Sid Chavez
It’s a nice night; the sun will be down soon, and Sid has been down in his workshop all day, meaning he hasn’t been afforded the opportunity to ask Jeff why it is that he came back to the house shaking as though he were suffering some sort of degenerative brain disease. Sid, being Sid, had not asked.
Jeff, being Jeff, was not content to stay home all damn night and convinced the Grump to go out. Sure, his fae mien has white hair and wears his age like a badge of fuck-off, but 30 by the rest of the world’s standards is too young to behave as though one is headed for the retirement home, and so they’re walking through the neighborhood together, the taller of them affording the younger a suitably heterosexual distance as they meander down the sidewalk.
A few weeks ago, when they moved in, Sid had uttered a throwaway comment about the number of churches in this city. Anyone looking at him, with his punk rock fashion sense and the dyed patch in his hair–it’s red, now–would assume that the comment was brought about my rampant heathenry and laugh it off.
“Do me a favor, would you?” he’s asking. “Would you tell Ceilidh that she’s not allowed to play that Baby Gaga shit in the house after six o’clock?”
Jeff Brolin
*Jeff, being Jeff, was most certainly NOT content to stay in. The night was YOUNG, the city was BOOMING, there were street fairs to go to, and live music, and dancing… the dancing, SO much dancing. Sure, Sid might be walking a distance, but Jeff is… well. Bouncey. It’s been a rarity since he’s had this natural high.*
*Hence, the distance would be closed suddenly by Jeff moving in close and pointing to something HE found to be interesting. Which would likely be something taken as innuendo in several ways, and it would be laughably bad.*
*At the question, he smirks.* I’ve TRIED askin’, *he says sincerely.* I really, REALLY have, but she’ll listen to what she wants. An’ it’s not bad t’move to. Not my cuppa, but hell, everything’s music c’ept Britney Spears an’ rap.
Izzy Montoya
It’s a nice night – though she’s alone for dinner again, and dammit if it doesn’t get to her a little bit. It’s different when he’s -here- and they meet up later and eat late, but he’s not, and won’t be, and she’s hungry and he’s not here to feed her. It’s a wonder she managed to live this long without someone who could cook for her, really.
That’s the excuse anyway, for the reason why she’s stepping out of the corner store, a grocery bag in hand, that contains her dinner [beer, and whiskey] and a menu for a nearby take out joint that she can hit on the way home to give her more actual calories than the bottles that clank when she sets them down on the hood of her car.
Oh yes, the car. It’s obviously of the official police business type, for all that it’s “unmarked”. Shit brown and boxy and looks like it gets approximately .5 miles to the gallon (it’s better than that – but not by much) and well.. somehow it suits her anyway. So she sets the bag on the hood, and goes about the obviously ritual search for her pack and lighter as she paruses the possibilities for dinner.
She doesn’t so much stand out because she’s some beauty queen. Her features are strong rather than pretty, her body in it’s work attire of slacks and a tailored blouse under a light blazer is slim rather than curvacious and seductive. Her hair is dark, her eyes hazel, and she has that look of someone that will kill if she doesn’t find her lighter.
Now.
Sid Chavez
This is not the neighborhood to live in if the sound of church bells causes you actual physical pain. Of course, this isn’t a common complaint amongst any known population in any country in any part of the world, and it certainly isn’t something that one would divulge to, say, a real estate agent.
Hey, sorry to be a pain in the ass, but could you make sure that there aren’t any liturgical churches in the area, see I get these terrible headaches when I hear them, I think it’s because they remind me of the Spanish Inquisition…
Suffice to say, he kept that tidbit to himself.
He also never thought it prudent to explain to Jeff why, exactly, he could not touch let alone punch the face of a mortal who had a religious symbol somewhere on his person. Jeff hadn’t been paying attention when Sid was actually knocked back when he made the attempt.
At any rate, they’re walking down the street, Sid seeming to simply tolerate Jeff’s pressing close to point something out, except for when he doesn’t–he had just cuffed him upside the head a moment before the Lady Gaga comment–and there’s a lady cop lounging on the hood of her junker, and all is well with the world.
Except for the fact that it’s mid-afternoon on a Sunday, which means nothing, normally, except for there is a funeral being held.
“You take that back,” Sid says, pointing a faux-accusatory finger at Jeff, suppressing laughter. “Britney Spears is a national treasure.”
The first bell tolls, low and mournful, resonating, and he stops right in the middle of the sidewalk, a hand going to his head as though he’s just been nailed with a sledgehammer.
“Son of a BITCH!”
Jeff Brolin
*It doesn’t immediately click. He frowns, and he moves around Sid, in a complete position of support and odd supplication.* Ahh… Sid? *His hand moves to the Nocker’s shoulder, his voice suddenly tinged with an accent some might hear in a Foster’s beer commercial, although you will NEVER hear Jeff say that Foster’s is Australian for beer; he’d be more likely to say that it was Australian for CRAP.* Are you okay, mate?
Izzy Montoya
Ahhh. There they are. She locates her pack, and shakes a cigarette out, propping it between her fingers before tucking it away, only to find her lighter moments later in the same pocket. She lifts it, flicks it, and is in the process of setting flame to tobacco and paper when the bell tolls, and apparently tolls for Sid.
She blinks, and lifts her gaze, searching for the outcry, and watching as he grips his head, cusses, and his friend acts concerned. Izzy doesn’t act concerned. In fact, she doesn’t act much of anything ever. Instead, she finishes the act of lighting her cigarette, and watches, expression bland.
Sid Chavez
It seems like he’s screwing around at first. They aren’t the only people out on the sidewalk right now, and while the few people who do pay attention snicker because they think he is screwing around, Jeff is the only one who appears concerned, which is just fine, because in about thirty seconds Jeff isn’t going to be able to tolerate being around the already-Banal older man.
Are you okay, mate?
“Oh yeah I’m just–FUCK!!”
The bell keeps tolling every four seconds until the church has sufficiently announced the age of the deceased to the entire neighborhood.
Sid growls, the sound just as pissed-off as it is pained, and veers out of the flow of foot traffic to put his back against the side of a building. The leather of his jacket against brick keeps him from sliding onto the sidewalk, so he ends up with the heels of his hands pressed into his eye sockets and incapable of normal human speech.
Jeff Brolin
*He moves forward, and he growls.* FUCK! Why didn’t you fucking TELL me that this was a problem? *Anger hits. Anger is easier than this sick, uneasy worry that he’s trying to cover up. This satyr never WAS good with covering it up.* Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here! *He’s trying to distract. He’s not good with covering up his emotion – he IS good with distractions. Never MIND that Sid is starting to become a subject of dislike for some reason, and he’s starting to feel like he has a hangover.*
Izzy Montoya
She inhales, deeply, and then exhales to the side, before she turns to rest her hip against the fender of her car, crossing her legs at the ankle. She continues to watch in case they need her to call for help, but she’s not the type to run up and offer assistance. Nope, not her style. Not in a city she’s still clawing for a handhold in.
So to speak.
She does, however, after a moment call out. “He ok?”
What? She didn’t run – she spoke. Two entirely different things.
Izzy Montoya
She inhales, deeply, and then exhales to the side, before she turns to rest her hip against the fender of her car, crossing her legs at the ankle. She continues to watch in case they need her to call for help, but she’s not the type to run up and offer assistance. Nope, not her style. Not in a city she’s still clawing for a handhold in.
So to speak.
She does, however, after a moment call out. “He ok?”
What? She didn’t run – she spoke. Two entirely different things.
Sid Chavez
Oh, okay, good, there’s someone to distract Jeff.
That goddamn bell’s rung something like eleven times by now and Jeff’s yelling and it’s not making it worse but it’s questionable whether Sid is even hearing anything he’s saying because he’s not responding, unless groaning and making utterly pathetic noises counts as responding.
It’ll be over in a few seconds, and by now Jeff is beginning to feel queasy and depressed standing next to the other man. The real irony of the situation is that Sid still hasn’t replenished his Glamour.
Jeff Brolin
*He swallows, and he takes a step back. Again, it takes him a moment to realize Izzy has spoken. His head swings over to her.* Ahh… I… *he starts, as the wave of nausea overwhelms him, and while he doesn’t literally turn green, it’s clear he himself is decidedly uncomfortable.*
I don’t know, *he answers honestly. And maybe Izzy’s question makes him frown a bit.* I… know you?
Izzy Montoya
She watches them, and now Jeff seems to be sick, and her brow furrows slightly. Does he know her? “No. Detective Montoya, SFPD. There, now you do.”
A beat, while she contemplates, before she arches a brow, slightly. “You need me to call someone? A ride? A doc?”
So helpful, izzy.
Jeff Brolin
*He swallows, and he looks back to Izzy. A detective. AWESOME. Good thing he’s not high tonight.* Ahh? Ah. Uhh… *He looks back to Sid.* You… need a doctor?
Jeff Brolin
(DLP, sorry! TOO fast)
Sid Chavez
Five seconds pass after the last toll; six; seven; and it isn’t until he’s sure that that’s the last of them that Sid lets himself sit down on the sidewalk. He isn’t shaking anywhere but his hands, but he’s gone pale and broken out in a cold sweat, lost his breath.
The awareness that people are looking at him, or at least aware of the fact that some guy just flipped the fuck out in the middle of the sidewalk, has him removing his hands from his sockets and swallowing back a plug of nausea that’s risen in his throat. When he looks up at Izzy and Jeff, he doesn’t look as though he recognizes either of them.
“What?” he asks, panting, before swiping sweat of his eyes. “No, I’m fine, thank you.”
Okay, maybe Jeff’s concerned is actually warranted.
Jeff Brolin
((Or… don’t DLP… I just felt bad fer responding.)) Ba… *He pauses, and he furrows his eyebrows. It isn’t clear who he’s momentarily pissed off.* Sid. Y’don’t look fine. Y’look like hell in a fuckin’ handbasket. *Never mind that he looks like he’s vaguely uneasy and hungover.*
An’ this is Detective Izzy Montoya. She’s offerin’ you a ride home. *Maybe he puts a bit too much stress on the Detective part.*
Izzy Montoya
She arches a brow, slightly. She doesn’t recall offering a ride home, just calling for something to give them a ride. But she decides to just go with it instead, as he looks like he’s been hit with a truck.
“Yeah, sure, whatever. But you puke in my fucking car and I’ll force feed it to you.”
At least she didn’t threaten to shoot them.
Yet.
Sid Chavez
Izzy’s threat makes him laugh at its ridiculousness, but it’s a reserved sound, as though she’s the type of woman who would actually do such a thing.
“No offense, Detective, but I think I’ll walk.”
On the plus side, once the pain has subsided, it appears as though Sid still remembers who Jeff is; the distressing part is that standing next to Sid is no longer like standing next to any other unenchanted human but like standing next to something more entrenched in decay, like a bloodsucker or a shapeshifter.
He needs to explain, or lie, or do something, but there is a reason Sid is notorious for being blunt as a baseball bat: he can’t lie for shit. He never bothered learning how to do anything other than concealing how chemically fucked-up he was.
Unfortunately, he can’t remember, now, why it is this happens. Jeff seems to have figured out that it’s a problem, is in a better position to figure out why it is, at least.
Getting to his feet, he says, “It was just a headache. I’m alright.”
Jeff Brolin
*He is CLEARLY divided. He wants to offer a hand to Sid, but he’s… revolted. It’s an odd response to someone he was… being a little clingy to earlier. Not in a gay way, in a FRIEND way. Of course.*
You need the company? *It isn’t clear if he wants Sid to say no or yes.* Or a shoulder, or some shit like that?
Izzy Montoya
He laughs the laugh of someone who doesn’t quite believe she’d do as she said, but isn’t quite willing to risk it either. That’s just fine with her. She lifts her forgotten cigarette to her lips and takes a drag, before her hip finds the fender of her car again.
“Suit yourself.”
She doesn’t seem to believe it was just a headache, but then again she has no frame of reference. Maybe some headaches to strike viciously fast then fade away again like churchbells on the wind. She’s certainly seen stranger shit in her days.
Sid Chavez
Sid isn’t injured, and once he’s recovered from the surge of adrenaline he can stand without difficulty. The color is returning to his skin. Sweat has dampened his hairline, but he always has this vaguely unwashed look about him anyway; it’s not much of a distraction.
Once he’s standing again, he can pay more attention to what is going on with Jeff, and Jeff now appears to be worse off than he is. The most sympathetic person on the planet, Sid is not, but he appears to be reading something in Jeff’s presentation to the rest of the world.
“I know how to get home,” he says, his tone suspicious.
Some part of his nature still lingers; he just has to fuck with things to see what will happen, to attempt to figure them out, so Sid steps forward and gamely, if a bit awkwardly, pats Jeff on the shoulder.
Jeff Brolin
*He twists away, as if it is instinctive, and he frowns.* Ahh. Okay, cool. *He shivers at that, trying to blow it off, but the revulsion was clear, the instantaneous reaction. Suddenly, he looks sad, apologetic. Three swift emotions in one cruel moment.*
*He can’t hold it back.*
Izzy Montoya
She watches the byplay, the interaction between the two of them. Her gaze is guarded, but she notices things, notices that whatever comradarie that was between the two men a few moments ago is gone, and one is sad, the other is suspicious…
and she is simply idly curious. It is by far the most interesting thing she’s seen tonight, after all.
Sid Chavez
Sid looks over at Izzy as though just now realizing she’s there, or like she’s supposed to have some idea what’s going on. She isn’t having the same reaction to him that Jeff is. When he reacts, it comes on like a cloud hustled along by a breeze, but it isn’t a pang of hurt or anger. Confusion stains his features, and Sid takes a step back, his hand withdrawing with it.
“Cool,” he echoes, still frowning, and turns to address Izzy even as he keeps walking backward. “Keep him out of trouble, will you?”
With that, he turns around and starts walking back towards home, cramming his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The man hasn’t uttered an obscenity since he fell back against the wall several minutes ago. That has to be some sort of record.
Jeff Brolin
I’ll… *He pauses, and he raises his chin, somewhat, once Sid is at a very safe distance.* I’ll see you later, okay? *Could his eyes look any more upset? He looks like a dog that piddled on the carpet.*
Izzy Montoya
That brow arches again, as she looks between the two men – the one walking away, the other standing there looking shell shocked, that she’s supposedly now supposed to keep out of trouble.
Yeah. She can’t even keep herself out of trouble most days, and she’s the one with the badge. Behold, San Francisco’s newest and finest, folks!
So, she does what any one would do – she takes a final drag off her cigarette, and flicks the butt into the gutter, before she grabs her groceries [beer] and the take out menu. She puts both into the front seat of her car, then moves around toward the drivers side.
Then, with a sigh, she looks away into the distance, then back to Jeff. “Need a ride somewhere, kid?”
Jeff Brolin
*He watches Sid go, and he sighs. It takes a moment for Izzy’s words to echo in his head. Ride… somewhere… He presses his lips together; with the piercing in his bottom lip, that can’t be comfortable.* Not… a kid, yeah? *He looks back over his shoulder. He’s moping. God HELP him, he’s moping.* Uhh… Naw. I could use a drink though. How ’bout you, Detective?
Sid Chavez
Sid reaches the corner before Jeff calls after him. He pauses as he’s about to disappear around it, stops to consider what it is he’s said, and then nods.
“I know you will!” he calls, then flips him the bird and disappears around the corner of a building.
Sid Chavez
[Thanks for the scene, y’all!]
Izzy Montoya
She snorts. “At my age, you’re all fuckin’ kids, kid. Come on. I’ll buy ya a beer.”
She nods toward the car, and then gets into the drivers side, and makes sure her weapons in the car are secure and on her side, before she lets him in, moving the grocery bag to the middle of the seat.
Jeff Brolin
How old are yeh, huh? *He laughs faintly, but it seems an awfully forced expression.* Fifty? I’m twenty two. *Of course he looks younger than that.* Not that young, eh? Old enough t’need a beer. *He slides in – he’s damned graceful, for… well. A very pierced man with a shaved head. Wearing a shirt that bears the logo for the Sex Pistols.*
Izzy Montoya
“Older than you – and didn’t your mom teach you it’s bad fucking manners to ask a woman her age?” She doesn’t seem offended, really, but she also doesn’t answer. Exactly.
He gets in, and she starts the car, which rumbles comfortably in the way that says the engine isn’t exactly stock anymore, but upgraded for the beating it gets put through on a regular basis. She doesn’t waste time, but pulls out into traffic, and heads toward her current favorite dive bar. She, like many police officers, drives with a casual disregard for the law – too fast, switching lanes without blinkers, turning too quickly. It’s like she’s certain she won’t die – or doesn’t care if she does.
Jeff Brolin
*It takes him a moment to remember to buckle up – he’s definitely skirted the edges of the law himself, and … well, hell, she makes him nervous. Not her driving, that doesn’t even make him reach for the arm of the door.* Can’t be more’n mid twenties, *he says with a shrug.* If y’are, well, hell, you must be fucking immortal. *He’s being charming, if briefly, although it sounds strained, and maybe he looks at Sid when they go blurring past.*
Izzy Montoya
Mid twenties, he says, and she snorts. “That little lie there, son, will get you one minor get-out-of-jail-free pass. Not immortal, just good genes in the family fuckin’ tree.” No one is immortal, after all.
He’s charming briefly, and there was a time that she would have given him a longer look, a considering look, a look that debates whether he’s good for a quick fuck in an alleyway, or not. But not tonight – and truth be told, she hasn’t given anyone that sort of look for months now.
Not since Derek.
Not that she’s about to go and admit that has anything to do with anything. Nope.
She doesn’t say anything else until she’s pulled into the lot of said dive bar that doesn’t even have a name, but DOES have good whiskey.
Jeff Brolin
*He grins at that, and he can’t help it. He slides out of the car – as long as she hasn’t put on the childproof locks, that is – and he gives her quite the once-over. It isn’t that his libido is turned off. Definitely not, Odin seems to like her – but his heart’s just not into it.*
*And then he looks to the bar. His grin widens, and maybe he clicks his tongue ring against his teeth a bit too much. Is there anything he doesn’t have pierced? He scratches at his chest absently, and he strolls. Whatever vague music might be coming out of that place makes his steel-toed feet clop on the ground.* I think I need t’buy the drinks. I could use TWO get out of jail free cards.
Izzy Montoya
She arches a brow, and steps from the car, checks the placement of her holster at the small of her back, puts her badge in the pocket of her blazer, followed by her keys after she thumbs the locks on the car.
She follows him to the door, snorting slightly. “It would take a lot of drinks for that second one. It’s not as easily gained.”
Jeff Brolin
*He keeps his grin, as he scratches at his chest, and yes, his eyes drift down a little bit. Just a little bit, before flicking back up. For once, he tries to keep it subtle, although Sid’s condition has him, clearly, a bit shaken. And yes, he pushes open the door, holding it open for her.* Entres fuckin’ vous.
Izzy Montoya
His eyes flick down, and she smirks It’s a reaction she’s well used too, though it doesn’t seem to bother her at all. He holds open the door, and she moves inside, and just so he knows she saw that look?
“Stop lookin at my ass.”
Though, truth be told, she’s still not offended, AND she has quite a nice ass. Derek is a very, very lucky man.
She heads straight to the bar – no cozy booth for two, this time – and takes a seat, nodding as the bartender catches her eye. She’s a regular it seems, as he grabs a bottle without even bothering to ask, and pours her a whiskey, neat. THEN he asks what Jeff wants.
Jeff Brolin
*He grins at that.* It’s a NICE ass, *he informs her, quite complimentary, and he looks up.* Whatever tequila you have. I’m not too picky, just want the head throbbin’ to stop. Thanks, mate. *He offers the bartender a grin as well.*
Izzy Montoya
“Well duh. Tell me something I don’t know, kid.”
Their drinks are poured, and she lifts hers briefly in a silent toast before she tips it back for a swallow, sighing contentedly as it burns it’s way down her throat.
“Much better.”
Jeff Brolin
*He tosses back his tequila, sans lemon, sans salt. He shudders, but it’s a good sort of pain.* Yeah. Seriously. *Alcohol is soothing, a liquid band-aid.* So, you married or somethin’? *He puts the shotglass back down, and he raises his chin.* One more?
Izzy Montoya
She nods to his offer of one more, and then she is confronted with that question. She doesn’t answer right away, because it’s something she doesn’t really consider. It is what it is, and they simply don’t label it, and certainly don’t talk about it.
So she settles with “Or somethin.”
Jeff Brolin
*He grins, and he nods at that.* Hey, no harm in that. Just wonderin’ if I had a fuckin’ chance, alcohol or no.
Izzy Montoya
She snorts a laugh at that, and gives him a slow once over, and then with a shrug. “Six months ago, I’d have fucked you in the car before the drinks.”
She nods toward the pool table, though, instead, where a barfly is playing by herself. “Tonight though, your best bet in here is Lawanda.”
Jeff Brolin
*He can’t help but laugh at that. He leans on the bar.* Hell, six months ago, I likely woulda had yeh on the steps where you were sittin’. But I guess things change. This city’s playin’ tricks with m’head, an’ leadin’ me on a merry goddamned dance. *He digs into his back pocket, to pay for the two shots. Maybe he’s stopping there.*
Izzy Montoya
She nods, understanding that. “Yeah, only been here a few weeks, but I get that.” And she does. Things are different for her here. She is different here. She’s not entirely sure if she likes it – or if she could even stop it if she didn’t.
The second shots are delivered, and she does her with the practiced ease of someone who drinks far too much, far too often. “But speaking of my ‘or something’ -it’s about time I get home. You gonna be alright?”
Jeff Brolin
*He grins at that.* ‘course I’ll be all right. Sid, he just… worries too much. *Yeah? What is HE doing, then?* I’m not a kid. Figured I’d hoof it home, though. Check on the roommate. He looked like hell. Never… seen ‘im like that before. *His worry is frank, and honest.*
Izzy Montoya
She nods, accepting that. She pushes from the bar, and touches his shoulder. “Alright. Be safe out there.”
And with a wave to the bartender, she heads for the door – her car and then home, where she’ll finally order some food.
[And Izzy’s out! thanks for the play]
Jeff Brolin
((Night!))