2020-12-30 - Why is it so hard?

It's been a day or two since the world's most awkward NYE party in the history of awkward. And even more days since Alexander's ill-fated Christmas tidings to the police captain.

Whatever the private investigator's doing this cold, wet evening, it's promptly interrupted by a brisk knock at the door. Police-style with the side of a fist, bang, bang, bang. A glance out the window finds the bulky frame of the darkly-dressed cop pacing the front step, checking his phone while he waits.

It takes a few moments for Alexander to come to the door; he's in his office, doing some research on the computer with his headphones on, and he has to pause a moment to see if he heard it at all. He takes the headphones off - Metallic can be heard blaring through them - then sets them aside to go check on the door. When he sees who it is, there's another of those long pauses where he debates whether he's opening it up or not.

He does, of course, albeit keeping the door in a defensive half-shield between his body and the man outside. "Captain." His shoulders are hunched, his eyes watchful and wary. "Hello."

Javier's a patient man, and doesn't seem bothered by the time it takes for Alexander to show up at the door. When it eases open a fraction to admit the familiar face, his gaze lifts from his phone screen. Jaw hard, muscle visibly knotted there where he's worked it to one side, eyes slightly narrowed. He leaves the silence alone for a few long seconds, then hitches his chin toward the other man in a fractional motion. "Can I come in?" The phone's switched off, and he makes to put it away slowly. In case Alexander mistakes it for him going for his gun, perhaps.

Alexander shifts from one foot to the other, then back. Thinking it over. Finally, he gives a single, sharp nod, and opens the door wider, stepping away to let Ruiz come in. He backs up towards the kitchen near his plants. One of his hands - neither are bound any longer - reaches out to fondle one of the small blossoms that he's coaxed out even in winter. "You want coffee? Or something?"

"No," comes out perhaps a little too quickly. And then he looks briefly chastised for having said so, and looks away. "No, I'm fine. Won't keep you long." Watches the plants Alexander's trying to become one with. Maybe he's remembering the time they cooked together with those eggplants August offloaded, or the time Javier came to check on his house, and broke into his murder room. After a glance toward the door of it, the cop eases further inside, and scruffs fingers through his hair.

"I just wanted to stop by. I, uh." He fidgets a moment, then digs inside his jacket for something.

"Oh." Alexander looks briefly disappointed at the rejection of the offer, or maybe the quickness of it, but he bobs his head, accepting it, his shoulders hunched. He keeps his distance, and tries to reassure the man with a soft, "You can sit down, if you want. I won't...do anything. Wrong. I promise." His head cocks to one side as Ruiz's hand goes towards his jacket, but he doesn't seem alarmed - wary, perhaps, but more curious, with that hungry curiosity that always exists for him.

Despite the offer, there's a quick darting of his eyes, and another gruff, "No," at the suggestion that he sit. Instead, a soft cover, rather battered looking book comes out. Battered enough, in fact, that he tries to fix it by smoothing out a couple of creases in the jacket absently with his thumb. The title's half worn away, but it looks like some sort of anthology of poetry; the image on the front is of a girl holding a skull.

He thrusts it out to the other man, pauses, then tosses it atop the coffee table with a soft slap. "You think I'm fucking afraid of you?" A flicker of his power. Faint, like the restless edges of a circuit waiting to discharge.

Another bob of Alexander's head, accepting the rejection of that offer, too. He drifts forward, tentatively, when the book is offered to him - but then takes a few quick steps back, his hands coming up when it's tossed on the table instead and that flicker of power. "Yes? No? I don't know. What's the right answer? I would be afraid of someone who hurt me. I'm sorry. Maybe you're not. I don't know without touching your mind. And I won't."

Alexander may be hesitant to touch the other man's mind, after what they've gone through together. But Javier, it seems, is going to make that decision for him. The book, once tossed atop the coffee table, is ignored. He continues to stride forward, dark eyes riveted on the private investigator. And the flicker and flare of power becomes a surge; he doesn't ask, he doesn't request entrance, but in his usual fashion, he comes tearing in. All sleek, hot fur and golden eyes and knives for teeth. There's no intent to hurt, but he is what he is. And what he is, is the imbuement of savagery.

<<No. Not afraid. Disappointed. Hurt. Angry. Humiliated.>> His mental voice is clear, like water. <<But not afraid. I hope we can be friends again.>>

Alexander hunches in on himself when Ruiz strides forward, but he doesn't retreat any further. And when that savage touch enters his mind, his own bends around it, not so much blunting or rejecting the savagery, but just changing to accomodate it. His stars are shadowed, the edges very sharp, their normal brilliance shuttered with his caution. <<Friends?>> As always, his mental voice is stronger than his physical voice, more confident and powerful...and yet, in this moment, tentative. <<But you hate me. And it's okay. It's not unreasonable to hate me.>>

<<Maybe. Some day.>> The hunter remains there, with its mouth full of hot, sharp knives poised as if to swallow whole that blanket of shadowed stars. And then with a shudder and crackle of electricity, the link is shattered; the circuit broken. Javier looks away, gaze landing on the book he left on the coffee table, before turning for the door.

"Feliz año nuevo, Alexander," he murmurs as he reaches for it. "See you around."

There's a flicker of something, Alexander's own irritation, right before the link is severed. When it is, he rocks on his heels a little, then frowns. "You know. It's not just me," he says, suddenly. "We can't be friends if we aren't friends. That's your decision, because I've wronged you. But this shit where you bust in, say something, then walk off without ever engaging with anything...I'm not sure that was friendship. Not really. Most of the time, I didn't even know if you liked me, or if I was just...occasionally useful, and otherwise disposable." His jaw sets. "And that hurts, too. Not as much. I'm used to it. But it does hurt."

Then he sighs. "But I hope you have a happy new year, too."

Hesitation, right as he's about to haul the door open, and it's shoved shut again. And Alexander's sent a bewildered glance over his shoulder. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" He turns fully, then, to regard the other man, the furrow between his brows deepening. "Don't you fucking dare imply I was using you. If all I needed was your help on cases, I'd have made that perfectly fucking clear. I don't have time for playing games like that."

Alexander scowls. "What the fuck do you mean what the fuck is that supposed to mean? I mean you do this all the time! You come in, say whatever it is you want to say, and then hang up or leave or tell me to mind my own fucking business or whatever." He gestures sharply with his hands, then runs one through his hair. "Tell me something, Javier. Tell me one thing. Answer one question for me. When you broke my fingers? Was it just because you wanted us to be even, or closer to even, or did you enjoy hurting me? Enjoy the fact that I would let you do it?" His face goes set. "Because I've already had one best friend who liked to hurt me. And it wasn't a good thing. Not for me. Not for them. And not for anyone we hurt."

The cop's tongue slices across his lower lip in the wake of that question, like maybe a residual fragment of that memory's been brought to mind. He watches Alexander steadily, and the silence stretches between them a beat, then a beat more. "Todos ellos," he replies eventually, in a rough murmur. He glances down at his hands, and the furrow settles between his brows again. "So, uh. If that means we can't be friends anymore." He jerks his head in mute understanding, and starts backing toward the door again.

Now it's Alexander who's moving forward as Ruiz retreats. "I don't understand why. Being angry, I understand. Lashing out at the person who hurt you, who made you feel angry and disappointed, and humiliated, I understand. But I don't understand enjoying it." He's trying to cut the man off before he can jerk the door open. "It doesn't mean we can't be friends. But you need to know that I can't do that. I broke your trust. And if it...if you ever feel like you can trust me again, I need to know that I can trust you, too. Not to do that. To me. I don't want to be that person again. I want to be a good friend. And I suck at that. I'm sorry. But I don't want to be...hurt. Because someone thinks it's interesting."

The sound he makes is almost tremulous; a stuttered huff in his throat, when Alexander tells him he doesn't understand. "I don't need you to," is hissed between gritted teeth, hands shoved into his jacket's pockets like it might keep him from slamming a fist into the other man's face when he draws closer. They're both empaths; they almost can't not feel what each other are feeling. And what's coming off him right now is white hot rage. Like ash off a bonfire, choking out the light.

"And I don't hurt people because it's.. interesting. I don't know what that fuck did to you. I don't understand why. I'm not him." He swallows thickly, meets Alexander's gaze. "I.. I like hurting people. But only when people like it, too. I hurt you because you deserved it." He scrubs his fingers through his beard, and mumbles again, "I hurt you because you deserved it."

The rage meets Alexander's sorrow, and his fear - he is frightened of the older man, although it's a far more complicated fear than just that of physical violence, and he's not trying to hide it from him - but also the other, deeper emotions that are less yielding: the curiosity so sharp it cuts whatever it's turned on, caution, an affection that still stands strong - almost terribly strong, considering that it motivated him to capture and hold the man because he thought it was good for him - and also his own darkness. The parts of him that let him do something like that to a friend, even when no part of him enjoys it.

When Ruiz speaks again, he shrugs. "I don't think you're him. If I thought you were Zachary, I wouldn't be your friend. But you said all of it. Not just that I deserved it. I want to be your friend. I want...you to want to be my friend. And I won't do what I did to you again. Not ever." He frowns. "But being your friend, or your best fucking friend...it doesn't mean that I'm going to let you do that again, either. Okay?"

He looks down at his feet. "And if you want to know. One day. Just ask. I'll tell you."

There's a short, sharp snort from the cop. Faintly derisive, though some of that derision is no doubt aimed at himself. "I wouldn't expect you to." Let him do that again, he means. There's another glance for the book he left on the coffee table, then a tick of dark eyes back to his friend. And he stands there, like a wounded animal who may still lunge and go for the throat if provoked. It's always right there, the urge to hurt.

"Está bien. Bien. Te veré por ahí, entonces." He's still watching the other man, jaw tight. Emotion held deeply sequestered, with the link shattered as it is, and his mind unavailable.

Alexander watches Ruiz with his own form of wariness, that stray-dog mix of hope and the expectation of being disappointed. But after a bit, he nods, and sidles away from the door, towards the book Ruiz put on the table. He bends to pick it up and consider it, although he never quite turns his back on Ruiz. "It's not really okay. But if you don't hate me, then that's better. Better than it was. I'm glad. I hope we can be friends again." A long pause. "You can stay if you want. I have tequila. But you're busy. I know. But if you want to come back some day. I'll probably still have tequila."

It is, indeed, an anthology of poetry. Death poetry, to be specific. People who were lost, or killed themselves. People who were murdered. People who grew old and withered away. A variety of authors from Classical through to modern; the book looks well-thumbed and very second hand. Probably his, and now being passed on.

"No," he agrees, voice low, even. "You're right. It's not okay. And I don't.. I don't know yet. What I think about you. Right now, I don't like you very much." There might be more, but he leaves it at that, with a shake of his head. "I've got to go, I.. I have a shift." A glance at his watch. "In an hour. But I'll see you around." This time, it sounds more sincere, something in his voice softened a hair.

Then he turns to go again, unless stopped. If Alexander happens to check inside the front cover of the book, there's something handwritten there in ballpoint pen:

"Por qué es tan difícil, la dulzura del corazón de la cereza?
Es porque debe morir o porque debe continuar?"

-- Pablo Neruda (y tu amigo, Javier)

Interest lights Alexander's features as he examines the book. First the covers, then paging through to a few poems. A warm smile appears - only to disappear with a flinch when Ruiz says, I don't like you very much. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then gives a jerky little nod. "That's fair." His voice is low, accepting. "Have...have a good year, Captain," he says, and follows Ruiz to the door, although at a distance. Just close enough where he can close the door once the cop is on the porch.