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cod-imagines · 1 day ago

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imagine #5

character: Phillip Graves words: 4984 cw: 18+, drinking description: in which you and Phillip share a drink after a mission goes south (sort of part 2 to this fic). a/n: I’ll take any opportunity to write more stuff for Graves (requested by the lovely @echojays)

The bar you were holed up in looked like it had been carved out of a fever dream and left to rot in the sun. Somewhere between dive and ruin, its wooden siding had long since faded into a splintered, sun-bleached grey, the neon sign above the door humming with a dull, terminal buzz. Letters were missing. The ones that remained flickered like they were stuttering through their last night alive. Inside, the air was thick with old cigarette smoke that had worked itself so deep into the walls it felt alive, like a bad memory.

You’d picked a booth in the back without even thinking. Far from the bar, close to a sagging dartboard nailed unevenly into the wall. One dart hung crooked from the cork, the others strewn on the floor like someone got bored halfway through a game and never came back. The overhead light above your table buzzed low, casting everything in a sickly yellow that made the liquor bottles look like jars of piss and syrup behind the bar. There was no music playing. Just the soft clink of glass being dried by the barkeep, and the muted mutter of a man hunched over the wooden bar top, too drunk to finish his story.

You hadn’t planned to end up here. Hell, you hadn’t even planned on leaving the motel, not at first. But after two hours spent pacing a floor that smelled like mildew and bleach, staring at a television that only got static, you'd snapped. You needed somewhere else. Anywhere else. Someplace with noise, with other people’s lives happening around you, even if they barely noticed you. You wanted to vanish into someone else’s night for a little while. Needed to get out of your brain before it started chewing through your skull.

But the drink wasn’t helping. Your margarita sat in a chipped glass that sweated against your palm. It was too warm, the tequila so harsh it tasted like detergent. You drank it anyway. You weren’t after comfort — you were after numbness. The kind that pressed like a gauze in your chest and made everything a little less sharp, a little more manageable. But so far, it had only made things worse.

You’d been riding high. Ever since Tbilisi, it had felt like the tide was turning, like you were finally becoming more than just another green name on a list. Your missions had gone clean. Your instincts had been sharp. People were starting to trust you, starting to see you as more than just the youngest person in the room with a badge and a mouth. You’d put in the work, made calls that mattered, turned assets that no one else could reach. And now all of that was unraveling.

You’d believed the intel. You’d put your faith in a source who swore the deal was happening in Reno, that the buy would go down this week, that your presence would matter. But you were days too late. The warehouse you’d scouted had already been cleared out, every crate gone, every handler long vanished. The floor had been swept clean, not even a footprint in the dust. You’d shown up armed and ready, and there was no one left to kill. Or question.

It wasn’t just a failed op — it was an embarrassment. The kind that left a mark. The kind people whispered about in corridors and turned their noses up at. And the worst part? You didn’t know yet if it was a mistake, or if someone had fed you bad intel on purpose. Either way, the responsibility was yours to carry.

You tilted your glass again, watching the salt stick to the edge where your mouth had touched it. You should’ve ordered something stronger. Vodka. Whiskey. Something with less sugar and more pain. But you hadn’t been thinking clearly. You hadn’t been thinking at all, just moving. Muscle memory.

The front door swung open with a groan.

You didn’t look up right away — your body reacted before your eyes did. A shift in atmosphere, a pressure in your spine. You knew those boots. Heavy steps, scuffed soles. The casual, low conversation that followed — you recognized that too. The unmistakable sound of men who moved through the world like they owned every hallway. Shadows. Three of them.

You glanced up, and sure enough, they were walking in like they’d been here before. One gave a nod to the bartender, who nodded back. Familiar. Comfortable. They looked different out of uniform, but not enough to hide the way they carried themselves — upright, sharp-eyed, quiet but always watching.

And then came Graves.

Your stomach turned. Not in surprise. Of course he was here. Because if anyone was going to show up at the exact moment you didn’t want to see him — if anyone was going to walk into your silence and make it louder — it was Phillip fucking Graves.

He didn’t rush. He never did. Moved like the room owed him something, like the floor wouldn’t dare creak under his weight. Jeans, rolled sleeves, sweat still drying on the edge of his collar. The shirt clung to him in all the places it shouldn’t have, sun-bleached cotton stretched across shoulders that never slouched.

His eyes scanned the bar lazily. You knew the exact moment he saw you — the small shift in posture, the way his hand brushed over his belt like he was settling in. That look crawled across the room like it had a purpose. Slow and uninvited. You didn’t need a word from him to know what he was thinking.

Your lips pressed into a hard line, glass raised halfway to your mouth. You stared back for one breath, then turned away, jaw clenched.

“Fuck off,” you muttered under your breath, as if that would be enough to keep him away. But of course it wouldn’t. Of course not.

His Shadows spotted you before you had the chance to finish what little was left of your margarita. Their boots echoed across the sticky floor as they crossed the room, a rolling tide of sweat-slick confidence and uninvited familiarity. You didn’t bother looking up. You knew the rhythm of their footsteps too well by now. Ives, Reyes, Dipaolo — they came like a storm that had already decided where it wanted to land, all cracked grins and worn jackets and too much volume for a place this dead.

“Jesus, you look like someone ran over your dog,” Reyes drawled, sliding an empty barstool aside just to lean on it. “C’mon, don’t tell me you’re drinking that watered down garbage. That’s not how we do post-op, princess.”

Dipaolo thumped a heavy hand against your shoulder, half affection, half impact. You winced. Not because it hurt — though it did — but because you were trying so hard not to react.

“Lighten up, Langley,” he said, grinning like he’d won something. “You didn’t single-handedly lose the Cold War. You’re fine.”

Ives just chuckled, low and sharp, eyes scanning the dartboard beside your table. “Damn shame no one’s playin’. I’d bet good money she throws darts the same way she gathers intel. Horribly.”

You looked up through your lashes, trying to pretend the burn in your chest was something other than embarrassment. Or fury. You weren’t sure anymore. It had all started to blur together the second the Shadows walked in — no, the second he did.

Graves hadn’t said a word at first. Just watched the scene unfold with that unreadable glint in his eye, jaw loose, mouth curved like he was chewing on a secret. Then he moved — smooth, quiet — and slid into the booth beside you like he belonged there. His thigh pressed firm and warm against yours, no room to scoot away. The scent of leather and the faint trace of gun oil clung to his shirt, freshly laundered but still distinctly him.

You shifted, but he didn’t. He just draped his arm across the back of the booth, casual as sin, fingers brushing your shoulder. When the bartender finally shuffled over, Graves barely turned his head.

“Another round,” he said, voice low and solid. “Millers for the table, and—” he glanced at your half-finished margarita, then at you, eyes narrowing slightly. “She’ll have a real drink this time. Whiskey. Neat.”

You opened your mouth, already halfway to snapping something venom-laced, but he beat you to it. His hand tapped the edge of the table once — not hard, but sharp enough to quiet the words on your tongue.

“Sit down. Breathe. Drink.” His voice was flatter now, low and tight. “You’re not stormin’ a safehouse, you’re sittin’ in a bar. No one’s shootin’ at you, so calm the fuck down.”

Your mouth closed, jaw tight. The words stung more than they should have. Not because they were cruel, but because they were true. And you hated how easily he could disarm you. How the very sound of his voice dropped anchor right beneath your ribs.

The Shadows made themselves comfortable without needing permission. Reyes kicked his boots up on a nearby chair, Dipaolo helped himself to a basket of stale pretzels someone had left behind over at the next table, and Ives had already flagged down the bartender again for God knows what.

“So, boss,” Dipaolo started, leaning toward Graves with a grin, “you ever run another mission where your intel shows up three days too late and still expects a medal?”

Graves didn’t look at you — not exactly — but you could feel the smirk forming on his lips.

“Oh, don’t tease her,” Reyes chimed in, eyes sparkling. “She tried so hard. Probably even used coloured tabs in her little dossier.”

“Poor girl thought she’d break the case wide open,” Ives added, deadpan. “Instead we got an empty-ass warehouse and three rats fucking in a cardboard box.”

The table erupted in laughter.

You stared down at your new drink when it arrived — golden, sharp-smelling, amber clinging to the sides like it had weight to it. You hadn’t touched it yet. You weren’t sure if you were going to. Your pride was still sitting heavy on your tongue, and this little roast session wasn’t helping.

“Fuck all of you,” you muttered, lifting the glass anyway. “I should’ve told Halvorsen not to send you along.”

“Please,” Reyes scoffed. “You’d be dead in a day without us.”

You took a sip. It burned going down. Good. You needed something to hurt.

Graves turned his head then, finally letting his gaze land on you. That look again — too smug, too knowing, too close. His arm was still behind you, fingers now grazing the back of your neck, just barely.

“You always this much fun when you’re hurtin’, sweetheart?” he asked, drawl thick with amusement. “’Cause if so, I might start screwin’ up your missions on purpose.”

You glared at him, but your heart wasn’t in it. You could feel the heat rising under your skin again — not the kind from the whiskey.

“Try me,” you said, chin lifting, voice cut from defiance.

And Graves — oh, he smiled now. Real and slow, like he’d been waiting all night for you to bark back properly.

“Was hopin’ you’d say that.”

“God, you really are touchy tonight,” Reyes laughed, reaching over to ruffle your hair. You smacked his hand away, half-hearted, but he just chuckled and grabbed one of the paper menus from behind the napkin dispenser. “We ordering food, right? Ain’t no post-op drinks without greasy shit to soak it up.”

“I swear to Christ, if I see one fucking salad on that list—” Dipaolo started.

“Relax,” Ives cut in, already pointing at the laminated mess of offerings. “Wings, onion rings, chili fries, mozzarella sticks — look at this culinary excellence. Bet this is how Langley trains their analysts. All grease and caffeine.”

“Explains a lot,” Reyes muttered under his breath, loud enough for you to hear.

You rolled your eyes so hard your skull ached. “You know I could kill you with a paperclip, right?”

Reyes raised his drink in a mock toast. “It’d be an honor, sweetheart.”

While they bickered over sauce choices and what level of heat qualified as “not for cowards,” Graves stayed beside you, his arm still stretched behind your shoulders. His hand brushed the base of your neck again when he shifted — not intentionally, maybe, but you felt it all the same. Felt the heat of him, solid and settled like he wasn’t planning on moving anytime soon. He hadn’t said much since ordering the whiskey, but now, with the others occupied and the bartender wandering back to the kitchen to call in the food, he turned slightly toward you, voice low and almost lazy.

“So,” he said, dragging out the word like molasses, “what’s next, Langley?”

You didn’t look at him right away. Instead, you let your head fall back against the booth with a sigh, the weight of the day pulling at your spine. The movement brought your temple against his forearm where it rested across the top of the booth. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move away.

“Please,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, “don’t talk about the fucking mission. I just wanna forget it happened.”

There was a brief pause. A shift in the air between you, something softer. Something with weight.

“Well,” Graves said eventually, “that can be arranged.”

The relief was instantaneous. As if saying it aloud gave you permission to let go of the last seventy-two hours and the barbed wire they’d wrapped around your chest. When you finally opened your eyes again, the others had moved. Reyes and Ives were crouched on the ground a few feet away, sweeping their hands beneath the dartboard and the surrounding tables. Dipaolo had found the missing darts from earlier and was now lining them up on the edge of a nearby stool like a man setting the table for war.

Reyes caught your eye. “You’re on deck after me,” he said, pointing a dart at you like a dagger.

“I’m not playing,” you called back.

“That’s what all losers say.”

You flipped him off, earning a dramatic gasp from Ives and a middle finger in return. Then the Shadows fell into their little game, each one pretending it wasn’t competitive while slowly becoming unhinged over scoring.

You and Graves stayed seated. Still pressed together on the vinyl booth, heat blooming where your legs touched. The table between you was littered with half-empty glasses and napkins someone had scribbled nonsense on, and he glanced at the mess, then back at you.

“So what do you wanna talk about?” he asked, arching a brow.

You turned toward him, resting your arm along the top of the booth too, touching his, mirroring his posture. You felt looser now, more yourself, which in your case usually meant being an insufferable little shit.

“I don’t know,” you said with mock sweetness. “Wanna tell me all about your tragic little backstory? What made the great Phillip Graves the way he is? Some girl break your heart in Texas?”

He snorted, eyes narrowing slightly like he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or offended. “Jesus. Right to the therapy questions, huh?”

“Well, I figured we’d skip the small talk,” you said, playing with the edge of your napkin. “We’ve already suffered together. Seems rude not to get to know each other now.”

Graves smirked, leaned back a little, his fingers tapping against the booth behind you. “Alright. You wanna know about my time in the Marines?”

You nodded, more serious now. “Yeah. I do.”

He was quiet for a beat. Choosing his words. You didn’t push. That surprised him, you could tell — he was used to you wanting his answers fast, or not at all.

“Joined right outta high school,” he said eventually, gaze fixed ahead, watching Reyes line up a dart with exaggerated focus. “Didn’t have much waitin’ for me back home. Small town. Real small. Not much but busted trucks and busted marriages.”

“Hence your accent.”

He glanced at you with a crooked smile. “What, you got a problem with it?”

“No,” you said, smiling back now, “I just think it’s convenient. You get away with more shit when you sound like sweet tea and church bells.”

Graves laughed — really laughed, low and rich and full in his chest. You didn’t realize how much you liked the sound of it until it lingered a second too long.

“Christ, you’re a piece of work,” he said, shaking his head. “Anyway. Did my time in the Corps. Recon. Loved the work. Hated the politics. Got out, figured if I was gonna keep gettin’ shot at, might as well make money doin’ it.”

“Shadow Company.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Built it up myself. Contracts rolled in, got the right people, cut the fat. Rest is classified.”

“Classified, huh?” You rested your chin in your hand, eyes narrowed. “That just your polite way of saying I don’t wanna talk about it, sweetheart?”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “But you say it with that mouth of yours, and somehow it sounds prettier.”

You felt that one land — a soft impact low in your stomach, more spark than punch, but still there. Still humming.

“You really don’t turn it off, do you?”

Graves leaned in a little, voice dipping just enough to send a chill down your spine. “Only when there’s nothin’ worth turnin’ it on for.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The air felt heavy between you again, heavy with the noise of the bar, the bad aim of the Shadows, the warmth of his arm behind you. You looked at him — really looked — and he met it, gaze steady, mouth twitching like he was seconds from saying something far worse.

You beat him to it.

“You ever get tired of hearing yourself flirt?”

Graves tilted his head, eyes gleaming.

“Nope.” He smirked, blinked, and took a sip of his beer. “But you keep givin’ me looks like that, and I might start thinkin’ it’s workin’.”

Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the noise of the bar around you softening into something almost warm, almost bearable. Or maybe it was just the weight of him sitting beside you, heat steady where his arm stretched behind your shoulders, fingers brushing faintly against the line of your neck every time he shifted. You’d been toeing the line all night — flirting, arguing, teasing — but now something quiet had crept beneath it. And your voice slipped out before you could stop it.

“This whole act of yours,” you said, gesturing vaguely at him, your fingers tracing the air in a lazy loop. “The charm. The slow drawl. The smug little smirk. You really think it’s gonna win me over, cowboy?”

There was a beat of silence. Then he let out a low laugh, settling deep in his chest and worked its way into your ribs before you could block it. His grin was lazy and crooked and entirely too pleased.

“Well,” he said, dragging the word out like it was meant to provoke, “you ain’t exactly runnin’ for the door, are you?”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, but it didn’t have its usual bite. Because you weren’t. You were still pressed close, still half-leaning into the booth like his arm was something anchoring you. You hated that. Hated how easy it had become to fall into this rhythm with him. Like you hadn’t spent the last few months pretending he didn’t live under your skin, rattling around with his pouty lips and silver tongue.

“I’m not running,” you said slowly, your fingers tightening slightly around your glass, “because I haven’t finished my drink.”

“That so?” Graves murmured, tilting his head. “You sure that’s all it is?”

You didn’t answer right away. The joke was there, low-hanging, an easy path back into the safety of snark — but instead, you went quiet. The noise of the bar kept humming around you, Reyes shouting something about a bullseye, Ives groaning in protest, Dipaolo laughing too loud. And still, you stayed focused on the condensation sliding down the side of your glass.

Then, barely above the din: “I’m sorry.”

The words hung there, awkward and raw. Too soft. Too real. You didn’t look at him when you said them — you couldn’t — but you felt the way he stilled beside you. No more lazy fingers tapping the booth. No more smirking breath at your ear.

“I know we said no work talk,” you added, still staring at the table, “but I needed to say it. Tbilisi… that was on me. You shouldn’t’ve taken that bullet. I froze. I fucked up. And I didn’t say it before because I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction.”

Graves let out a slow exhale.

“You’re right,” he said, voice low. “We did say no work talk.”

“I know.” You finally looked at him then. “But I’m sayin’ it anyway. Because you’re not gonna hear it again. So enjoy it while it lasts.”

For a moment, there was something unreadable in his face — not the usual smugness, not amusement either. He looked at you like he couldn’t quite decide whether to take you seriously or not. Then his lips curled slowly, and that look came back, the one that made your skin heat in places you didn’t want to admit.

“Well hell,” he said, his voice dipping low again, that Southern warmth curling around the syllables like smoke, “if that’s the only time I’m gettin’ an apology from you, then I reckon you better make it count. Y’know, properly.”

You blinked. Felt the heat rise to your cheeks before you could stop it. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re deflectin’.”

“Fuck off.”

He grinned. “You like it.”

Before you could say something mean enough to wipe the smile off his face, Reyes returned with his arms full of food baskets like he was offering a feast to the gods. “Alright, degenerates, dinner is served.”

Ives followed, dropping down beside you with a groan. “I swear, I pulled something playing darts. My shoulder’s never gonna be the same.”

“You pulled your pride, maybe,” Dipaolo said, already digging into the fries. “That score was embarrassing. I’ve seen toddlers aim better.”

“You’ve been aimed at by toddlers,” Reyes added. “Remember Bucharest? That four-year-old with her sippy cup?”

“Fuck you. She had rage strength.”

You snorted into your drink, unable to hold it back. Something about the sheer ridiculousness of it, the banter, the ease. It shouldn’t have felt this light. You were surrounded by men who’d probably all killed more people than they’d saved, eating fried garbage in a no-name bar with the scent of hot sauce and beer clinging to the air — and yet it felt like breathing. For once.

“Here,” Ives said, nudging a basket of wings toward you, “get your protein, Langley. Might help you next time someone tries to shoot you.”

“Ha ha,” you muttered, grabbing one anyway. “Eat a dick.”

“You offering?”

Reyes practically choked on a fry, wheezing through a laugh. “Jesus. You walk right into it every time.”

“At least I have manners,” you said primly, licking hot sauce off your thumb. “Unlike you gremlins.”

Dipaolo raised his beer. “To gremlins then.”

Everyone clinked glasses. Even you.

⟡

The walk back to the motel stretched longer than the street it was on. The heat of the day still clung to the asphalt, rising in slow, ghostlike tendrils from the pavement, seeping into your boots and bones. Somewhere behind you, Reyes was singing — badly — and Ives kept interrupting to correct the lyrics, which only made him sing louder. Dipaolo barked a laugh that startled a dog behind a chain-link fence.

You should’ve been annoyed. Any other night, you would’ve snapped at them to shut the hell up. But instead, your shoulders had dropped somewhere along the walk, your chest loosening with every step away from the bar. The sounds of them felt oddly comforting, like radio static in another room — not intrusive, just there, proof that the world hadn’t fallen apart.

Graves matched your pace. Quiet beside you, like he wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere. It shouldn’t have felt so strange, but it did. You weren’t used to this silence with him. You were used to the bite of his voice, the smirk that came with every correction, the push and pull that defined nearly every interaction since Tbilisi. You weren’t used to him being still. Or kind. Or even just steady. It threw off your rhythm, made you aware of every inch of space between you. Not that there was much. Every time your hand swung a little wide, it brushed his. Every time your stride lengthened, he caught up. He didn’t try to touch you. He didn’t need to. He was close enough that you felt the weight of him anyway.

You didn’t know what it was — the whiskey, the heat, the fucking failure still sitting heavy in your chest — but something about his presence tonight had begun to feel less like a threat and more like gravity. Quiet and consistent, like he’d anchored you to the ground without meaning to. And that scared the hell out of you. Because comfort was a luxury, and Graves had never been safe.

Still, you couldn’t help yourself. You couldn’t let the softness settle without kicking it a little.

“So what’s your plan?” you asked, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, your voice light and needling. “Gonna walk me all the way to my door and hope I trip and fall into your lap?”

Graves didn’t even blink. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to end the night,” he said, voice low, casual, smooth like warm honey. “But I was thinkin’ more along the lines of you beggin’ me to stay.”

You scoffed and looked away, but your cheeks were hot, and he knew it. You could feel him watching you, feel the faint curl of his mouth without needing to see it. You hated that he could do that — get under your skin with just a few words and the slow slide of his voice. Hated it almost as much as you wanted more of it.

The motel was close — an old roadside dump with sun-faded doors and numbers that peeled off in strips. The paint was the colour of toothpaste left out too long, bleached by decades of Nevada sun. A flickering sign buzzed above the office, the Y in VACANCY sputtering weakly like it was on life support. A single row of rooms stretched out in both directions, all with the same rickety screen doors and blinds drawn crooked behind dusty glass.

Reyes and the others stopped a few feet ahead, clustered near the chain-link fence that surrounded the pool. The water shimmered under the yellowed floodlights, still and clear, untouched since probably the beginning of summer.

“Fuck it,” Reyes muttered, peeling his shirt off over his head. “It’s hot as hell. I’m goin’ in.”

“You’re drunk,” Ives said automatically, already following him.

“And I swim better when I’m drunk,” Reyes replied, kicking his boots into the grass.

“I believe that,” Dipaolo called out, toeing off his own shoes. “You float like shit.”

You paused, watching them climb the fence one by one, the metal creaking under their weight. They were a mess. Sloppy, loud, reckless. And they were yours. If only for tonight. The thought hit you with something sharp and bittersweet — the rare ache of something resembling camaraderie, something you hadn’t felt since before the badge around your neck meant anything. You lingered a moment longer, then turned back toward your door.

Graves followed without being asked.

He didn’t say anything until you stopped in front of your room. You stood there with your key in hand, heart drumming too fast, pulse loud in your ears. The porch light above your door cast him in amber and shadow, cutting across the strong line of his jaw, glinting off the metal buttons on his shirt. He looked at home here, somehow. With you. Just with you.

“So,” he said, that low voice settling in your gut like smoke, “you gonna let me in? Or you just gonna make me stand out here, wonderin’ what I did wrong?”

You turned the key in the lock but didn’t open the door.

“I don’t remember inviting you,” you said, quiet, not quite teasing.

“I figured I earned it,” he murmured, stepping just a fraction closer. “Took a bullet for you, didn’t I? Thought you wanted to thank me properly.”

There was heat behind the words, slow, smouldering. You felt it bloom low in your stomach. The air between you shifted, tightened, pulled taut with something unspoken but understood. You knew you shouldn’t. You knew exactly what this was, how messy it could get, how wrong it would look in the morning. But all that logic, all that hard-earned self-preservation, felt distant right now. Like it belonged to someone else entirely.

Because you wanted him.

Not just in theory. Not in passing.

You wanted his hands, rough and sure, skimming up beneath your shirt, wanted the press of his hips and the heat of his breath against your throat. You wanted to taste what that smirk felt like under your mouth, what that drawl sounded like when it was broken by pleasure instead of banter. You wanted the weight of him pushing you back against the door, his fingers digging into your waist, his voice low in your ear asking if this was what you’d been thinking about since Tbilisi.

Because it was.

You swallowed hard, chest tight.

“You’re real proud of that wound, huh?” you asked, bolder now. “Want me to kiss it better?”

Graves smiled slowly, crookedly.

“Somethin’ like that.”

You stared at him. Your fingers hovered over the handle. Then, without another word, you turned the knob and stepped inside, leaving the door open behind you.

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