Crow lingers in the garage, uneasily tapping his foot. He's not entirely sure why he agreed to this, of all things--it's been easily years since he last drank, and Graves doesn't seem the type to let the opportunity to pick his alcohol addled brain pass by.
And yet, he's here, dressed as casually as his limited wardrobe allows. Black joggers, a black sporty turtleneck, and his riding jacket. His usual mask is replaced by a black surgical mask, one that shows a bit more of his face than he'd like.
This is stupid. He should just tell Graves he doesn't want to. But that feels like admitting defeat.
- @lt-crow
Of course, they could just as easily enjoy a few drinks in Graves' office over a game of cards. But Graves' everything still aches from their spar even days later, so to be so kind would take a bit of convincing.
His casual clothes don't look all too different to what he'd wear to work, but he does smell significantly better than he had thanks to a very expensive fruity cologne.
His boots thud against the ground as he approaches, keys in hand when he spots Crow, looking a bit uneasy. Good.
"All good t'go? I know a spot we can go - good drinks, quiet. Unless you're particular."
