Grave Intentions

It's refreshing and unpleasant in equal measure.

Crow sighs, turning away to tug his mask down and take a sip of his drink. The mask is returned to its proper place before he turns back.

[You're a bastard and full of shit, but I can't stand to be around honest men right now.]

He turns again to take another drink. Longer this time. And again, his mask is back.

"Why don't you just keep it down? The mask- nothing I haven't seen before."

Distraction comes easy when it comes to Crow, in the way that Graves has been staring, and seeming favoring his own selfish need over the robotic voice responding to him.

Another sip down seems to remind Graves of his nature when he returns to the truth of what Carter offers.

"Alright, I'll give ya that one for free. Any more insults, though, and ya gotta start paying me."

The gasoline of Crow's gravelly voice is the fuel to the fire that lights a laugh in Graves' belly. He juts out an elbow to Crow's side.

"you're dead already," coyote says, a quiet snort emitting from his nose. "i coulda' left you in a shallow grave 'n you'd've been fine." his tone falls into its usual needling, aiming to poke his commander in all the wrong places. not that it matters - his feet never move from where they're planted. the fist balled in his shirt might as well be made of tungsten.

coyote sighs, and his shoulders drop in submission. it really does irk him, how easy it seems to be for graves to get what he wants. his belt clinks as it hits the floor, followed by the soft thumps of a pair of pants and a shirt. if he's lucky, his inevitable shift will hold itself until morning, when he can hide away and cope as he always does. lady luck, however, has never really been keen on him. in spite of her, he crawls into bed.

the dreams that plague him are scattered. moving shapes and flashing colors, brief visions of a blurred face. coyote is too hot. he feels heavier, covered in a blanket his waking mind knows doesn't exist. something presses up against him, small and cold. it's a welcome respite, and he inches closer, relaxing into the sensation. he doesn't wake until the light of morning begins to burn his eyelids.

eyes scrunch, and coyote inhales deeply, enjoying the scent of fresh earth that fills his nostrils. he nuzzles in, licking at the form held close to his chest. his eyes blink open, squinting in the early morning sun. graves looks small beneath him, smaller than usual. it tickles coyote, how little he looks, and for a moment he pulls the other man closer, relishing in the slight movements that indicate his commander is alive (dead) and kicking. his bones crack as he stretches, movement revealing something between hands and paws.

A stint with Barnum & Bailey as a ringmaster somewhere around '87 (18-, not 19-) was the largest contributor to Graves' ever growing list of bedded freaks.

And he can tick yet another off.

In the space between awake and asleep, wet licks to his face cause him to stir - but his brain doesn't quite catch up yet. It's not even the fur beneath his icy fingers. It's the whine that comes with a shifting weight that pops his eyes open.

One blink feeds Graves the memory of having Coyote in the alley beside the bar. The next gives him swaying in the passenger seat of Coyote's car. The last one inside Coyote's home never comes.

Dramatically, Graves flops over onto his back, drags his hand over his face.

Feelin' a game o' cards?

ha, for you, sugar? always.

|| ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆ 𝙼𝚄𝙽 𝚅𝚂 𝙼𝚄𝚂𝙴

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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.