Listen. I just need this man in many forms and I’m not sorry! (Please reblog to keep alive!)
*You receive a call from your partner at 2AM. Grabbing your phone, you press it to your ear, eyes still closed.*
You: (L/N) here.
Graves: I’ll be there in fifteen.
You: *Mutters* Fuck. Alright. *Hangs up.*
*You roll out of bed, pulling your pants suit back on from the floor.*
*Your leather shoulder rig is next, checking your Glock 48 before holstering it again in the dark.*
*Blazer, push your fingers through your wild hair and step into your slip-on Vans.*
*You grab your 2 phones, keys and jog downstairs to unlock the door and open it - just as Graves was going to knock.*
Fucker always looks impeccable. Except his hair. Tailored suit, Beretta hidden, badge clipped to his belt, fancy belt buckle and all. Bastard.
Graves drops his woulda-knocked hand and quirks an eyebrow at you, those perfect lips pursed.
You: Shut up and let’s go.
Graves: Darlin’ *he steps off the front porch to follow you to his unmarked cruiser.* Why you gotta ruin your professional look with them shoes?
You: I live just to piss you off.
Graves: True. I ain’t mad, tho. You just look perfect up until those goddamn clown shoes.
You: Rainbow race car, *you correct him, eyes glancing at the rainbow checkered print.*
Graves: The others don’t respect you because of shit like this. Always gotta toe the line.
He shakes his head and grabs a cigarette from his pocket and tucks it between his lips, cracking his window open.
The cold, overnight fall air whips in, loudly fluttering his seatbelt strap.
*You light his cigarette and then steal it to take a deep drag before giving it back to him.*
You: The others can fuck right off if their manners are dictated by shoes.
Graves: *Chuckles warmly, smirking as he pulls the cigarette away from his lips, the smoke slipping out his mouth in a messy cloud.* Mm, there’s that sass.
He leaves the rest of his sentiment unspoken, but you hear it, feel it anyway. Sentimental bastard…
