lt-crow

[lt-crow]

[ Coming home is always the worst. ]

[ Crow had accepted it, when Price dragged him out of Verdansk as a dead man; he'd die forgotten in some battlefield somewhere. Either from a bullet or flayed skin, he'd die alone. He'd die deep in enemy territory. And every mission that goes sideways, he thinks--this is it.

Being taken by the Shadows had been part of the plan. Being interrogated by the Shadows had been part of the plan.

Being found was not.

Surviving was not.

And now, here he is. Picking up the pieces. Putting himself back together alone, as always. Staring at the bruises and the bandages in the mirror again, wondering when it'll end.

Hasn't he given enough? Hasn't he done enough?

Crow lets out a slow breath, the deep bruises and fresh wounds on his ribs screaming in pain. Not the worst he's been through, not by a long shot--incompetence extends to interrogation for Shadow Company, it seems. But still--it's enough. More than enough. It's enough to see another piece of himself slipping away.

He rubs his eyes. He leans heavy against the mirror, blood from soaked through bandages smearing on the glass. He breathes, even still.

No rest for the wicked, but damn--Crow is tired. And part of him hopes that next time--

Next time, he prays he doesn't come home at all. ]

[lt-crow]

Crow tries--and fails--not to jump a bit at Graves' hand on his back. Of the curious, almost investigative tug on his jacket. What the man could possibly be thinking, running his hands over the worn leather and pulling the edges of the hidden armour, Crow can't even begin to guess. Sober, perhaps. Feeling the whisky warm his blood, definitely not.

It's just another curiosity to add into the mental file he has for Graves: the man seems to like his jacket. Along with how the man squints at the text on the screen--Crow bites back an amused smile.

The whisky wets Graves' lips as he laughs, as he rolls the alcohol around in his mouth. Savours it in the way Crow should have. Appreciates it with an almost indulgent reverence, one that has Crow bristling with another spark of curiosity.

Motives.

"All I want," Crow rasps out as loud as he can, it barely carrying over the din of the bar, "is to be--be human. For once."

It's sad. It's pathetic, really. But that's all this is to Crow--a chance to feel human again, even briefly. Feel like Carter again.

And before Graves can order, Crow does--another whisky.

In watching Crow play into his hand, Graves questions how the man before him has been so impactful in the operations of the 141. Either everyone else in that team is so useless that Crow has somehow rose to the top, or he has a soft spot for Phillip Graves. Graves knows which theory he prefers.

That comment about flat surfaces rises to the forefront of his mind and he idly wonders if he'd keep this jacket on during. It had to be for protection on a motorcycle - could take a beating, he'd bet. Graves has never been one to deny himself his curiosities, so he gives the material an experimental tug when he slides his hand down from Crow's back.

There's no more time to think about it when Crow's sliding his phone over for a response. God, he wishes he'd brought his reading glasses if they were going to continue with this.

Even if Crow's observation was right, it still makes a laugh rumble from Graves' chest. He takes a slow sip from his drink, reveling in the taste and enjoying the look of irritation on some other patron's face. But there's no need to rush things. Let the drunks get drunker and maybe he'll even find out some more about Crow.

"Hey - I'm not here t'make a fool o' myself." Which, technically, is the truth. "You on the other hand, well... can't say I know your motives." He shrugs off the statement, as if it's not pointed. Hopefully the processing of alcohol will contribute to making Crow's lips even looser. "I'll get ya some water. Mm, two, actually. Y'gotta chug one."

He raps twice on the bar, harder than he has to, to do exactly that.

[lt-crow]

You may call me Crow, and at age 10, my family was captured on holiday and interrogated based on our association to a man in the government, along with his lover and children. I was the only survivor.

... I brought liquorice.

Trauma candy salad, please I beg of y'all please reblog as your muse and add their trauma and the candy...........................

My names Holly, and when I was 16, I was babysitting my baby sister whilst my parents went on their first date night since she was born, and they ended up getting in a car crash and dying thanks to a drunk driver, leading to us being thrown into care homes and being separated for a while.

... I brought the bowl. :)

[lt-crow]

Do you think crow lays eggs?

I... do not. I had the organ responsible removed.

[lt-crow]

Crow, despite everything, manages to keep himself awake. It's nothing new to him, keeping himself going when his body feels like it's about to give up. When he feels like it finally might be the end, Crow keeps himself awake. Every time.

Aren't you tired of this?

He is. So desperately, he's tired of this. Tired of fighting. Tired of being a dead man, knowing no one is coming for him. Tired of being Crow.

But thats what he is. The Crow. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Did every--everyone..." He rasps between laboured breaths. "Everyone... make it out?"

Was my sacrifice worth it?

(Garrison holds back a noise bubbling in his chest watching his Lieutenant wobble like a foal- all uncoordinated, weak, on his last burst of energy.

He had so much respect for the man. Garrison didn’t even have this much energy to keep surviving after the explosion.

He lets Crow fall into his chest as his fingers twitch in surprise. He grimaces, adjusting his posture to adapt to the new weight against him.)

Right- a’right, LT. I’ll carry y’outta here, a’right? Y’save y’r strength. I got people out there t’get y’treated, sir. Jus’ hang n’there for me.

(He’s mumbling, crouching down to hook his arm under Crow’s legs and pick him up.

He was so thin. Weak. Even in Garrison’s state, Crow felt like a feather. It was.. so, so concerning. And he’s turning his heel and making it out of the hotel room.)

[lt-crow]

Well--Garrison had gotten the gist of it. Crow eyes him curiously. Interesting.

He manages to push away from the wall, wavering sharply on his feet but staying upright. Just barely. Just another step. Just a bit further, as always.

No one will save you.

He takes a step, then another--and collapses onto Garrison. "Fuck--" He hisses, legs like jelly under him.

Get up. No one is coming to save you--

Crow grimaces, trying to push himself upright again. He fails, leaning heavy on Garrison.

"Apparently... not," he wheezes, feeling a cold sweat bead on his brow. It mingles with the dirt, the blood--both old and new. It's disgusting. "Need--help."

(Garrison takes back the tags in a flawless little catch, slipping them back over his head. He squints at his Lieutenant signing and, god, he seriously needed to brush up on his BSL. He manages to catch [memo] , [Not rescue, brass, paperwork, dead man.] as he sighs.

This is going to suck.

He slips his mask back over his head- thank god, he’d started growing anxious without it, as he responds.)

No man left behind LT, y’know that? Wouldn’ be here if they didn’ want y’back.

Can y’still walk? Got’a ride out that’ll take y’to medical. Get y’on y’r feet again.

(He dares a cautious approach, a soft foot in front of the other as he goes to assist Crow if needed.)

[lt-crow]

Crow watches every movement, every little motion, with his finger on the trigger. He intends to shoot, to kill--until the dog tags are tossed at him and the mask comes off. Samuel Garrison. He remembers this man--not someone he's talked with, (ha,) but he's seen him around base.

Hard not to, really.

The safety clicks on the pistol as Crow lowers it, stowing it at his bloodied waistband. He scrutinises Garrison's face and finds no malice, just a man from the 141. Here. For him.

Crow tosses the tags back. [Didn't you get the memo?] He signs with a frown. [I'm not one to rescue. Brass doesn't want the paperwork of rescuing a dead man.]

And he sighs, rubbing his eyes. The likelihood this man understands him is slim to none--it's like being cuffed to that chair, all over again. An unwinnable game with a ruined throat and skewed odds.

(His hand pulls away from the holster on his hip as he slowly puts his hands up)

Christ Almighty, LT- Hell, they got y’good.

Hold on, now- M’gunna pull off m’tags n’mask, a’right?

(And, slowly, so Crow could see his hands, he untucks his dog tags from under his kit. He pulls them over his head and, with the rustling of metal running across metal, tosses them underhanded to the man.

He lets a few moments go by before taking a hand and slowly pulling off his mask.

Underneath, the burned yet familiar face of Sergeant Samuel J. Garrison. Shining eyes and all, looking down at his Lieutenant cautiously.)

[lt-crow]

There's a stolen pistol trained on Garrison, the very moment he steps in, from beside the door. It shakes a bit as its wielder fights to keep it level. And leaning heavily against the wall is the Lieutenant.

He looks terrible. Shadow Company chewed him up, but he'd clawed his way back from the belly himself. He's covered in blood--some his, some not. Grey hair is haphazardly tied back, streaked with red. Grey eyes fix to Garrison, untrusting and hazy.

The pistol doesn't lower. Crow needs proof Garrison is who he says he is. He needs ID. Code word. Anything.

Or he puts a bullet in the man's head. Shadow Company's played games like these before, and Crow does not take chances. Not like this. Not when he's far, far too weak to fight. Almost too weak to hold a gun.

"Prove it," he rasps out.

The motel is rundown. Barely functioning, definitely not clean. But if there's one thing a place like this is good for, it's discretion; if Garrison hadn't had people watching it, the man checking in covered in blood would have gone unnoticed. Unreported. The desk staff have seen worse, cleaned up worse.

Room 212. Up the stairs. There's fresh, bloody handprints on the door's knob and a smear of it on the frame. Whoever it is hadn't been standing upright.

The door is locked, but motels like this--a jiggle of the handle and it'd come undone.

-@lt-crow

(Garrison knows his Lieutenant is here.

Reports came in- they weren’t sure if it was the man he was after. But the height of the blood, the splatter, and the sheer determination it took to get to the second floor. This was Crow’s work. His last amount of energy before someone came looking.

Garrison knocks on the door to make his presence known.)

Lieutenant! Sergeant Garrison out ‘ere, we’re here t’get y’back t’our side a’things. Gunna come right n’there, a’right? Y’hold still.

(And garrison.. Garrison is a cautious man. Especially in high risk situations regarding his safety. He keeps a trained hand on his holster as he jiggles the lock loose, holds his breath a moment before turning and pressing the handle in. The door gives, and Garrison steps inside.)

[lt-crow]

Ah. Crow's eyes twitch a bit. Doesn't know sign? Is the muteness... temporary, then?

Well. There goes chatting comfortably with someone like him, then. With a small, disappointed sigh, he pulls out his phone.

[It's a start, at least,] the text-to-speech voice says. The flat stare Crow is giving... suggests otherwise. [I'll repeat what I signed. Nice to meet you. I'm Lieutenant Crow. No, that isn't my real name, and no, I will not tell you.]

It's his same, packaged spiel he gives every newcomer. It gets all the most frequently asked questions out of the way.

[Is your condition temporary or permanent?] He asks, pointing to the notebook. Not tactful, but--oh, well.

( Jason makes his presence known to Crow the only way he can—Exaggerated stomps of his feet as he enters the vicinity. He lifts up his notepad, tapping the center of the page with his pen, giving the a Lieutenant a nod. )

"Alright? My CO (Banks) has me doing the rounds and introducing myself since I'm new. I'm Sgt. Jason Halo, but just Jase or my callsign 'Click' is fine. Nice to meet you."

- @sgt-halo

The exaggerated stomps weren't necessary in the slightest; Crow had heard the door, the soft jangle of keys, the swish of fabric. But that's unsettling, being able to notice things like that. So Crow pretends, as usual, that he'd only noticed when the man decided to make himself known.

He looks over, grateful for a break from watching recruits run the obstacle course. Or... try to, anyways.

When he's shown a notepad, though, he blinks.

[You sign?] He signs, head tilted. [Nice to meet you. I'm Lieutenant Crow. No, that's not my real name, and no, I won't be telling you.]

[lt-crow]

( Jason makes his presence known to Crow the only way he can—Exaggerated stomps of his feet as he enters the vicinity. He lifts up his notepad, tapping the center of the page with his pen, giving the a Lieutenant a nod. )

"Alright? My CO (Banks) has me doing the rounds and introducing myself since I'm new. I'm Sgt. Jason Halo, but just Jase or my callsign 'Click' is fine. Nice to meet you."

- @sgt-halo

The exaggerated stomps weren't necessary in the slightest; Crow had heard the door, the soft jangle of keys, the swish of fabric. But that's unsettling, being able to notice things like that. So Crow pretends, as usual, that he'd only noticed when the man decided to make himself known.

He looks over, grateful for a break from watching recruits run the obstacle course. Or... try to, anyways.

When he's shown a notepad, though, he blinks.

[You sign?] He signs, head tilted. [Nice to meet you. I'm Lieutenant Crow. No, that's not my real name, and no, I won't be telling you.]

[lt-crow]

[I don't think you do, no,] Crow types out with a shrug. He's getting tired. So very, very tired. The adrenaline's long since bled out of him, leaving every muscle aching. Every bone feels broken. Every breath feels laboured.

And yet... he stands. His legs wobble a bit, but he and the man both know: he's not a threat. Not right now. Not for a while.

He strides over, an almost haughty expression on his pallid face.

"You may not--worship him," Crow rasps as he presses the phone into Saw's hand, "but you still bend--bend to his whims."

(He chews on the man’s words a moment before he grins under the mask. He can’t help but chuckle just a bit.)

You think I worship that asshole?

(Tilts his head the other way. It’s equally fascinating to see what people saw their company as. A mindless cult? A bought group of votes and power? He’s very interested in what Crow had to think. If he could be convinced.)

Lies from his ass and mouth daily. Some people see him as a god, You know that? A messiah for the new America. Really gets his dick hard. But I think you and I both know he’s just another man. Bleeds and cries as a man.

What he affords you is freedom. Be as depraved or human as you want, doesn’t make a difference as long as you get results. Doesn’t matter how you get there. You kill bastards who deserve it. Not keep them tucked in some corner they can crawl from. And looking at you, you’d rather have them dead on arrival. Your side would scold you for that. For doing the right thing and cutting the bullshit.

[lt-crow]

Ah. The mercenary's argument: no restriction. No limits. Just getting the job done.

Crow would be lying if he said he hasn't thought about that. About taking the gloves off and fighting the same way he did for the entertainment of his captors. Of feeling bones crunch and lives end with no thought to what comes after.

[You know as well as I do that what comes out of captivity is less than human,] Crow types out, watching Saw with a sharp, piercing gaze. He's been told his stare is unpleasant, like he can cut his subjects open to see all their secrets with one look. The almost preternatural intuition he has doesn't help that feeling. [That doesn't mean we should strive to be less than human.]

The phone buzzes in his hand, a text that Crow looks at, raises his brow at, then promptly slides away.

[I may not agree with the 141 on everything. I may not like the red tape. I may think we're too soft on people who would kill without hesitation. But at least I don't worship the ground a man like Graves walks on.]

(The sound that comes out of Crow is something ugly- dry, raspy, something the man’s body clearly shouldn’t have produced. With that rasp, it was a fitting callsign. And Saw, if only slightly, shifts his stance. If out of discomfort, emotional or otherwise, is his business.

What makes most sense, however, was Crow questioning the whole ordeal. It meant there was a sliver of a chance to reach him in some way. It wasn’t Crow’s first time in this scenario. He had plenty of curiosity as to what the place was and who ran it. But.. Rome wasn’t built in a day. So Saw tilts his head until it clicks, releasing some pressure as he sighs softly.)

You’re sharp. Guy like you can do good business here. Do better for the world without limitation. You’ve got a.. brutality, to you. Something in you you want to let out. 141 won’t let you trust that dark shit inside you. They call it discipline, we call it a missed opportunity. And you know you can be more.

(He sounds more and more like Graves. Christ, he wasn’t sure he believed half the shit he was told. But this- this was what he was given being here. It’s worth mentioning, he muses.)

[lt-crow]

Crow... he can't help it: he laughs. It's a weak, raspy thing, fragile and scratchy. By all accounts, this is nothing to laugh at. He's stuck in a cell in enemy territory. He's staring down torture like the barrel of a gun. He's probably going to die here, slowly, painfully, and quietly. The only people who will remember him are the 141. And even they will forget, in time; it's the nature of service. Men die. Men forget.

But he throws his head back and laughs at the absurdity. The absolute fucking absurdity of being recruited like this.

[Doesn't matter how many men you sign,] he finally types out. There's something in his eyes, something akin to excitement. A blood thirst he keeps carefully under wraps, peeking through the curtains. [I'll make sure they die.]

He sits back in his chair, watching the man. Is he tired? Absolutely. Crow's been tired since his throat was cut. Since he was betrayed and left for dead. Since he died. But dead men don't get to be tired. Dead men don't deserve better. They're dead.

He's dead. But he can't exactly tell the man that; despite the idiom, dead men do tell tales. And showing his hand, letting it slip that he's buried six feet under on paper, says there's something to dig up.

So he waves dismissively and gets to typing. [Don't see why you're trying to flip me,] he types out, giving the man a raised brow.

You don’t know me.

(He states neutrally. It’s an unfortunate fact of their situation- as much as he didn’t know Crow, Crow had no care or understanding of who he is. It was better that way for both sides. He doesn’t take it personally.)

We’ve got roles. Expendable, for sure. They can pick up assholes like me in a heart beat. You shot enough of them out there. There’ll be twice as many contracted, three times as many shooting at you. Just how it goes.

(He adjusts his grip.)

You still want to defend your people facing those sorts of odds? You’d have better chances being with us. Plenty of you 141 squeal and turn. Your roles clearly mean nothing. Third time you’re in a chair in an empty room with a gun to your head. You don’t get exhausted? You don’t think you deserve something better than this?

(He almost wants to sneer. How little they cared for their people. How little they cared for talent like this. It’s wasted. Shadow Company would do them more- better- justice. But he knows the man is sharp. It’s going to take more than a gun to convince a dead man to walk.)

[lt-crow]

Crow never drifted off, per se, but he wasn't fully conscious. Not like he should have been, really--he should have been on watch. Alert. Focused. Armed. But he'd let himself get sloppy, allowed himself the comforts of a man instead of accepting his fate as a corpse. And now, with the door to their hotel room opening and an intruder making their way in, Crow is kicking himself for that.

Sloppy. He'd gotten sloppy.

By the way Phoenix tenses, he's become aware of their guest, as well, reaching on instinct towards a bare thigh. Unarmed--and if the way Phoenix's breath catches is any indication, he'd forgotten that.

Fortunately for both of them, Crow is armed. Unfortunately for both of them, it's just his knives, strapped to his thigh under the joggers. His pistol still lays on the table across the room, unloaded and useless.

They have until the intruder notices the weapon to feign being average guests. Once they spot that, it's over--they'll be made.

Slow, incredibly slow, Crow laces his hand with Phoenix's, dragging it under the hem of his joggers, down past his boxer briefs, to the hilt of a combat knife. Shame and decency can wait until after the threat is gone--hopefully Phoenix can forgive him for being so forward.

His other hand slides to his other thigh, closing hold on the hilt of one of the throwing knives fixed there, right as the intruder's eyes fall on the weapons still on the table.

Instinct takes over. Crow moves quickly, decisively, throwing the knife as soon as the man turns, the blade burying into his shoulder and throwing his shot wide. The bullet slams home into the wall behind the bed, drywall spilling onto the sheets.

He takes the opportunity to roll out of the bed, lunging for the attacker and tackling him to the ground. Another shot, another bullet gone wide, as they wrestle for the pistol. Crow's just about wrangled it from his grasp when a shadow passes over their open doorway.

The arm resting against his back makes it easier for Phoenix to drift off, feeling safe in a way that he hasn’t in a while. It’s warm and soft and comfortable. When was the last time Phoenix was truly comfortable with someone else around?

“M’kay,” Phoenix mumbles. His voice has become thick with sleep, his nightmare momentarily pushed away from his mind.

It doesn’t take much longer for Phoenix to fall asleep again. Exhaustion is a funny thing, after all. He doesn’t dream this time, his brain blessing him with something so uneventful that he doesn’t remember it when he starts to stir.

At first, he doesn’t realize why he was woken up. His body is on alert, his brain telling him that something’s wrong, but he doesn’t know what. Then he hears it.

The door to their room is opening, the lock having been picked. That’s what woke Phoenix up. Quiet, but he’s done it enough himself to know what to listen for.

Phoenix doesn’t move too much, freezing in a way that’s probably unnatural. He doesn’t care, though, because his hand is inching down to his thigh to grab the knife—

—that he hadn’t strapped back on after his shower. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Was Crow awake? What does Phoenix do?

Wait. He should wait, and then get the person while their back is turned. But what if they try to take out Crow and Phoenix before that?

No, they wouldn’t. Everything is hidden in their suitcases. The person won’t kill them if they aren’t 100% sure Crow and Phoenix are the thieves. He has time to wait.

Maybe he was freaking out just a bit. He blames it on the exhaustion and the lack of pants he has on.

[lt-crow]

Crow barely manages to catch the phone--he's slowing, his body slowly coming down from the adrenaline of the kill. Soon, he'll barely have the strength to keep his head up.

The phone is barebones. Kept intentionally empty in case it's lost or stolen. Much like Crow's phone, actually; he's sure the Shadows were a bit less than thrilled to discover a phone devoid of anything but his text-to-speech app and sudoku.

[Don't care about being paid. It's not about loyalty. It's my role,] Crow types out, almost sighing in relief when he can actually fucking communicate again. Even if the text-to-speech has an awful American accent.

It's a delicate game, being interrogated. Give just enough to be kept alive, while still obfuscating anything important. While he may be privvy to things others aren't, the Shadows don't know that. They can't, not without knowing who he is.

As long as that's buried, nothing he says here will matter.

[You seem to think I believe myself virtuous. Some hero,] the text-to-speech says as Crow watches Saw. The disdain he holds for the 141 doesn't seem to be on principle, it seems... a bit deeper than that. It's curious, really. [I don't. I'm not a hero. I'm just expendable and I know it. Do you?]

You’re not getting paid for your loyalty when you die. Makes no sense.

(He all but mutters, a bit confounded with the concept of it all. You’re a mile under dirt and still think you can manage protecting the very people that left you for dead. It made no sense. And clearly, Saw doesn’t pick up on the irony.

He watches the handwriting motion, and in response he shakes his head.)

Got nothing to write on or with.

(A lie.)

Here.

(He keeps one hand trained on Crow as he digs into his kit. He pulls out his phone- an old and beat up looking thing that looks like it’s seen more wars than most- and he taps in a code. Tosses it to Crow, then puts his hand back with the other on the pistol.)

TTS. Should help.

[lt-crow]

"It's--my job," Crow says simply.

He's hit his limit, though; his throat is on fire, torn to ribbons and aching in a way he hasn't felt since--well, since it first started healing. When stitches still held it shut, when bandages nearly choked him.

His hand rubs at his throat. It isn't comforting, it doesn't help. All it does is give him another sensation to focus on, anything besides the ragged ache in the muscles and flesh that never healed right.

Crow looks to the man, brows furrowing for a second. [Do you have anything I can write with?] He signs before miming writing and pointing to Saw.

A pen would be fantastic. Being handed one, letting guards drop just a hair, would be the perfect opportunity to bury it in the man's neck. But he doubts it would be that easy. It never is. Besides, even if he kills this man now--he doesn't know what waits for him on the other side of the door. Crow needs more intel before he can make his move.

(Saw lets the words sit in his mind a moment as he mulls it over. Once, twice.. the man made sense. He did. It was a strategic means to an end, to sacrifice one over the many. He wasn’t a selfish man. He wasn’t a self preserving type. And yet, he fights. Saw’s gone and made himself interested.)

Yeah.. that’s right. No one’s coming.

(He states bluntly, yet there’s no change in his stance. No relaxing, no hesitation. Even bleeding and weak, the captive was still cunning.)

I’d have cut my loses, if I were you. Saved enough people, wasted enough resources. It’s smart. Playing us like a fiddle. Those same people are going to die, though. Let their Lieutenant bleed out and get kicked around. Let their enemy regroup and retreat to create bigger and better plans. What respectful unit lets that happen? You’re willing to die for that, still?

[lt-crow]

Crow's not normally one for pride. It hasn't gotten him anything, and has only dragged him into shitshows of the highest calibre. Historically, pride comes before the fall--and yet here he is, dancing at the edge with no concern.

It's foolish. It's outright stupid. Especially with how his pride has his stomach lurching unpleasantly and the start of a headache lurking behind his eyes. And it's everything Crow's missed: being stupid just for the sake of it.

Part of him--the last bit of sense he's got, it seems--is aware Graves has a motive here. That Graves wouldn't simply bring him to a bar to drink, to relax, to just be. It's not his style. He has ulterior motives for everything. What it is tonight, Crow isn't certain; and as the bourbon starts sliding through his veins, he finds he doesn't really care.

There's even an ulterior motive for using his name, for Carter falling from his lips so purposefully--and if it's to make Crow seize up again, Graves gets that in spades. His breath hitches, his shoulders tense, his hand on the glass grips so tight he swears he hears the glass groan.

He's supposed to be Carter here. Phil and Carter. Just two guys in a dive bar, not two highly trained and extremely lethal soldiers. The stare he's getting from the man a few seats down, at least, shows that it's partially working; the man doesn't seem to view them as a threat. More of an inconvenience. A nuisance. Outsiders encroaching on his territory. A Brit sitting atop a king's ransom of tea in the harbor, waiting to be thrown overboard.

Crow rubs his eyes. He's overthinking things. [Don't have to leave yet,] he taps out on his phone. [Doubt one drink is enough to get you even close to buzzed.]

(It's plenty to get Crow wasted, but he doesn't say that.)

It's certainly a sight to see, and Graves indulges in watching Crow's actions unfold just like everyone else in the bar. He's got a front row seat to the show of... pride? Arrogance? Unlike their fellow patrons, however, the look on Graves' face is one of confusion and mild concern. Thankfully, it's won over the grin that threatens to tug his lips upward.

It's almost as if Crow is actively trying to push his plan along. And Graves, honestly, is a bit surprised by how easy all of this has been. Though he can't help but lament the fact that he's not even going to be even a drink even before the tension in the air unfolds.

His hand finds Crow's back after he coughs, patting a few times before it rests there. The spot on Crow's riding jacket had retained his warmth, he would swear.

"You, uh, were s'posed t'sip that. Wasn't a shot. Guess I shoulda warned ya." A pause to take his own first sip, eyes now flicking to whoever the man was that Crow was making eye contact with.

"Hate t'tell ya this, Carter, but you're gonna be feelin' real fucked up here in a second." Purposefully placed name, based on Crow's reaction earlier will only fuel the fire now.

"Gimme a sec t'finish this 'n we'll get goin' aint?"