2020-12-28 - Scale of 1 to 5

It's the day after the NYE party at Sitka, edging into the grey light of twilight where the sun hasn't completely disappeared over the horizon but it'll be sinking soon and making way for the stars to do their thing. No telling how long Cris has been there, leaning up against the suped up Yaris that belongs to Dante Taylor, his own car having been leant to Clayton for some unknown reason. He's smoking as he waits for Ruiz either to emerge from his cabin or come home to it, a few butts already littering the ground by his feet. He's dressed in a grey hoodie and a leather jacket, the hood left down so he's easily recognizable.

Coming home, it seems. The cop's unmarked cruiser isn't in the driveway when Cris turns up, though the distinctive, throaty rumble of its engine can be heard well before it's spotted slinking between the dappled shadows along the road. Then it swings up into the drive with a crunch of gravel beneath its tires, and the ignition's killed, and a jangle of keys precedes Javier's climbing out. He cuts his eyes toward the bouncer lounging nearby, slams his door shut, and hefts his laptop under one arm. Must be bringing his work home, again. Dark, snug-fitting jeans, a hoodie with the logo faded right off, battered old boots and a ballcap. And glasses, inexplicably, that don't hide the hard look in his eyes.

"What do you want?" he murmurs, hefting the strap of his bag, and starting past the other man toward the door of his house.

Cris stays put for the time being, in some nebulous ether between being on Ruiz' property and public ground. His cigarette flares to an angry red as he watches the man exit his vehicle, impossibly blue eyes tracing over every aspect of Javier's appearance as if he might have to give a witness statement later. "I'm doing an informal survey about customer satisfaction about the New Year's Eve party. On a scale from one to five, how would you rank your diva-esque exit?"

The cop, on the other hand, doesn't make eye contact. Not even for a moment. Oh, he's perfectly aware of Cris's presence there, in the way of a predator who knows there's a threat lurking nearby. His hackles are up, big shoulders tense as he trudges up to the front step and rustles around for the right key to the door.

"Better than your piss poor performance, pretending like you're suddenly marriage material," he mumbles, jamming the thing into the keyhole and throwing the deadbolt, shouldering the door open in its wake. The security system starts chirping until he disengages it.

"Ah, jealousy. That explains it." A deep chest rumble of a laugh follows Ruiz into the home, the younger Mexican pushing off his lean with a little bump of his hips. Cris takes one last drag of his cigarette before he flicks it off towards the gravel. "Maybe you'll grow up one day, and be a real boy, de la Vega."

He's silent for a while at that. Jealousy. His hand on the door handle, one foot in and one foot out of his house, and a terrible, brittle stillness slivers through him. His swallow is almost audible, and followed by the jangle of his keys being tossed onto the counter, and the squeak of that one floorboard as he finally crosses the threshold. "You want something? Or you just come here to gloat?" He starts scraping his hoodie off as he talks. It takes his tee shirt with it, until he tugs it back down and over the extensive ink scrawled along his back. The sweatshirt's tossed across the back of a chair, and his fingers rifled through curls getting a bit long.

The car door is popped open to the ridiculously small car with ridiculous horsepower thanks to a certain mechanic. Cris is pausing in the open portal, arms resting casually on top of the jamb. "Nope." The 'p' is popped a little harshly as he watches Ruiz settle in through the doorway. "Just wondering who gave you the fucking right to opine at all. Do yourself a favor, figure your own shit out before you start judging mine."

Despite the chilly evening, and the fact that it's fucking January, and threatening to snow at any damn moment, Javier turns and prowls back on out again. The dark hair on his forearms fluffs up as his skin pricks with gooseflesh, and his breath fogs in the air. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?" he snarls softly, stepping back onto the top of the gravel drive, and finally. Finally meeting Cris's eyes. He's still sporting his service pistol, that nasty looking Sig, in a shoulder holster tight against his ribs.

Cris lifts a hand to lazily point in Ruiz' prowling direction, unfazed by the man's reappearance in the yard nor by the obvious fact he's strapped. No doubt Cris is too, beneath the bulk of his jacket, concealed handguns illegal for normal citizens and would be too for Cris if he didn't have the exemption license in his wallet of former law enforcement. "Don't think I stuttered. Just because you think you're beyond redemption doesn't mean I can't fathom that I just might be. Or maybe I'm just angling for an excuse to get you at another bachelor party so I can get some of that sweet, sweet tongue kissing action of yours again, huh?"

No doubt Javier figures it's a foregone conclusion, that concealed handgun. No doubt he's spent some time in between shucking off his hoodie and stepping back outside, calculating whether Cris could get to his weapon in time, if he were to shoot out the bouncer's knee. His own carry is optimized for a streamlined profile while on duty; for blending in with civilians. It's awkward to reach for. Cris might have the advantage, but Javier knows he's faster on the trigger.

There's a little twitch of his upper lip, not a smile; as if to bare his canines at the other man. He continues to pace closer, boots hitting gravel at a steady pace, dark gaze unflinching. Once he's within range of the ridiculously souped up Yaris, he rests his hip against the hood, folds his arms loosely. "Puedes hacer lo que quieras, cabron. No te estoy deteniendo." His accent's a little different from the other man's. A little rougher, with that coastal inflection.

"He says, as he leans against the hood of the other man's car, giving the younger, hotter latino one of two choices. He can either drive off, risking injury to the Chief of Police, or call his fucking bluff." Cris has no problem expressing amusement, the corner of his lips tilting wryly. "You know, it's okay to admit you're going to miss me. Be one with your emotions, Javier."

"You know what?" concludes the cop after maybe ten seconds of cogitating on that little gem of a response. He pushes off the hood of Cris's (well, Dante's) car, and squinches up his eyes slightly at the younger man. "Fuck off. I don't have time for your bullshit today."

And then, unless otherwise stopped, he turns and starts ambling back toward the house.

"And I didn't have time for your bullshit marring one of the most important decisions of my life, yet here we both are. I'll make sure Dante addresses Rosie's invitation as a plus two so we don't break up the trifecta." Cris plops down into the driver seat, "I assume you're going to want to be in the middle for the table assignments, and I'll put Clayton on the other side of the room just to make it a little less awkward." Problem with Cruz' mouth is it runs even better than the engine of the car as he cranks it on.

Not a word more from de la Vega, if even he caught all of that. He hesitates in the doorway for just a beat, then disappears inside. And it's maybe a testament to his own self-control, that the firearm in its holster remains there. And Cris is permitted to be on his way without incident.