2022-05-31 - Laying Low

(TXT to Jules) Ruiz : Hey, it's de la Vega. wondering if you'd mind me stopping by today for a few. just to see how you're doing.

(TXT to Ruiz) Jules : Sure. I’m ok. You know where I live right? #5 Oak.

(TXT to Jules) Ruiz : Yeah, still got you on file here. I'll be by in a bit, once I'm done my shift here.

It's late by the time the cop's mud-spattered, unmarked cruiser pulls up in front of Jules's house. No mistaking who it is by that throaty engine sound, though. It's cut after a few moments, and there's the sound of someone climbing out, slamming the door, boots scuffing the pavement as they amble on up the walk. Big Hispanic looking guy in a battered leather jacket, dark jeans and a baseball cap. Sure looks like he's armed, too.

bang, bang, bang with the side of his fist, police style, when he reaches the door. Then he drops back to watch the street, hands shoved into his pockets.

"I got it!" yells a woman's voice from inside. It's Jules who opens the door not long after, not one of her housemates, casually dressed in jeans and a plain black t-shirt, dark hair up in a ponytail. "Evening, officer." Her dry tone registers a hint of amusement at her own sake.

"Is that even what I'm supposed to call you?" Jules asks then, dropping into her more regular register. "Officer? Chief? De la Vega? By the way, it's super awesome to hear that I'm on file with the police. Just what every person of color wants to hear. Which I wouldn't say except for the fact that you're a person of color, so I'm just gonna go ahead and assume you get it. Come on in." She steps aside, holding the door open for entry, and gestures towards the back of the house. "We can head into the kitchen -- that's where literally everything happens in this house, unless you count the ghost in the library, but he's been pretty quiet lately."

The yell grabs his attention, pulls his focus back to the doorway where Jules promptly appears. Asking him stupid questions, like civilians do.

"Javier's fine," he informs her with something like a smile. Which for him, is more like his eyes crinkling up and a flash of teeth, like maybe he wants to take a bite out of her. He doesn't say a word about her being on file with the police. He doesn't say a word about her little monologue about persons of colour and getting it, either. Just scratches at his scruffy cheek with an inked thumb, and waits for her to hold the door open for him, and shoulders his way on in.

And the way she knows he's no ordinary cop, aside from the power fairly crackling from his skin, is the question: "What kind of ghost you got in your library?"

"Javier. Okay then." Once the door's shut, Jules leads the way to that kitchen, indicating a closed door in the hall on their way past. "Una's asshole ancestor. He's in there. He was the gung-ho Oregon Trail pioneering type, Manifest Destiny and all that. Which means he stole stuff from the indigenous people here, and now apparently he's having a crisis of conscience." Her own smile, thrown over her shoulder, is wry.

The kitchen is made up of the kind of jumbled pieces, mismatched odds and ends, that suggests collection over the years instead of a cohesive plan for home decor. Nothing looks new, save perhaps the single-cup coffee machine on the counter. It smells like a bakery. "Cookie?" Jules offers. She's already raiding one of the stacked Tupperware and holding it out for her guest to have his pick. "I swear, Una bakes for this entire town. She won't mind. Feeding people is her calling in life. I'm pretty sure I've gained upwards of ten pounds since moving in here. These are oatmeal-chocolate chip."

"Hm." His acquiescence is in the form of a soft grunt as the door's pointed out. He glances at it; two sets of eyes. His dark ones, and the golden ones of the wolf that often accompanies him, literally a figment of his own mind. Those slavering, serrated teeth and meathook claws as it peels away to go snuffle at the handle.

By the time Jules turns to shoot that smile at him over her shoulder, it's melted away again. Just the grizzled cop standing there in her kitchen, looking about as out of place as he ever does anywhere. "Sure," he agrees, glancing from Jules to the container's contents. "If you insist." He plucks one off the top, takes a big bite out of it. A few bits catch in his beard as he chews. Then, "Just wanted to make sure you, uh. You know." He gestures with what's left of the cookie. "That you were okay. After the other night."

The library has a still, tomb-like atmosphere that one might even sense through the old wooden door. There’s a reason the occupants of this house keep the door closed.

In the kitchen, Jules takes a cookie for herself and then sets the container down on the table, top left off in open invitation. The inquiry’s expected, and still her brow lifts. “As in, am I still verbal vomiting, or am I still so pissed at Ava that I’m threatening to do her bodily harm? The answer is yes. She should just be glad that whatever she drugged me with doesn’t make me act on all my impulses, otherwise I’d have burned that greenhouse of hers to the ground by now.”

She takes a bite of her own cookie, eyebrows now coming together with her scowl. One bite, and then another. She doesn’t speak when her mouth is full, after all.

Javier rests a hip against the counter, and watches Jules for a moment or two before casting his gaze about the rest of the kitchen. He bites into his cookie again, then finishes it off, and dusts the crumbs off his beard. Once he's finished chewing and swallowing, "I don't think she's herself right now." He leans over to reach for another cookie. "Whatever she drugged you with, I think someone or.. something drugged her with, too. Going to figure out what the fuck's going on. It's not pretty." His accent draws out the vowels like taffy, and tilts and elongates some of the syllables.

"Maybe you should, you know. Lay low for a bit." It's worded like a suggestion. Like he really doesn't want to have to do something rash like start putting people under house arrest for threatening assault and arson.

“Yeah. I’m working on it. Called in sick to work. I’m better when I’m out doing stuff though than I am when I’m sitting here stewing. Stuff like outdoors by myself or with someone I trust, I mean, not running my mouth at the coffee shop.” Jules finishes her cookie too, though this time it’s less out of an obvious need to shut herself up.

Jules seats herself at the table and drums her fingernails against the top for a few rounds of tap-tap-tap. The nails are still painted red from the night of the ball. “I’m sorry she’s drugged too,” she says after a moment. “But if it’s the stuff she grew, the Veil stuff, then I still think she’s responsible. Because she grew the damn stuff, just like she grew that baby. She’s fucking with stuff she doesn’t understand.”

"Yeah," murmurs the cop in return, turning the cookie over in his hand, considering it thoughtfully. "That's probably, uh. Probably a good idea." Then he glances back up at her, and gestures with the cookie, scissored between two heavily inked fingers. "These are good. Thank your friend for me, yeah?" crunch, and most of what's left disappears into his mouth.

He shrugs a big shoulder when she mentions the Veil stuff. "I don't fucking know what's going on with that shit. I heard Roen gave it to her. I've heard a lot of things. A lot of stupid shit. I don't know.." He heaves a sigh, drops his head forward, and scrapes his fingers through his dark curls. He sounds exhausted. "I don't know what to think."

Two fingers touch her forehead as if she's tossing off a salute. "Will do." This, at least, is easy.

Jules looks sympathetic as she watches him. "I hear you." Normally, it would end there, with the simple affirmation, but Jules just can't shut up. "I don't know who this Roen guy is, but I want to know why he's fucking around with this shit too. What the hell is wrong with people? I still vote for burning down the greenhouse as an ideal way to deal with this. Or maybe not the greenhouse itself -- I am not actually suggesting arson, for the record, for whatever file you've got on me -- but setting the contents on fire. Possibly salting the earth, while we're at it."

He chuckles quietly when she brings up arson again, and briefly clenches those fingers in his hair, then releases it. "You know," he replies, "if I thought it'd fix this, I might be willing to give it a shot." He drops his hand, studies the remains of the cookie in his other, and finishes it off with a couple of noisy crunches.

"You're really worried about this file, huh?" He straightens slowly with a slight wince. "Don't worry. We've got files on plenty of people. Doesn't take much to, uh, wind up in our crosshairs, you know?"

“Worried is maybe overstating it,” Jules reflects as she sits there at the table. “Mildly concerned. Unsettled. Anxious, maybe. It’s just weird to know that, when I haven’t committed any crimes. That I know of. That I’ve been caught for.” Her grin is irrepressible, suddenly winking into place as she looks up.

It’s gone just as quick, though, as she wonders, “Is there, like, a paranormal police section where you keep the special files? That sounds very X-Files, doesn’t it. But seriously. With all the weird shit, how does stuff get filed? Are you constantly doctoring records?” The curiosity’s written all over Jules’ expression.

"A paranormal.." He squints at her, tonguetip tucked against his teeth. "No." A few crumbs are dusted off his lap. "Look, you haven't done anything wrong. But the, uh. The thing at the Walmart." Where she got caught in the crossfire. Where she almost got her face blown off. He lifts a big shoulder, before climbing to his feet. "It's standard procedure."

There's a pause when she asks if he's constantly doctoring records. Chuckles. "Mostly, shit just doesn't. Doesn't get filed. Or it gets lost." He looks away, jaw a little tight. "Or security footage gets wiped."

“The thing at Walmart,” Jules repeats dryly. Her expression skews towards a grimace. “People are really fucked up, you know that?”

She’d continue — her train-wreck train of thought would ensure that — except for how Javier continues. “Oh. Like how when you try to take a picture of weird stuff and it doesn’t come out right? Ravn tried to take a picture of something my grandma gave me and it basically flipped him off, which was admittedly pretty funny. I can see how record-keeping would get noped out of existence.” Jules takes him getting to her feet as a cue and does likewise.

“I solemnly swear I will not burn anything down,” she says, both earnest and wry. “And I’ll lay low until this stupid thing passes.” She hesitates, expression briefly conflicted. “I dont want to ask, but I probably should, even if I’m still pissed. Is Ava okay?”

The cop meets her gaze, ever so briefly, when she talks about the picture Ravn took, and how funny it was. There's a moment where it looks like he might try to explain that he didn't quite mean that, but then the moment passes. And he tries to smile. Awkwardly. "Something like that," he murmurs instead.

Clearing his throat, adjusting his gun, and shoving his hands back into his jacket pockets, he makes his way back to the door at that slow amble. "She's doing better, I think. Last I checked." He turns back to watch Jules.

Jules follows him on his way to the door, ending up with her hand on the bannister to the stairs. “I guess that’s good,” she allows grudgingly. “Hopefully it means she’ll stop trying to foist that fruit on people. Hey, speaking of— did you feel any effects? You seem pretty normal to me.” Jules looks at him expectantly while modifying her own remark. “Though I guess I don’t know you well enough to know what your normal looks like. I mean, I could guess— gruff cop, grr, hmph— aw, shit, I’m talking too much again.”

The look he gives her is one of you and me both, lady, when she tells him she hopes Ava stops trying to make people eat her goddamn fruit. He rakes his fingers through his hair, but it remains its mess of dark, unruly curls. "Me? Uh. Yeah, I guess so. Didn't last too long." Thankfully. Nobody needs de la Vega being cheerful at them. It's almost worse than him being grumpy.

Though he squints at her when she tells him about being normal. "The fuck's that supposed to mean?" Yeah, she's probably talking too much.

“Nothing,” Jules says far too hastily. “Absolutely nothing. Time for a subject change. Umm. So you know Ava pretty well then, since you dropped by the other day? She looked friendly, if you know what I mean.”

Jules visibly winces as soon as the words tumble out of her mouth. This is not the direction she intended to turn. “Neeeeevermind. Jesus. See? This is why I can’t go to work. Next thing you know, I’ll be telling the tourists they can afford to tip better and to not behave like little shits, or maybe I’ll start willing their kayaks to tip over.”

"Friendly?" He's still got that look on his face. Like he's trying to figure out what she's getting at. If you know what I mean. As if he doesn't know what she means. De la Vega's got a reputation, after all. And some rather intense social anxiety, by the looks of him.

Suddenly awkward, he reaches for the door handle and fumbles it open. "Yeah, well, you know what the tourists are like. Like fucking flies on shit around here in the summer." He lumbers on out. "You take care, Miss Black." And then he's gone.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Jules calls after him in a clear bid to salvage the situation. And then, as the door shuts, she says against the bannister she’s still holding onto.

“Aw, shit.”