns and heads for the exit.

A nod from Joe, but he doesn't pipe up. Not yet....though he glances over his shoulder at the counter, like he's waiting on their pizza, impatiently. Still nursing that one cider, but then, that's social mode for him, and a far cry from the bourbon he goes for when a rapid drunk is in order.

His lips are parted as if he'd ask another question, but he settles on only, "You have a good evenin'....." Then a wry curl of his lip. "That's a double-edged wish." What kind of weekend does he deserve? Another flick of a look at Itz, but it's less impish....more sympathetic. However good his life in Gray Harbor may be....when you're bonded that strongly to a place, there's the faintly bitter tang of exile anywhere else.

Joe's going to be waiting a while; if the folded bill tucked under his cell phone is any indication, he's already eaten and paid up long ago. When his murmured query doesn't gain a response, however, his brows crease slightly in concern. A glance at his watch, and a hitch of his chin to the departing CP. "Hasta maņana," is tumbled after her in a low murmur, dark eyes flicked back to Itzhak a moment later. "Are you fucking serious?" the second Olivia's out of earshot.

"That sounds suspiciously like a curse," Itzhak mutters. Have the weekend you deserve, indeed. Then, that from de la Vega, and Itzhak quivers with clashing reactions. Emotions smash into each other like a fifteen-car pileup and he winds up just sitting there frozen unable to get any single one of them out. His right hand flicks in sign, laying his forefinger against his chin and twisting his hand laterally: serious. 'Serious about what', is that that means. Along with Itzhak losing words, it means that too.

Joe also goes still, gaze darting from one to the other. The familiar little indent stitches itself between his brows....and there's that bird-like tilt to his head. Gone from observing her to the byplay between these two. But he doesn't speak sign, so he asks aloud, guilelessly, "Serious about what?"

Ruiz doesn't comment on curses, and doesn't give Olivia so much as another glance, once she's out of earshot. All of his attention's on the fiddler somewhat opposite him. He maintains his easy slouch throughout, and collects his cell phone, checking his messages briefly before shoving it in his jeans pocket. He understands a few signs now, courtesy of sleeping with Itzhak, but this one he doesn't know; the brief flicker of confusion across his face says it all. Fortunately, he can see pretty clearly that his boyfriend is also confused, so he clarifies: "Why in the hell didn't you tell me about your goddamned arm sooner? I shouldn't have to find out about it when you walk into a fucking pizza joint, in front of my coworker."

Does Itzhak want to leap at Ruiz over the table? Does he want to dissolve into tears? Why not both? Glaring at him, flushed red, he signs, hand flashing too fast for anybody to actually read who isn't familiar with it. Especially as it's modified, as he only has the one hand to 'yell' with. Whatever story or possibly cussing out he's doing, he remembers how to be verbal in the middle of it: "...just happened!" The words startle him; his eyes go big and he shuts his mouth. "...it just happened." Flushing with shame now, he looks down. "'m sorry." He scrubs at his eyes.

It's clear that Joe's tempted to lay a hand on both of them....albeit to soothe more than strike. But then, he's learned that lesson more than once, so his movements aren't sudden. In fact, he's left for a ludicrous moment with hands up and palms out, as if they weren't his boyfriend and friend, but were a pair of fractious velociraptors instead. Then he's over his hesitation - they've had enough time to see what he's telegraphing - and lays a hand on each arm. "Hey, y'all," he says, gently. "Hey."

Itzhak's no stranger to the look in the Mexican's eyes that meets him across the table. Joe's seen it a time or two as well, though his moments of pique are usually far, far slower to manifest into anything resembling a butting of heads. That look is all dark, sloe-lidded eyes and tension knotted through his shoulders, and something awoken in him that the military didn't make, but it sure as hell molded and refined. The something that wants to lash out and hurt, and maybe worse.

And then Joe touches his arm, and he swallows. A flicker of muscle and tendon releasing under the older man's hand, and he pulls away. "Going to grab a smoke outside. Give you both a ride, if you like."

If the history of their relationship holds true, the two of them will wind up working this out with dedicated interpersonal violence. Joe is wise to be cautious. Itzhak meets Ruiz's dark sloe eyes with a curl to his lip, despite the too-bright gloss to his own eyes. But Joe's hand on his arm breaks the spell for him, just as it does for Javier.

For the moment.

Then Ruiz is getting up, and Itzhak looks away, rubbing his hand over his face. "Please," he murmurs, and gets up too. First to go cry in the bathroom a little out of sheer overload. Then to go out for a smoke of his own, and try to make up to his snarly wolf.