2020-11-19 - Three Rounds In The Ring

Bennie needs to punch something. While she assured Easton that she wasn't mad at him, what she held back is the fact that she is steal dealing with a lot of anger. Her father the largest of the subjects. Perhaps it's his face that she's imagining as she faces off to a heavy bag, but it's not like she knows what she's doing. Tiny ineffectual fists against a big red Everlast bag.

While not quite persona non grata around here, de la Vega's nonetheless not exactly on Kelly's list of favourite people at the moment. So when the police captain walks in kitted out in track pants and a tee shirt, with a duffle bag slung across his shoulder, a handful of people stop talking and watch to see how this'll play out. He, apparently, is not here to start any shit. He's here to hit things. Bags, to be precise. His gear is dumped on the floor near the back, and he starts rifling around for a roll of tape. If he manages to catch the tall blonde's eye, a quick smile in greeting.

"Ruiz!" Bennie greats warmly as her arms fall like limp noodles to her side as if the light fingerless gloves she's wearing are actually filled with lead. She's not a weakling, hauling and lifting patients and equipment all day, but she's discovering she has muscles she's only read about in her textbooks. There is a purse of her lips and a puff of breath, fluttering a piece of hair away from her face. "I think I'm doing this wrong."

So, princesses like Cavanaugh do not usually deign to hit things. But Joe has apparently decided enough is in fact enough....so there he is, in sweat pants and a t-shirt that reads 'As A Matter Of Fact, I Am A Rocket Scientist' over the round NASA logo. He's still sporting the reddish beard, but looks a little clearer headed than he has. Maybe that's why he's there, to wake up a bit further yet.

It takes him a minute to respond to the summons, on account of it being his middle name, and not what people normally refer to him as. Bennie does, though, get a brief tick of eyes from the Mexican in between taping his hands. And a crinkling at the corners of his eyes that suggests amusement inasmuch as her doing it wrong. "Give you a hand with something, pajarito?" he murmurs, ripping the end of the tape off with his teeth, and tossing the roll back atop his bag. Then another familiar face appears in the doorway, and he trails the older man's entry for a few moments before turning to approach Bennie at his trademark prowl.

'Ruiz' is likely because she's afraid to call him Javi or Delala. It's the one safe name in the string she doesn't have an accidental nickname. "Isn't this supposed to make you feel, I dunno, better? Right now all I feel is sore, so I must be doing something wrong. Oh! Is that the point? To wear yourself out." Bennie asks the (interim, my ass) Chief even as she waggles a friendly wave to Joseph.

There's a lazy little grin for Ruiz and an upnod. But no breaking out the queer stuff somewhere as masculine as a a gym. (We won't get into the fact that Rosencrantz is orders of magnitude more fabulous and also a thousand times better a brawler than Joe will ever be.) "Hey there," he says to Benny. "And I would hope so. Nothin' like it to do so. More'n runnin', even."

She could certainly try calling him Javi, and hope she survives the withering look he gives her. She knows, surely, whom that nickname is reserved for.

"Guess it depends on your definition of better," offers the cop, steadying the bag Bennie's been working with his fingertips. He flicks his eyes up and down the length of chain, then crooks half a smile to her. "Yeah, wearing yourself out's part of the point." He curls his hand into a fist, thumps the leather in a solid, if lazy hit that rattles the chain. "Cavanaugh," rolls off his tongue like melted butter.

It's reserved for someone who's had sex with Ruiz. Which Bennie TOTALLY DOESN'T QUALIFY FOR, THANKS EASTON.

"You know, I don't think I've ever seen you outside the bar, Joe. I was beginning to wonder if you soul was just tied to the place and you hadn't crossed over yet." Is that even true? Has she seen Joe outside of TIBS? Her head tilts in consideration. "Well, I got the tired part, but not the better part." And to emphasis her point, she punches the bag immitating Ruiz, minus the chin rattling part.

He's taping his own hands deliberately, the ink disappearing under the swathing, as he drawls, "De la Vega." That warmth unmistakable in the blue eyes. Then he gives Bennie an arch look, brows up. "Yes, you have," he says. "There was that party in the woods. Wasn't it your birthday party? Other places too, I'm sure." Even if he can't bring them immediately to mind.

"He does drink like a fish," Javier confirms, dark eyes still creased at the corners with unmistakeable amusement. "But I promise you, he spends plenty of time outside of the Twofer." The way he's watching Joe, tip of his tongue brushed along a canine, those aren't particularly chaste thoughts he's got rattling around in his head. Glancing back to Bennie, he thumbs through his beard scruff and considers her a moment. "You want to go a couple of rounds? I've got some gloves in my bag."

As Joseph fills in at least one other place that she's purported to have seen Joe, she slides that blank expression of a gap in her memory behind a sunshiny smile that's too wide to be a hundred percent genuine. "Oh! Of course! Thanks again for coming." But between Bennie's ears there are still crickets, unable to draw up the memory despite the reminder. Thankfully Ruiz saves her with the offer, "Maybe that's the part I'm missing! I need to hit someone not something! Yes! Yes, let's do that!"

It needs no use of Glimmer for the sharing of those particular thoughts. Joe just looks faintly more sly for a moment, amusement giving his face a vulpine air.

It only deepens when he contemplates Bennie again. But he doesn't call her on it, either. No, he's lining up on one of the little bags, once he's found gloves that'll suit, and warming up that way. Clearly out of practice, but just as clearly not wholly ignorant either.

"Estoy feliz de complacer," murmurs de la Vega, taped knuckles briefly touched to Bennie's shoulder. Then he ambles off to fetch said gloves. Two pairs of them, because he apparently keeps extras on him, and tosses the second set to her on his way back. "You want in second round, Cavanaugh?" he calls across to the tall sailor.

"Feliz Navidad to you too, friend!" Bennie chirps back happily as she trades her fingerless gloves for the more padded ones for sparring in the ring. She bonks herself on the head experimentally. "Yeah, okay. So I just...try to hit you right? I mean, I took some self defense courses, but unless you're stealing my purse and kicking you in the junk is legal..."

"Sure, don't mind if I do," Joe agrees, putting out a hand to still the bag for a moment. He's no Captain America, it's not filled with concrete. He doesn't answer her question directly, other than to say, a little dryly, "No, no kicking in the junk. No kicking period, matter of fact, and no hitting below the belt. This isn't no-holds-barred street fighting, which is exactly what you would want if someone was trying to come after you...."

Ruiz looks amused as Joe lays down the law for him, and busies himself stripping out of his hoodie in the meantime, and tossing it atop his bag. It's scraped off with his back to the pair, granting a brief flash of the extensive ink sprawled along his upper body: a cephalopod of some sort, and neat rows of names articulated along his right hip and flank. Quickly disappeared once his tee shirt's tugged back into place again.

"Like he said, hit me with your hands. We don't have to worry about points, we'll just go for five minutes, then switch, yeah?" He rolls his shoulders, then stretches out one leanly muscled arm, then the other. "See if you can wear me out." A wink. "Ready?"

"You boys are no fun. Fiiiiiine." Bennie relents with the overdramatic air of a five-year-old, head tossed back and stomp for emphasis. "No hitting below the belt." She grins as she goes to tighten her pony tail, realizing it's impossible with gloves on, so it'll just have to remain messy and loose. "Joseph, make a bell sound!" An integral part to this whole experience, apparently.

Of course Joe's giving him the eye. Nevermind that he's seen that body nude countless times, has pored over that ink like a monk over scripture - there's something about the random flash of skin.

Then he's protesting, "I'm all kinds of fun! Matter of fact, I'm more fun'n you could handle. A'right, y'all ready? Ding, ding," he says, distinctly, willing to humor her.

There's no comment whatsoever from the dark-eyed Mexican on the subject of just how much fun they are, he and Joe. Just a flash of a grin, and a brief show of dimples, before he's all business. His guard's kept lower than most tend to prefer as he drops back with his hands in loose fists and his shoulders turned three quarters. Eyes on the blonde's body, rather than her face. Maybe he's just taking the opportunity to cop a glance at her rack. He doesn't go in for the first hit, but rather strafes around a little, lifts a hand and crooks two fingers at her to indicate for her to come at him.

"That's why I'm with Easton. I'm his Goldilocks and his fun is juuuuuust right." Bennie gets an overly serious expression on her face, knocking her glove off the tip of her nose and pretending to spit to the side. "How am I supposed to hit you if you keep moving!" She grouses before she skitters forward and tries to straight arm a punch into Ruiz' chest.

"Fair enough," Joe concedes, laughing a little. He's still playing with the speed bag a big, toying really. Just enough to get himself warmed up a little before his turn. "Well, that's the question, innit? He's not just gonna sit there like a fencepost an' wait for you to whale on him. C'mon, go git him, girl. Show him who's boss." Grinning at the idea.

The cop's got to weigh damn near two hundred pounds; much of it muscle, some of it the excess of middle age beginning to encroach on him. Despite this, he has the reflexes of a cat. A lazy, sloe-lidded thing until Bennie's fist comes arcing toward him, and then he twists away at the last second, forcing her to up her game if she wants to land a hit on him. No counterattacks yet; just a rumbling chuckle, and a quick little baring of his teeth in challenge as he prowls backwards, as if to egg her into pressing the attack.

There is a squeak from Bennie as she connects with nothing but air and the wily Ruiz is now a few steps away from where he was when she targeted him. "Maybe I should've tied his shoelaces together first." She says back to Joseph, but she's matching Ruiz' chuckle with a bright smile of her own. Even if she never clocks him, clearly this little exercise is making her feel better. "I had a brother you know! I know how to rough house!" She warns Ruiz as she comes in swinging, this time a little more proper of a punch, no matter it'll likely be like being bit by a mosquito if she connects.

"He's faster'n he looks," Joe says, eyes bright. "Nah, even tyin' him to somethin' won't slow him down. B'lieve me, I been tryin' for years." He really can't resist the urge to tease them both, can he? "C'mon, crowd him, crowd him, don't let him control distance," he urges her, slightly more seriously. "Don't let him set the pace or you'll be driftin' around out there all night."

This time, one of Bennie's swings glancingly connects. It's not a good hit, but it's a hit. And it prompts her bigger opponent to try to snag her wrist lightly in one gloved hand, and thwap her cheek with the other. Sort of a little wakeup call, to warn her to, "Keep it tighter, don't get fucking sloppy." And then he stalks away from her again, dark gaze once more on her frame rather than attempting to make contact with her eyes. Guard slightly low, shoulders loose, energy conserved with that easy prowl.

If he manages to catch Joe's attention for a moment, he mouths, you're next, and skims his tonguetip along his teeth lightly before refocusing on his taller, more slenderly built opponent.

Bennie's nose wrinkles as she's thwapped in the cheek. It's not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to get her attention. She lowers her stance a little and brings her arms in and turns her body in mimicry of Ruiz's. Gloved hands closer to her face to protect it this time, "Am I supposed to talk smack too? Something something tight, something something sloppy about my lady bits." At Joseph's encouragement, she presses forward back and forth to try and control the movement so she's not just chasing after him all night.

He's enjoying this spectacle....perhaps reminded of older days. Of watching Javier train with the other Marines, all feral energy. When the cop catches his eye, he waggles his brows at him, amused, and nods.

Joe can't help but guffaw at that reply to Javier's directives. "I don't feel it's my place to comment about your bits at all. We're both taken, right? But one can always talk smack, I'd think. That's it, that's it."

Bennie's got the advantage of height and reach, even if Javier's got those uncanny reflexes and power on his side. So once she starts to hem him in, she has a little more luck in sneaking past his defense and landing some hits. He's pacing himself, so he's still got plenty of juice by the time he takes a step back and lifts a gloved hand. "I think that's time. You want to swap off?"

And the blonde is sweating more than she anticipated, wiping the back of her arm across her brow as Ruiz calls time. Sure, she's used to manual labor and always moving and grooving to achieve something, but this was a different sort she's not accustomed to. "Yeah, show me how the big boys do it." And she could really use a drink of water. She dives in one last time, not for another hit but a smack of another sort, attempting to kiss de la Vega on the cheek before she vacates the ring and relinquishes the sparring gloves to Jospeh.

Joe's grinning like a fox, all loose-jointed anticipation as he takes her place in the ring. "C'mon, Papi, run your old man around the ring a li'l, now that we're both warmed up some," he teases, as he puts on gloves. She gets a wink as she passes. "Nothin' like kissin' a cheek with a beard on it, huh?" Easton's got one, after all.

And it's true, Bennie's no slouch in the strength department, either. She spends her time lifting patients into and out of ambulances, which is probably more activity than her counterpart in the GHPD sees in an average workday. Not expecting the peck to his scruffy cheek, Javier demurs with a faltering little smile, then goes for a slug of water from his bottle.

"Think you bruised me with that last one," he tells the paramedic, rifling his fingers against his tee shirt-covered ribs gingerly. Then to Joe, as he stretches his neck left and then right and drops into the same loose stance as before, "Qué obtengo si te atrapo, bebé?"

"I like my men manly." Bennie agrees with Joseph as she flops into a folding metal chair, sinking down until the cool rim of the back of it creases into the back of her neck with the slouch. "Oh, now you're just humoring me." She calls to Ruiz, kicking out her long legs and wiggling her feet back and forth like a windshield wiper.

That grin hasn't changed in all those years - lazy, feral, confident. Joe comes forward to touch gloves with that ritual solemnity, even as he says, "Lo que quieras," His accent's gotten better and better, of course reflecting Javier's own. It's lost some of that schoolboy quality it started off with.

Then he's heading back to the proper distance, as if this were more a real match. "You get to be the bell this time," he tells her, but his gaze is still fixed on Ruiz's.

Bennie seems more enthusiastic about this than she was her own spar, sitting up a little excitedly and throwing her arms up over her head, "DING DING!"

Ruiz cuts his eyes toward Bennie briefly at the sound of the bell, crooks her a smile full of crow's feet, then returns his attention to the match. Once again, he drops back and begins to circle his opponent lazily like a predator looking for a weak spot. Content to wait and see if Joe'll attack first. He's worked up a touch of a sweat, the slight sheen of it peppering his tee shirt and dampening his dark curls.

Joe's started to circle, too. Guard up, careful, with that grin gleaming past it. Then he's darting in to try and land a little one-two sequence. For all his lazy barfly aura, he's still got those fighter pilot reflexes. Still quick, even if it's not the striking snake speed he once had.

Bennie leans forward in her chair, using the hem of her tank top to swipe at her face. No indecency here, as she's wearing a sport's bra beneath. "Clean his clock, Delala!" Of course she'd be in her protector's proverbial corner, but then she switches teams just as fast. "Wipe the floor with him, Broseph!" She is a fickle blonde beast.

Maybe it's this weed haze that keeps sitting over Gray Harbor (saving everyone a lot of money on their chill out and forget how much everything sucks budget). Maybe it's hanging out with people like Seth Monaghan lately. Maybe it's just Joey Kelly's strict training regime for asthmatic nerdboys with delusions of learning self defence. Either way, about now is the time that one Ravn Abildgaard wanders into the gym, wearing track pants and a tank top (you can probably guess what colour) and a duffel bag (yes, that too).

The Dane looks surprised as he catches his bearings -- maybe not so much at seeing de la Vega and Cavanaugh near a boxing ring, because they too are what he mentally refers to as big butch sluggers. Bennie, though? Lady Sunshine on the mat? There's something that didn't quite register as very likely, and he draws closer with a murmured, "Yo" -- and very red eyes.

Fighter pilot reflexes, meet sniper reflexes. Javier used to be able to peg a guy a mile out, through and through. No hesitation. And he doesn't hesitate now; when Joe comes in with that one-two sequence, he lets them land, and powers in with a knee knocked to the older man's thigh to try to destabilise him, then a fist sliced into his ribs. Hard. No fucking around, it seems. Something's hissed in his ear before he slinks away again, glances toward the door, and re-establishes his distance.

Bennie may get her wish, for Ruiz is still fast, too...and a far more experienced fighter. Joe snorts at her switching sides on a dime, though, but he's still got his eye on the younger man.

Big butch slugger? Not Joe, by any light, though he's fit enough. Slice to the ribs and that knee in his leg - a little dirtier than he was expecting. But he manages a tight hook to the cop's flank even as de la Vega's out of reach. A snort, and then he's coming in again. No, no one's fucking around. This is no warm up.

"Ooh! Ooh! That was below the belt!" Bennie tattles on Ruiz to no one in particular as he knees Joseph's thigh, but she doesn't have a good grasp on the rules beyond what she was told moments ago. Her wide smile, more carefree than it has been in days swivels to greet Ravn. "Oh, sugar." She says sympathetically as she sees his eyes. "Visine eye drops are you're friend."

Ravn can't quite resist the lure. This isn't Seth Monaghan or Alexander Clayton just standing there looking at him very patiently in their pads, as if to say, 'can't touch this' (and promptly, earworm moves in), and knowing that they are right (usually). This is a real fight. He's not exactly an expert in the field but it may very well be worth the watch. "Who's winning?" he mouths to Bennie.

Ruiz is far too focused on his opponent to catch the fact that Bennie's just tattled on him. To Ravn? Irrelevant, the guy looks like he needs several cc's of coffee before his brain comes online, anyway.

"Vamos, vamos!" he taunts Joe, flashing his teeth at the other man in a quick snarl that's all dark, slivered eyes and dimples. "Golpeame," he growls. "Que estas esperando, huh?" When the blond comes in to strike again, a swat from the Mexican. Not a jab, not a cross, but a swat with the flat of his hand to Joe's cheek. A slap.

"He is," Joe's voice is an uncharacteristic growl, and the usual lazy smile has been utterly banished. Not angry, not upset, but very definitely on his mettle. A little scoffing sound for that slap, and he's trying to land a couple of hooks on the cop's chest, before backpedaling quickly. He's in great shape, but he's very definitely out of practice at this.

Bennie herself looks like she went a few rounds in the ring, but likely nothing like what's going on now. Her hairline is just damp and she's gulping water like there is no tomorrow, gasping for breath as she answers Ravn. "My money is on they just end up rolling around the floor and kissing, but I'm not really sure how these things go. I'm just extrapolating with my own imagination."

The Dane grins slightly. "I think there's a point where some rule about under the belt comes into play there. But I'm going to watch this until it does. I don't really have any fighting experience."

Then he beams. Like a six year old who just won first prize at some very important kindergarden competition. "I decked Seth Monaghan, though." Thank you, life, for letting him have this.

Javier, himself, is starting to show signs of wear by now. It's his second match in a row, and Joe is in good shape, as is Bennie. As is he, but chasing hits is hard work. The first hook from the ex-pilot misses; the second lands solidly, and rocks him back a step, and he tries to power in with a quick jab, jab, slam into the other man's ribs. Surely, if he wasn't wearing those gloves, he'd have bruised or even broken something with the force of that hit.

Itzhak rolls in, full-on swaggering, strutting in like he owns the place, which he most assuredly does not. Just in time to see Ruiz going in hard after Joe in the ring, and he makes an appreciative face, glancing at Bennie and Ravn. "I see the guys're playin' rough in public again," he says, lopsided smirk all inclusive. He bops his way over to the two of them, dancing to some beat in his head, and smooches Bennie's cheek extravagantly, mmmmwah!

Joe's not fast enough to evade the first pair, even if he scrapes back past the third. Grunts from him at that - the gloves may keep the hits from real damage, but even blunt trauma is enough to drive the wind from him. Then he's trying to get an arm around the cop for a sort of half-grapple, all the better to bring his own fist in for a couple of punches.

Something Ravn says makes Bennie's smile falter slightly, "Oh, um. That's great." She tries to plaster back on the expression but thankfully Itzhak is swooping in to kiss her cheek to make that practice easier and more genuine. "Hi pookie!" She greets, "I am investigating the therapeutic benefits of punching out your feelings. The boys are giving me a demonstration."

Ravn, in his weed haze, misses most subtle cues. He managed to miss the idea that you click the safety mechanism off a .38 before firing it, he's not going to get subtle. He just waves at Itzhak before sticking his hands into the pockets that his track pants doesn't have, looks a little confused, and then sticks his thumbs in the waist band instead. "I'm getting into this. Never thought I'd have fun in a gym."

"Si querías un beso, bebé, todo lo que tenías que hacer era preguntar," Javier all but purrs, caught as he is in that half-grapple, head turned aside to the hits scuffled against his bearded cheek and shoulder. He doesn't fight it, not immediately. Like any predator worth his salt, he saves his energy for the last; then expends it in a burst of power. A fist slammed into Joe's midsection, full force, hard enough to buckle him if it connects. And then another swung at his jaw with a vicious snarl.

Itzhak sure is dancing in place, hearing something in his head that just won't let his feet go. Hips and shoulders going in counterpoint, he informs Ravn, "We're playin' some fuckin' swing, meyn boychik, warm up ya bow." He doesn't even have the excuse of being high because he's like this all the fucking time. "It's got its charm," he says to Bennie, grinning, and eyeing the two men in the ring. "Oooh, damn," he murmurs as Javier works Joe the hell over, his eyebrows going flirtatious. "They're gonna be frisky after this!"

...that one was totally because he's high, though. He elbows Bennie, but lightly, not the thumper he'd give one of the guys (except Ravn who's exempt from all brotherly thumping). "How you doin', sweetpea?"

"I mean, the hitting itself was fun and all, but this is a show." Bennie responds to Ravn, "I have no idea what Delala is saying, but I really wish I had some popcorn right no--Ooooh." Bennie jerks her knees up as if she felt one of those blows straight to the gut herself, but thankfully unlike August, she's not actually emphatic to the feeling of other people's pain. And the light elbowing from Itzhak she looks up at him, her smile serene. "I'm just peachy. Treating my first degree burns from how scorchingly hot my boyfriend is. I will never look at cheese the same way again."

Connect it does, as does its follow-up. The first bends him nearly double, and the next one snaps his head back. He's got a mouthguard in, so it doesn't crack teeth...but it sends him back in an unsteady, coltish stagger before one heel goes out from under him and he's ass-down on the canvas of the ring's floor. Not able to get air enough in to offer a verbal surrender, so he raises one gloved hand in token of capitulation. Wheezing for breath, and not trying to get up immediately.

"Swing, huh." Ravn tastes the word, then nods at the New Yorker. "Haven't done a lot of that. Teach me, sensei."

Rosencrantz's not very subtle innuendo seems to go right over his head. Nothing new there. Anyone who's known him for a while probably suspects, and quite rightly so, that it's a choice on the Dane's behalf. Human relationships are messy and entirely too complicated.

Then Joe goes down and he winces. For a moment he wonders if he's supposed to get the first aid kit, looking from de la Vega to Rosencrantz and then, perhaps remembering who's the actual EMT here, to Bennie, for a cue.

The cop's already prowling in right on Joe's heels, ready to finish him off if he doesn't surrender. But then the glove goes up.. and there's a moment. A moment where he maybe considers climbing on top of him and hurting him again, anyway. Because that's the sort of person he is.

A moment that doesn't happen. Instead, his glove's tugged off, and a heavily tattooed hand is offered in assistance, after a beat or two. He's breathing heavily, sweat dampening his tee shirt, soaking into his dark hair. Only now, he's spotted Itzhak's entrance, and his gaze lingers on the tall musician for a long while before flicking back to Joe. "Good fight," he murmurs.

To be fair that wasn't innuendo on Itzhak's part. It was just straight up remarking upon Joe and Ruiz's sex life. That Ravn lets it slip on past like greased lightning is something completely expected and of neutral value to him. That's how Ravn do, no big deal. "Swing, you bet ya sweet bippy!"

He graces Bennie with a rare flash of a brilliant smile. A little less rare when he's in the green cloud. "He's so fucking hot. Glad youse guys are picking back up. Everybody's pullin' for ya." Then Joe goes down in a heap and Itzhak goes 'oooh' and stands on his toes, pausing his dancing to crane at the ring and see if everything's under control. That look on Javier's face, he knows, and he's watching him with interest to see what he'll do. Would he actually interfere if Ruiz chose to keep going? Well, nobody gets to find out because Ruiz doesn't. Itzhak flashes him that smile, too, even more dazzling, and hikes his eyebrows at him, resuming his dancing in place. Six-foot-plus of lanky bod in motion, to the rhythm beating through his ridiculous soul. "Hi, baby," he calls to him, "lookin' fine!"

"Don't worry, nothing's broken. No internal bleeding." Bennie assures Ravn, even though she never stood up from her seat. Nothing like casually scanning your friends from afar. "Nothing that some whiskey, a hot soak, and a few booboo kisses can't fix. Hey Joseph! Your potassium's a little low. Eat some bananas!" She presses her hands into her knees and rolls to stand, giving a sore little stretch once the show is over.

"Me too." As far as pulling for her and Easton, said with a confident look. "We seem to be much better at this the eighth go-round." Okay, so it hasn't been that many ups and downs. "Thanks for the lesson!" She calls over to Ruiz with a chipper little wave. "But now I need a shower. And some more cheese. Maybe not in that order." The munchies are real, man.

It's a flash of understanding that needs nothing from Glimmer. That beat of pause, and Joe's grin is slow, wicked, dark gaze meeting blue. Perfect understanding, before he peels off his own glove and takes the offered hand. Panting and sweat-darkened, too. The smile doesn't falter, only broadens when he finds the musician watching. "Mmhmm," he agrees. "Not as good as our first, but good."

Then he's ambling for the ring-side with a good deal less than his usual ease, taking off the other glove before he spits his mouthguard into his hand. "Hope y'all enjoyed the show," he says, with just a hint of irony. Bennie's comment makes him pause, blink, as he peers at her. "I'll keep that in min'," he says. "And I sure need a shower, too. Not that I'm invitin' myself in," he hastens to add. Stowing his gloves, before he's looking for the door to the guy's locker room.

"I did," the Dane murmurs to no one in particular. "Came for the treadmill, got to see a real fight." He hoists up his duffel again and shuffles in the direction of said treadmill -- after all, there's watching people in the ring and there's inserting yourself into whatever they have going on. It's not as if he's out of hearing distance either -- but he came here to walk up a slightly uphill slope that monitors his pulse, and that's what he's going to do.

With Joe back on his feet and headed for the showers, Javier watches after him a moment or three before going to fetch his bottle of water from his bag. He takes a long drink from it, caps it and tosses it back, then drags his tee shirt over his face and throat to dry some of the sweat off. Does he give a shit that he's exposing tattooed chest and slightly soft belly? Nope. Not even slightly. He eats donuts. He likes donuts. Probably a little more than he ought. Fortunately, he also likes working out.

"Doesn't it bother you that you're doing all that walking and getting nowhere?" he queries of Ravn, hitching his chin toward the treadmill, and ambling on over to where Itzhak's loitering. The Jew gets a shove with his shoulder once he gets in close, and a low murmur.

Itzhak was here to work over a bag, himself, but Ruiz pulling up his shirt like that has his undivided attention. He gets shoved, and smirks, shouldering back, bending his head to the other man's whisper. "Oh you bet I do," he murmurs in reply, pleased as punch, and sets to gloving up with all due haste. He wants to get. In. That. Ring. Doesn't take him long, he's well practiced by now and he has fast fiddler's hands. "If you think you ain't had enough," he adds, as he does, wickedly humorous. He jerks his chin at Ravn. "That guy popped Seth Monaghan one so hard he broke his nose, it's always the quiet ones."

"Not as much as skipping would make Kelly bother me," Ravn replies with a small laugh. "It's fucking dull. But the man has a point -- if I want to learn basic self defence, I need to get my stamina up a bit. Can't fight if you can't breathe."

He pauses, and then adds, "And at least he's not making me drag that goddamn horse of a dog on the treadmill." Apparently, Ravn swearing when high is a thing. And so is Ravn walking Joey Kelly's mastiff.

A huge grin spreads on the copper blond's face -- also rather uncharacteristic of the usually somewhat subdued man -- and he exclaims, "I did! Thank you life, for letting me have that!"

The you bet I do gets a low chuckle in answer, and Javier prowls on back, adjusting his gloves while he waits for Itzhak to get ready. "So I heard," he concurs, regarding breaking Seth Monaghan's nose. He might consider it due reward for persisting in calling him Chief despite being repeatedly reminded that he's merely a captain. Not that he says any such thing. "He's right, of course," he adds, rolling out his shoulders, and bringing up his guard. Low, loose, like he did with Joe. "About breathing." Then, "Don't fall off." The treadmill, presumably.

Itzhak tugs the lacings tight and slips through the ropes to climb in the ring. As soon as he does, something about him changes; that gleam of showmanship he carries around with him does not drop off, but it transforms into something wilder, more primal when he steps in to face his lover. Mouthguard in, he grins at Javier, pure trouble. But he's not fucking around. Like Joe, he's taking this seriously. Also like Joe, he just enjoys the hell out of it.

He's a lot more of a street brawler, like Javier himself, than a formal boxer, and it just comes shining through in the way he darts at Ruiz and drives in going straight for that soft(er) underbelly. Fast, fluid, very little of the rigid angularity of the pro boxer.

Ravn keys the treadmill in for a slow but steady walking pace. He knows his own limitations and Kelly didn't instruct him to have coughing fits all over the place. The benefit of this is that it also allows him to watch the two other men in the ring -- which he does, because where he's from, boxing is something you watch from an expensive seat and he rather suspects it's more than half choregraphy and showmanship.

This, on the other hand, is the real thing. Sure, the two men don't actually want to kill each other. Hurting each other, though? Definitely on the table, even he can see that. Nevermind the fact that they'll both probably enjoy the hell out of it too. This is going to be interesting.

Itzhak, no doubt, picked up some of his ability to fight from prison. Javier, from time spent roaming the back alleys of Tijuana as a filthy street rat; and later, as an enforcer for the cartels. Sure, he's had some training, too, during his time on the police force. But it's a blip on the radar, figuratively speaking.

When the fiddler moves in, so too does he; hits are traded one, two. The blow to his belly is countered by a love tap to Itzhak's nose. Not hard, just enough to remind him that Javier can reach it. Could break it, if he were so inclined. He makes a kissing noise. Mwah, then strafes to the side. "You taking lessons from Kelly now, then?" he asks Ravn in between hits.

Itzhak rocks back with a grunt, circles Ruiz in quick graceful sidesteps. "You gonna talk to him or hit me?" he growls, only partly playfully. "I gotta get your attention?" So be it--he's got longer reach, and his long skinny arm lances out for Ruiz's own many-times-broken nose. Itzhak doesn't leave it there either, following up with a swift combo, left-right-left! Javier better be on his guard.

The Dane in turn looks suitably impressed. Not only can these men punch at each other, they can do it while having a conversation.

Well, so could he. If you consider frustrated ranting in Alexander's general direction before bopping him on the kisser out of sheer Argh I Can't Even to be having a conversation. He would not be talking to the guy on the treadmill if he had Itzhak Rosencrantz dancing around him, trying to land one. Curled up in a defensive position in the ring corner, maybe.

He nods as he walks at a slow pace, indeed getting nowhere. "After that Mesoamerican beach dream of ours? I decided that I need to do better than just hiding behind everyone else. I went and talked to Seth Monaghan and Joey Kelly both about some basic self defence tips. It's a little complicated when you're asthmatic though." The Dane makes a face at himself; half frustration, half embarrassment. "Doubt I'm going to be doing human fight club when the Revisionist tires of the lobsters."

In all fairness, Javier's starting to sound a little winded. This is his third bout, after all, and by far the toughest of the three. As Itzhak circles, he doesn't even try to break out of it; like a trapped lion, he watches the taller man, dark eyes slivered, guard kept deceptively low, hackles up. Then that fist darts out, and he shifts just enough to let it slide past.

Well, for the first hit, anyway. Not so lucky for the second, third and fourth. The rest of the combo nails him hard, and he stumbles back into the ropes, panting, before shoving himself off again with a snarl. Does Itzhak really want to piss off the short-tempered Mexican? He barrels back in with a quick double jab, lead hook to vicious cross-body vertical punch delivered without full rotation, right into his boyfriend's floating ribs. Something's crooned into the man's ear right as he delivers it, too.

True, Itzhak just got done watching Javier work Joe the hell over, and Bennie said she'd gone a round with him too. He knows he's tiring--and like the asshole he is, because not-so deep down, he's also that kind of person, he regards it as a nice advantage. The look in his eyes is like the look old blues men used to sing about, grief in the form of a man.

He's fresh, too, but frankly? Something about Ruiz always slips right past his guard, no matter how hard he goes. He partially blocks the first, twists, snarling, trying to dodge the second. But whatever Ruiz purrs to him? It works. THUMP. Itzhak grunts and puts daylight between them, breathing hard, grinning like a maniac. "Oh you mamzer," he croons right back. That hurt, and it's obvious from the way he moves. Hurts, and maybe he likes that it does.

He doesn't dare glance at Ravn; his eyes stay on Javier, or more specifically focused on some empty point beyond Javier, the better to take in as much information at once. "You gonna find this educational," he calls to him, and reshifts his weight--and fakes right and goes in left, hard. Whatever Ruiz told him seems to have been very inspiring.

"Already learned I'm not getting up there with you," Ravn calls back, amused. The scene is educational from his point of view. For one, he is learning that not only do these men know what they're doing -- they enjoy doing it. He's going to need some time to wrap his mind around that. To the Dane, fisticuffs equates some asshole wants to punch him in the face, and he can either defuse the situation by talking very fast, or getting the hell out of there.

He doesn't usually feel like the soft, pampered innocent people often perceive him to be. But this is out of his league, and he knows it. Time to watch and take mental notes. And maybe think a little about the look on Seth Monaghan's face when he went down.

The pair of them clash and tangle and snarl and disperse, and Javier at least is certainly sporting a few new bruises for it. Panting heavily, he drops his arms completely, and keeps his eyes on his opponent as he prowls a tight circle around him. The Jew has better reach, so he's not going to let him use it; he's going to try to crowd him, instead. Get in his face, and use his own quick reflexes and power to his advantage.

"Soy un mamzer? Entonces eres un cabron, cabron." Laughter follows, warm and smoke-roughened. And, "You tell your boy I'm happy to train with him some time, if he wants someone who can take a few hits." As if he can resist smack talking a Monaghan who got his nose broken in one hit.

Then Itzhak's coming in hard, and what follows is another scuffle for dominance. The fake he sees coming a mile off, and the hard left he simply.. takes, with a grunt. And is about to follow up with one of his own. Unfortunately, he hadn't quite counted on that one hitting him quite so hard. Buckling forward, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe through the sensation of nausea for a few moments.

Itzhak laughs too, low, breathless. "Soy una perra, claro." Then he's scuffling, trading hits, struggling in a fight for supremacy that has Javier taking a good one to the gut. Itzhak backs off, one gloved hand on his lover's shoulder. "You okay?" Flipping from dedicated opponent to worried boyfriend, he rubs his back. "Popped ya hard there."

"I think Seth Monaghan would probably break my nose if I ever referred to him as 'my boy'," the Dane notes as he keeps on walking. He winces at the impact of some of those blows; maybe thinks of how they'd feel if they'd landed on him. Then he looks away because while Ravn has not done time behind bars, he's known enough hard, though types who have to know that watching a man while he's down -- even slightly down like that -- will be interpreted as a challenge at least by some.

Such a nice treadmill. Look, it has a display. Shiny numbers.

Ravn's words may or may not register with Javier at the moment. He's a little busy trying not to refund his breakfast, or lunch, or whatever it is he ate before turning up here for some training. After a minute though, he gives Itzhak a little nod, yes, I'm fine, and blinks twice. And breathes. Nope, not gonna throw up. "Think I'd better take a break," he murmurs, stripping off one glove, then the other. The quantity of sweat soaking his tee shirt and hairline suggest that, yes, he probably should. Men pushing fifty ought not act like twenty year olds. "I was referring to you," he pitches toward Ravn, on his way to fetch his bottle of water.

Itzhak hooks his arm around Ruiz in a quick hug, kisses his sweaty temple. "Got too excited. Sorry, baby." He murmurs something to him, then follows him out of the ring, pretty sweaty himself, but still looking like he could go another round or five. Fired up. "Yeah apparently you're my straight boyfriend now," he tells Ravn, spitting out his mouthguard and snickering. Then it's the heavy bag he goes for, settling into a stance and setting to slamming it with all the strength and adrenaline he needs to work off. Thud! Pop! He can't make the gym shudder like Joey can, but he ain't no slouch.

"It's not the worst thing anyone's called me?" Ravn grins slightly, then looks back to Ruiz. "I mean, if you're sure? I'm utter shit. Like, the first time I was in the ring, Alexander nearly decked me because I forgot to try to duck. It doesn't come naturally to me at all. I'm the run away instead kind of guy. Never learned to fight -- with the whole touch thing and all. A small slap at the wrong time and I'm on the floor screaming, it really doesn't lend itself to combat sports."

He doesn't sound embarrassed about it at least. More just resigned; this is a thing, and it's a thing he's had to deal with his entire life.

The hug is.. well, permitted might be the word for it. Cautiously, just in case there's anyone hanging out here from the precinct, which there mercifully isn't, currently. Can't have his fellow cops spot him hugging other men, after all. Thinking he's queer. It's all such a careful balancing act. "It's fine," he mumbles, jostling the taller man with a shove that's half jocular, half affectionate, and about as much as he feels safe getting away with. He watches Itzhak start going at the bag, and resumes peeling tape off his hands, balling it up, tossing it into the garbage.

"Wouldn't have asked if I wasn't fucking sure," he replies to Ravn. "I'm in here three times a week. You want to train, you let me know."

Itzhak accepts the shove with amused resignation. It's not like literally everybody in town doesn't know about him and Javier. But like he'd told Ravn early in their friendship, everybody knows but not everybody can be allowed to have it thrust in their face. As long as looking the other way is feasible, it's got to be preserved...for Javier's sake if for nobody else's.

Meanwhile he takes a lot of shit out on that heavy bag, throwing combos and working it over in hard sharp jabs. He makes a kind of music thereby, thud thud POP, thud thud POP, until he's finally drained off some of his energy and straightens up, swiping at his face with his forearm.

Ravn nods at the police captain, updating his mental files. From the look on his face -- weed, why must you remove all ability to main some kind of police facade -- he finds the idea half intimidating, half enticing. For a moment he resembles nothing as much as a little boy who just got told he can play with the big boys. If he doesn't act like a child about it. It's a little pathetic, and if he knew, he'd probably not be very happy about it. "I'm surprised at how much fun this is," he admits. "Never thought it would be. Think I'm still mentally stuck a bit at being fifteen and the jocks get off on poking the guy who can't stand being touched. I got into a habit of thinking that gyms were not for guys like me."

Javier finishes off the contents of his bottle of water, slings the strap of his duffle bag over his shoulder, and briefly returns the glance Ravn gives him. No smile in sight, though the cop looks ever so vaguely amused. "I'm not a jock. I think you've got me confused with someone else." Sure, he barely scraped through high school and joined the Marines. But it doesn't make him a jock, apparently. "Voy a darme una ducha, te atraparé en casa, cariño," he murmurs to Itzhak, then trudges off without further ado, fingers rifled through sweaty curls as he goes.