Grave Intentions

It's a casual move to lean in, a playful hand on Crow's shoulder while Graves interrupts the last of the robotic voice Crow speaks through.

"Who said I don't mean it? Those 141 folks're in your head. I can be nice - takin' ya out for drinks in a nice place like this, hired car. I even remembered what ya drink."

The sentence is punctuated with Graves toasting his glass to Crow before he tips it back. Crow better pull his mask down before Graves does it himself.

That restraint doesn't extend past that, however; Crow snorts, derisive and flat. He wants to tell Graves off. To tell him to shove all his nice drinks and hired cars where the sun don't shine.

None of them grace his lips. What Crow earns from using that rough, gasoline voice of his is a laugh from Graves.

"Oh, there he is! I like that one better'n the stuffy mother fucker in y'r phone."

Graves lets his hand drop from Crow's shoulder, takes his time in dragging his fingers down Crow's back, the ripples of muscle and spine below the tight shirt he wears, before he returns the offending limb to himself.

coyote's keys jingle as he shoves them in door, ring occupied by far too many keys and tchotchkes to be reasonable. he snorts quietly at the comment, turning the handle as he answers.

"can't say its what i imagined either. not sure you taking up my entire bed is really something to be dreaming of…" he trails off, the door swinging open. he hefts graves over the doorstep, making no effort to take either of their shoes off. the walk to the bedroom is blessedly short. for once the apartment's small square footage proves convenient, rather than a nuisance. his commander is dropped unceremoniously onto the bed, and coyote relishes in the way he flops over weakly.

"stay there," he rumbles. "don't want you dribbling blood all over my house." he pauses momentarily, staring down at the man in his bed. "'m gonna get you a pot."

coyote retreats to the kitchen, rummaging around in a cabinet. when he stands again, a wave of nausea washes over him. he grips the counter, sharpening nails scraping against the laminate as he grows in size ever so slightly. his bones ache. his skin itches. it's all too much.

he shakes his head like a dog who's had all too much fun at the lake and returns to the bedroom, setting the pot next to the bed frame.

Graves buries his head deeper into it, a dead man trying to nest, and lets his eyes drift closed when Coyote leaves the room.

A bin gets placed in front of him, and a weight settles behind him. The pillow is given up in favor of Coyote's chest. The world stops turning just for the moment.

His stomach doesn't.

The bin comes as a blessing when Graves dry heaves into it, gagging around nothing. When his eyes pop open to find Coyote in front of him, and, notably, not beside him in the bed, Coyote might just see tears well in his eyes.

And the sudden growth gets chalked up to the pitiful state Graves is in.

A weak, cold hand reaches for Coyote before he gets the chance to turn and leave, glassy eyes looking up at him like he's the only person that can make any of this better.

He is.

even in the darkness, through the grain and interference, john swears he can make out a face he hasn't seen in months, one that sends him scrambling for the nearest drawer containing a firearm. his fingers tremble slightly as he loads the magazine. he keeps his footsteps silent against the smoke-stained carpeting, and leans his back against the wall of the foyer. he makes no motion to check the peephole. he doesn't need to - its covered with duct tape anyway. john waits, breaths short and shallow, hoping the spectre at his door will fade back into the rainy night.

it doesn't.

instead, it knocks on the heavy wooden door, and calls out a name john hasn't been called in a long time. he flicks off the safety and racks the slide, hoping that somehow the sound defies all logic and makes its way outside. a smarter man would say you've got the wrong address, and a smarter one wouldn't answer at all. that same smart man would call his handler and run away all over again. michael is not a smart man. when he opens his mouth (foolishly), all that comes out is his voice cracking over a string of ill advised words.

The reality of it is much worse than his dreams. Here, he's not even afforded an open door. But the voice behind it is unmistakable. It floods him with memories of a time that no longer exists, a time that Graves so desperately clings to. His eyes fall shut for a half second in releasing the breath he'd been holding.

The address was right- and the man that a delusional Graves thinks will make all right in the world again is right behind a few inches of wood.

If Graves knows his former Shadow at all, he knows he's likely armed. If Graves knows Michael, he knows he's just as likely to pull the trigger as he is to open the door to him.

"You're not an easy man t'find." A pathetic laugh escapes him - one that reeks of a mixture of both relief and despondence. "But y'know me."

It's so easy to fall into that persona, but it's not what he came here to do.

The grin on his face only grows when the TTS app sounds - caught in his game. It's the look of a man getting away with it.

"It's hard t'find a spot you're not out o' place in. And, if I can be honest, I think my Shadow's'd eat ya alive."

Read as: They're competition.

Or the devil.

Crow's lip tugs down a bit under the mask as he shakes his head. Gloved hands rub his eyes, push locks of silver hair back, adjust his mask. This is the game he willingly subjected himself to, demanding drinks from Phillip Graves. He shouldn't be surprised, then, when he's little more than a plaything for his amusement.

[Again with the meaningless flattery. You don't have to pay compliments you don't mean.]

It's a casual move to lean in, a playful hand on Crow's shoulder while Graves interrupts the last of the robotic voice Crow speaks through.

"Who said I don't mean it? Those 141 folks're in your head. I can be nice - takin' ya out for drinks in a nice place like this, hired car. I even remembered what ya drink."

The sentence is punctuated with Graves toasting his glass to Crow before he tips it back. Crow better pull his mask down before Graves does it himself.

It's a different bar this time - no pool tables or blue collar boys to speak of, but a crowd sporting Hermes and Rolexes. A cigarette smoked here would have the business types besides themselves.

The Commander's intentions are clear as can be: no rowdy barfights for Crow, but a relaxed night where they can both be Carter and Phil.

While the noise of the door typically wouldn't faze him, it's people turning their heads instead. Not every day one sees a white haired man in a mask, he supposes. But add another reason to the ever-growing list of them that Graves wants Crow on his arm.

He turns from his seat at the bar to watch as Crow closes the distance.

"I can't take you anywhere, can I?"

Every time Crow walks into a bar knowing Phillip Graves is on the other side, he knows to be prepared. No matter what he does, Graves makes sure he stands out.

The one Brit in an American dive. The one rank and file soldier in a tycoon's speakeasy.

Eyes are on him, hungry and intrigued. The cash in their pockets burn, assuming he's a gun for hire. Assuming he's here for work. They see him as a means to an end. Maybe Graves does, too. It wouldn't surprise him in the least.

He slips into the stool beside Graves, giving him a sharp stare as he slides his phone across the polished, pretty wood bar.

The grin on his face only grows when the TTS app sounds - caught in his game. It's the look of a man getting away with it.

"It's hard t'find a spot you're not out o' place in. And, if I can be honest, I think my Shadow's'd eat ya alive."

Read as: They're competition.

- @lt-crow

they roll down the city streets, quiet this far into the night. too quiet, coyote decides, and flicks on the radio. some far off AM station crackles through the speakers, distorted guitars sounding more like static. he fights the urge to slap his commander's hand off the knob when he turns it down. any annoyance is interrupted by incredulity at the slurred question that falls from graves' mouth. coyote glances his way in utter bafflement.

"jesus man, you fucking hired me. i figured you'd at least glance at the file." he scoffs, and shakes his head, pressing his foot down onto the brake more harshly than he really should, shifting gears. even in the low light he can see the man next to him looks green. "if you're gonna throw up, open the window."

the tinny, upbeat voice of some product's spokesman begins to sound from the speakers, and coyote twists the dial to a new station, the sound of static filling the cab.

they wind through city streets, coyote trying his best to fit into the skin of a normal driver - a monumental task for someone who spent the best of their formative driving years in cambridge, massachusetts. he idles at a red light, watching the white man change to a flashing red hand, and contemplates asking for an address. one glance at the pallid complexion and furrowed brows of the man in the passenger seat changes his mind. the turn signal thunks on, and 15 minutes later he pulls into a parking lot.

coyote slams his door shut and waits. when no sound comes from the passenger side, he grumbles, pulling the door open, and lifting graves out of the seat.

Yet again, his world moves by Coyote's hands.

Graves had always imagined Coyote's apartment to smell much like his clothes do - a lingering smell of cigarettes, and a musk that Graves will soon realize is the scent of werewolf. A musk that now consumes him when he's tucked into Coyote's side. But there's a distinct scent of cleaning supplies as Graves sorts through it.

It settles his stomach just the slightest bit.

Under him, he finds his feet, but there's no effort made to move away from Coyote. Quite the opposite, as Graves buries his face in the space between Coyote's shoulder and neck.

One would think that Phoenix's first reaction to everything should be self-preservation. It's the very base of human instinct. When in a dangerous situation, the first instinct is to preserve one's own life at any cost. Here, that would come in the form of being docile. Agreeable. Letting Graves do whatever he wants in order to stay alive for long enough to escape.

"You're really sad, you know that? What, did your mommy not love you enough? Did Daddy hit you around a few too many times? Your girlfriend leave you because you're a fucking loser?"

"Aw, sweetheart, project some more. It'll untie ya 'n get ya outta my basement, that's for sure."

Phoenix's fate is decided, he supposes. He's already seen Graves' face, could likely point out a location to anyone with an understanding of the area - and Graves is only making it worse with every word spoken.

Phoenix should already be gone. And Graves can't quite place what's keeping him here.

:3

drag my muse to go out to a bar