While the idea of more drinks sounds appealing, the company is far too good thus far to bother with trying to stumble to his feet. If he's stumbling anywhere after this, he hopes it's to one of theirs for a good shag. Legs bumping under the table, he doesn't try to move his away, and he grins as Grady slowly works it out.
A huff of amused laughter. "Go on, I don't mind. Make sure it's just a normal ciggy," he tells him with a grin. Despite the awful state of things here, he's not sure he's had a night where he's enjoyed himself this much in a while. Running about with Gary and the Legends just isn't the same as all this.
"Only probably? No, don't worry, chief. Not going to send you up in a puff of smoke. I'm betting you use your face for some of your favorite things, anyway."
Clearing a few of the empty bottles away, and the shot glasses that might still have any liquid left, he holds his hand out, palm up and closes it to a fist. His eyes don't close fully but roll to the back of his head as he mutters a quick infernus accersi.
Once said, a small amount of fire engulfs his fist and he opens his palm to cradle the flame, eyes full of mirth.
Grady's natural scepticism doesn't last long against the combined forces of the booze in his system and the warm leg pressing up against his own, not to mention the eyes meeting his across the table. By the time John holds his hand out, he finds himself leaning forward a little to watch, as curious as any kid trying to see into the silk lining of a top hat.
The fire, when it suddenly appears, makes him jump, and he catches himself on the edge of the table hard enough to make the remaining bottles ring against each other. "Fuck!"
But he's quick to come back again, genuinely impressed. None of Wes' boyfriends have been able to demonstrate something like this. It's close enough to being something that Grady can understand, just a magic trick with the fakery removed, that he can allow himself to be impressed by it. Just a little.
"Hey, look at that, you're like a.. a walking Zippo." He plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and holds it up. "May I?"
Skeptics can be refreshing. Corrigan was for a time until he saw what was out there in the world. Most of the people he deals with are skeptics to start. After, many of them tend to brush it off as some kind of imaginary thing. That kind of knowledge isn't for the weak of heart.
His shoulders shake a little with a laugh at the reaction. Keeping his hand steady and not reaching out for the other man, that'd end their night quick. He wiggles his fingers to make the fire dance a bit but his attention is only on Grady's face as he takes it all in. There's something about it, seeing it for the first time. It's as intoxicating as being an amateur all over again. Times like these he almost gets why Zatanna does what she does.
"Among my many other talents," he offers with a nod. "Help yourself, chief. I said I'd spark it for you."
Rather that light it like that, Grady sticks the cigarette back between his teeth and leans forward, letting the light of the gently dancing flame dazzle his eyes, so when he sits back the after-image skating over his vision makes him feel a little dizzy. He takes a drag and breathes out a grateful sigh of smoke, then only belatedly realises he ought to check and see if they've been clocked for it, peering back over his shoulder. But the management of the bar seems to have more on their mind than kicking out a couple of guys playing with fire in the corner.
He settles back again, one arm crooked along the back of the booth as he eyes John thoughtfully through the blueish haze and taps ash into an empty shot glass.
"So what, that's.. like, that's it?" He waves his free hand. "You just roll your eyes and poof," he flares his fingers, "you're Smokey the Bear's worst enemy?"
Keeping still so that he can light it easy enough. Once he's got his smoke sorted, he brings the flame back to flare his own to life. It's a simpler fare to extinguish the flame. A quick close of his fist, another muttered word, and the flames depart. John follows his line of sight, entirely bemused at the idea that nobody seemed to pay any attention at all to it.
He takes a drag of his own cigarette, exhaling with a sigh and a grin.
"It's a little more complicated than all that," he assures. "It's usually a bit more climatic than that, even. I can throw fireballs just not here." Which is frustrating to say the least.
Confusion comes over his features as his brow furrows. "Smokey the Bear?"
Though he's willing to be given a show, Grady doesn't offer Constantine's explanation more than a thoughtful grunt. He's distracted for the moment by the idea of getting something else to drink, and starts picking up beer bottles to see how much is left in them.
"He's kind of like.. you know, don't start forest fires," he elaborates as he searches. "Don't go lighting matches in the woods you stupid kids, that kind of thing. There are ads and posters and stuff. So he'd really fuckin' hate you and all that flashy.. with the flames."
Having come up short on a drink, he lifts his eyes back to John and blinks fuzzily, one hand tented on the tabletop and the other holding the cigarette he's pretty much forgotten about. It takes him a moment to refocus.
Skeptic, through and through. John likes a challenge. Or maybe he likes the opportunity to be a right tosser and prove the other man wrong. Could be a little of both, really. The clinking of the bottles draws his attention as he smokes. He's interested by this story though, never heard that one.
"Sounds like he's trying to do a good thing. Save the bloody world and all," he laughs a little, more of a huff of amusement really. "Oh, that furry bastard would be the least of my worries with all the things that hate my guts."
He squints at the bottles being given up on rifled through and nods at the question. They should honestly probably quit, the two of them, yet here they are.
"I could do with another," he admits. There's a spark here that's got nothing to do with alcohol, his magic, or the way the smoke settles in his lungs before he breathes it out. "But, ah, what if we were to take it back to my place?"
It's a chance, sure. When hasn't John Constantine been one to do stupid in spades? This is right up his alley.
The air between them is a little hazy with smoke -- or maybe it's just the booze -- but even so the look Grady sends across the table at John is a lot sharper than it was a second ago. It's not the first invitation of this kind he's had, not by a long way, and it wouldn't be the first time he's drowned his sorrows in something much more potent than alcohol.
But Deerington isn't some dive bar in the rural Midwest, there's no driving away from this, no way to turn his back on whatever happens. And there's the red string that still runs down from his hand, connected to Wes as close as a second skin. If he concentrates hard enough he can feel the pulse and wheel of his partner's mind; he wonders for a moment if Wes can pick up on any of this. If he should feel bad about it.
"All right. Yeah, sure." The words are out of his mouth almost before he can figure out he's said them. It's a little surprising to find out how much he wants this, suddenly, like a white hot line running down from his heart to his balls. He wants to feel if John's palms are still warm from that flame and whether he can taste the smoke on his breath.
Grady pushes himself up from his seat and almost stumbles out of the booth, still getting used to being upright. He sticks his cigarette between his teeth and looks over at John expectantly.
The air. The booze. Just the general state of the bar. It doesn't seem to matter much when their eyes meet and he feels a stab of warmth that's got nothing to do with the alcohol in his gut. Another drag off his cigarette and he taps out ash on the exhale.
John's no stranger to this form of distraction. He dabbles in it quite frequently. He doesn't plan on stopping cause he's in some crazy town like this. Might as well enjoy it, eh? He doesn't have anyone here. No real connections to speak of at least.
Lucifer, well, he doesn't want to think about that bastard and his pet demon. Not right now. It'd ruin the mood. He follows suit, standing when the other man does and shuffles out of the booth to his feet. Cigarette put between his teeth, he fishes out money enough to pay for the tab and jerks his chin toward the door.
"Midnight oil's already burning, chief. We should get a move on."
Even if there's a large part of him that doesn't want to wait. Would rather find the nearest secluded spot, wherever it might be, and make due. Push him into the alley and chase the taste of liquour still on his tongue.
There's an almost familiar sense of expectancy and, he'll admit it, excitement as Grady grabs his coat off the back of the booth and leads the way to the door. It's something about making a completely selfish choice, or maybe just memories of other brief and stupid and electric encounters propelling him, making him want to get this part over as quickly as possible.
Once outside, he takes a final drag on his cigarette and drops it onto the sidewalk to grind into ash under his heel, squinting unhappily up at the hazily lit sky as he does so. The lack of nighttime gloom is starting to grate against his nerves, his body still unconvinced it's supposed to be the dead of night despite the relatively quiet streets. He lets the frustration go with a lungful of smoke and turns his attention back onto John.
"Hey," he murmurs, then reaches out to tug on a fold in the front of the other man's shirt, like he's straightening it up. "Which, uh.. which way do we go?"
The thrill of excitement is as palpable as the lingering feel of magic after a spell. Heady and slightly electric. This is stupid. He's in this barmy town and he should be looking for a way out not getting cozy with the locals.
And yet.
He regrets his turn of phrase as they end up out on the sidewalk with a muttered bloody stupid place. He's got just enough of a buzz from the alcohol and the promise of more stupid decisions to come that his sourness passes quick enough. Especially with his eyes adjusting to his surroundings and present company.
"Mmm?" he hums around the cigarette he's finishing up. His eyes narrow in amusement at the tug that draws him a step or two into Grady's space. He turns his head enough to blow the smoke to the side, mouth curved in a smirk, and flicks his cigarette away. "If you're in a hurry---"
Hand at Grady's elbow, gentle tug at the fabric to keep him where he is for a moment. He nods his head in a general sort of way.
It's not often that Grady lets himself get caught like that. Years of experience has taught him that keeping his hands and arms free is key to survival, not to mention making himself understood, and he's built up a set of instinctive reactions to being grabbed at that might come across as nervousness except for the fact that he's usually got a gun in at least one fist.
But now, he's mostly drunk and increasingly sure he's gonna get laid, so he's willing to let go of a few foibles and let himself be manhandled. So to speak.
His gaze lingers on John's mouth in a way that's not at all subtle. He smooths that fold in the other man's shirt down with his thumb, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric. Up close, the guy smells like leather and herbs and smoke. It's nice. Grady finds he wants to rest his forehead against the hollow of his throat and just breathe it in.
"You.." he manages after a moment, "you.. are we in a hurry? We probably oughta go, then."
It's gentle. Easily shrugged off. Now he's thrown himself into many a fool's errand sort of fling since Desmond. None probably so reckless as this in some barmy, dream dimension town where things go tits up at the drop of a hat.
Easy to tell that Grady can handle himself. Even drunk as he is, John can tell. Just like he doesn't have to feel the cold of a room to know something else might be there with him. He doesn't want to push too hard too fast but there's a buzzing in his brain that's begging for it.
Subtlety is for little girls with notes passed in class and playing coy. Not a couple of devious bastards like they are. Granted, John could be wrong in that assumption, but the warmth in his gut that's got nothing to do with alcohol tells him otherwise. This man isn't puppy dogs and rainbows any more than he is.
He wants to lean in and kiss him right then but a group of people comes round another corner and John uses his hand on Grady's elbow to guide them closer to the building, affording them a little reprieve from the glaring sunlight.
"Yeah---" A raspy chuckle escapes him. "We probably ought to."
Now standing up and out in the sunlight and fresh air, it's getting increasingly difficult for Grady to deny that he's just spent the last few hours working his way through as much alcohol as he can cope with in one sitting. He can already feel the edges of a hangover playing around the back of his skull. Competing with the urge to sit back down again is the urge to push John up against a wall and investigate the open collar of his shirt, but he ends up doing neither when they're interrupted.
Grady lets himself be guided sideways, then decides that he's tired of both the goddamn daylight and standing in the street and wants to get on with making bad decisions while he's still conscious. He tugs his arm out of John's grip and takes a few slightly wandering steps in the direction that his companion had previously indicated, then glances back over his shoulder.
Hurry up, he signs, automatically, then remembers belatedly who he's talking to. He starts patting down his pockets instead, hunting his own cigarettes. "Let's go, man, come on."
John would say he isn't near his limit but he's a functional alcoholic at the best of times. Least he owns it. It might be murder in the morning or whatever this bloody place wants to call it now, but at least there's some good times to be had before cold reality sets back in.
Bastards is muttered under his breath at the group that interrupted as he's left clutching empty air when the other man starts off down the sidewalk. It takes him a moment for his head to catch up. Slow on the draw. He notes the sign and doesn't know what it means. If anything he's more familiar with any BSL and that's dodgy at best. An old fling.
His feet catch up with the rest of him and he's moving, swaying into step next to the other man as he goes. He points up towards where they are headed.
"Starling, like the bird? Nice name. What's the point of naming streets that don't exist, huh? If this is a dream. Like, who ordered that piece of fucking bureaucracy, the deer?"
The commentary is given as Grady searches for his smokes, then apparently gives up the job as too complicated for his brain to handle right now. He does find a toothpick in his pocket and sticks it between his teeth instead, mostly to give his restlessness something to bite down on.
It's more than a little strange to be walking through the town during a day that feels like night (or is it night that feels like daytime?). In his life before Deerington, he never had much cause to wander around a place unless he was casing the joint or following a mark. He and Wes didn't have much in the way of downtime, and what they did have was usually taken up with getting supplies and patching themselves up for the next job. Having time to do whatever he wants is something Grady is still getting used to.
"Just like that, old son. Dunno. Figure whoever in charge wants us to feel as at ease as they can. Bit of something normal-like here. Almost homey if you don't look too hard at it," he muses aloud in answer. He offers a rough chuckle in response to Grady's thoughts on it, eyes crinkling in amusement.
He motions when they wander up to the junction and starts heading up towards the house. It's nothing in looks like his old place back in England but it's still got that odd feel to it. Like there's something left behind. He'd almost appreciate it if it didn't leave a bloody sour taste in his mouth.
"Nevermind the bloody street names." John mutters accusatorily as he jabs a finger skyward. "I want to know what's going on with whatever stupid git decided it should be always sunny. Cause whoever they are? They're a tosser."
Hello God, is that you? It's me, John. You're a wanker.
"Hey man, careful with that thing." Grady makes a lazy swipe at John's hand, trying to capture that pointing finger. "That's how you get, you know, smited. The wrath from on high atop the whatever. You have to turn around three times and spit, or something."
His commitment to the argument fades quickly, especially once he realises he's still holding the other man's hand. He looks at it for a second and then lets go, focusing instead on the house as they come up to it.
Bladdered enough that he doesn't try to keep his distance, his hand is easily captured. The jostling is enough to send him a step into the other man's space as they continue to walk and he has to sniff, trying to clear his head as they regain the right direction. He laughs, actually laughs, this time. It's not a sound one ties to him unless it's laced with sarcasm.
"Smited, eh? I dare 'im. He'd have nobody worth their salt left to clear up his mess," spat out derisively. How's that?
Distracted, though, by the lingering hand on his own. He follows it as it relinquishes his own, clearing his throat as he shoves it in his coat pocket.
"Yeah, sure. That'd be almost normal in my book."
He heads up the stairs and opens the door, not having bothered with locking it up. He's got enough protections that it shouldn't be a problem. And it isn't as if he's overly concerned by keeping out thieves and the like. Especially if he can manage Jasper's old zero gravity trap here. That could be fun.
If it's not already been brought home by his ongoing skepticism, Grady's lack of any magical ability is made even more obvious by a complete absence of reaction to John's protective wards. As he follows John up the steps and into the front hall, he looks around the place with polite, if slightly woozy, interest. It's definitely a big, old, and pretty empty house.
He scratches his beard thoughtfully and wanders a little further in, peering around like a guy trying to get rid of the habit of keeping an eye one very possible exit.
His wards have been dodgy as of late. Works on some, not on others. He hasn't been able to work out exactly why, so he just takes it as he goes. John watches him look around, but doesn't comment on it. Figures he's just curious. Even if it is cautious, not that he can blame him with how this place makes him feel at the best of times so far.
He shrugs his coat off and tosses it over the back of the sofa.
Grady lets that thought and the heat still idling in the pit of his belly urge him forward, crowding into John's personal space, meaning to back him up against it. One hand returns to the front of the other man's shirt as the other slides into his hair, pulling his head down to kiss him, meaning to pay back every bit of patience he's had to hold on to since they left the bar.
The mention of getting a drink at his place quickly flees his mind when the other man says that.
Distance closed between them, John lets him crowd him back against the sofa. He can feel the warmth of his hand through his shirt as he goes with the tug to pull him into a kiss. The rasp of his beard, the scent of cigarette smoke heavy and the taste of liquor still there. It's easy to get lost in. Easy to return the kiss with a heady sense of urgency.
Reaching out, he blindly hooks fingers in his belt look to tug a little then John reaches up push at the coat on Grady's shoulders.
"Fuck." Grady breathes out the curse against John's mouth. He hasn't exactly been steady since they left the bar, but he feels nothing but clumsy now, all the layers of cloth between him and John suddenly impossible to get off just as their absence becomes vital.
He shrugs out of his coat, letting it fall onto the floor with a thud -- probably not the best idea with a loaded gun in the pocket but he's not exactly thinking with a clear head right now -- and starts to unbutton his shirt, then gives it up once he remembers he has more interesting things to do, like trying to get John's belt undone and leaning back into the heat of that kiss.
John grins against the other man's mouth at the curse but a laugh doesn't quite escape him so much as a huff of breath. Neither of them are steady as they might normally be. John feels downright silly here and now, fumbling like a teenager near about.
The coat hits harder than he expects but he's quickly distracted by Grady's proximity. By the skin exposed with each button and the fumbling at his belt. Good idea, that. Maybe in a better spot than the back of the bloody sofa so they don't go tumbling over like a pair of idiots. He thinks it but the words don't come. Too distracted by the rest, kiss more sloppy than what might be if he had a head for finesse at the moment.
He doesn't and he's glad for that. Nothing but spur of the moment bad decisions that he may or may not have to pay for come morning. Doesn't stop him from impatiently tugging the other man's belt loose as one hand reaches up, clasping around the back of his neck to keep him close as they kiss.
Breaking away is done with no small amount of reluctance, panting a breath in a second, forehead to forehead with him. His voice is a little rough.
"Should maybe consider taking this upstairs, yeah?"
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A huff of amused laughter. "Go on, I don't mind. Make sure it's just a normal ciggy," he tells him with a grin. Despite the awful state of things here, he's not sure he's had a night where he's enjoyed himself this much in a while. Running about with Gary and the Legends just isn't the same as all this.
"Only probably? No, don't worry, chief. Not going to send you up in a puff of smoke. I'm betting you use your face for some of your favorite things, anyway."
Clearing a few of the empty bottles away, and the shot glasses that might still have any liquid left, he holds his hand out, palm up and closes it to a fist. His eyes don't close fully but roll to the back of his head as he mutters a quick infernus accersi.
Once said, a small amount of fire engulfs his fist and he opens his palm to cradle the flame, eyes full of mirth.
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The fire, when it suddenly appears, makes him jump, and he catches himself on the edge of the table hard enough to make the remaining bottles ring against each other. "Fuck!"
But he's quick to come back again, genuinely impressed. None of Wes' boyfriends have been able to demonstrate something like this. It's close enough to being something that Grady can understand, just a magic trick with the fakery removed, that he can allow himself to be impressed by it. Just a little.
"Hey, look at that, you're like a.. a walking Zippo." He plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and holds it up. "May I?"
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His shoulders shake a little with a laugh at the reaction. Keeping his hand steady and not reaching out for the other man, that'd end their night quick. He wiggles his fingers to make the fire dance a bit but his attention is only on Grady's face as he takes it all in. There's something about it, seeing it for the first time. It's as intoxicating as being an amateur all over again. Times like these he almost gets why Zatanna does what she does.
"Among my many other talents," he offers with a nod. "Help yourself, chief. I said I'd spark it for you."
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He settles back again, one arm crooked along the back of the booth as he eyes John thoughtfully through the blueish haze and taps ash into an empty shot glass.
"So what, that's.. like, that's it?" He waves his free hand. "You just roll your eyes and poof," he flares his fingers, "you're Smokey the Bear's worst enemy?"
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He takes a drag of his own cigarette, exhaling with a sigh and a grin.
"It's a little more complicated than all that," he assures. "It's usually a bit more climatic than that, even. I can throw fireballs just not here." Which is frustrating to say the least.
Confusion comes over his features as his brow furrows. "Smokey the Bear?"
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"He's kind of like.. you know, don't start forest fires," he elaborates as he searches. "Don't go lighting matches in the woods you stupid kids, that kind of thing. There are ads and posters and stuff. So he'd really fuckin' hate you and all that flashy.. with the flames."
Having come up short on a drink, he lifts his eyes back to John and blinks fuzzily, one hand tented on the tabletop and the other holding the cigarette he's pretty much forgotten about. It takes him a moment to refocus.
"Hey, we should.. do you want another drink?"
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"Sounds like he's trying to do a good thing. Save the bloody world and all," he laughs a little, more of a huff of amusement really. "Oh, that furry bastard would be the least of my worries with all the things that hate my guts."
He squints at the bottles being given up on rifled through and nods at the question. They should honestly probably quit, the two of them, yet here they are.
"I could do with another," he admits. There's a spark here that's got nothing to do with alcohol, his magic, or the way the smoke settles in his lungs before he breathes it out. "But, ah, what if we were to take it back to my place?"
It's a chance, sure. When hasn't John Constantine been one to do stupid in spades? This is right up his alley.
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But Deerington isn't some dive bar in the rural Midwest, there's no driving away from this, no way to turn his back on whatever happens. And there's the red string that still runs down from his hand, connected to Wes as close as a second skin. If he concentrates hard enough he can feel the pulse and wheel of his partner's mind; he wonders for a moment if Wes can pick up on any of this. If he should feel bad about it.
"All right. Yeah, sure." The words are out of his mouth almost before he can figure out he's said them. It's a little surprising to find out how much he wants this, suddenly, like a white hot line running down from his heart to his balls. He wants to feel if John's palms are still warm from that flame and whether he can taste the smoke on his breath.
Grady pushes himself up from his seat and almost stumbles out of the booth, still getting used to being upright. He sticks his cigarette between his teeth and looks over at John expectantly.
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John's no stranger to this form of distraction. He dabbles in it quite frequently. He doesn't plan on stopping cause he's in some crazy town like this. Might as well enjoy it, eh? He doesn't have anyone here. No real connections to speak of at least.
Lucifer, well, he doesn't want to think about that bastard and his pet demon. Not right now. It'd ruin the mood. He follows suit, standing when the other man does and shuffles out of the booth to his feet. Cigarette put between his teeth, he fishes out money enough to pay for the tab and jerks his chin toward the door.
"Midnight oil's already burning, chief. We should get a move on."
Even if there's a large part of him that doesn't want to wait. Would rather find the nearest secluded spot, wherever it might be, and make due. Push him into the alley and chase the taste of liquour still on his tongue.
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Once outside, he takes a final drag on his cigarette and drops it onto the sidewalk to grind into ash under his heel, squinting unhappily up at the hazily lit sky as he does so. The lack of nighttime gloom is starting to grate against his nerves, his body still unconvinced it's supposed to be the dead of night despite the relatively quiet streets. He lets the frustration go with a lungful of smoke and turns his attention back onto John.
"Hey," he murmurs, then reaches out to tug on a fold in the front of the other man's shirt, like he's straightening it up. "Which, uh.. which way do we go?"
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And yet.
He regrets his turn of phrase as they end up out on the sidewalk with a muttered bloody stupid place. He's got just enough of a buzz from the alcohol and the promise of more stupid decisions to come that his sourness passes quick enough. Especially with his eyes adjusting to his surroundings and present company.
"Mmm?" he hums around the cigarette he's finishing up. His eyes narrow in amusement at the tug that draws him a step or two into Grady's space. He turns his head enough to blow the smoke to the side, mouth curved in a smirk, and flicks his cigarette away. "If you're in a hurry---"
Hand at Grady's elbow, gentle tug at the fabric to keep him where he is for a moment. He nods his head in a general sort of way.
"That way."
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But now, he's mostly drunk and increasingly sure he's gonna get laid, so he's willing to let go of a few foibles and let himself be manhandled. So to speak.
His gaze lingers on John's mouth in a way that's not at all subtle. He smooths that fold in the other man's shirt down with his thumb, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric. Up close, the guy smells like leather and herbs and smoke. It's nice. Grady finds he wants to rest his forehead against the hollow of his throat and just breathe it in.
"You.." he manages after a moment, "you.. are we in a hurry? We probably oughta go, then."
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Easy to tell that Grady can handle himself. Even drunk as he is, John can tell. Just like he doesn't have to feel the cold of a room to know something else might be there with him. He doesn't want to push too hard too fast but there's a buzzing in his brain that's begging for it.
Subtlety is for little girls with notes passed in class and playing coy. Not a couple of devious bastards like they are. Granted, John could be wrong in that assumption, but the warmth in his gut that's got nothing to do with alcohol tells him otherwise. This man isn't puppy dogs and rainbows any more than he is.
He wants to lean in and kiss him right then but a group of people comes round another corner and John uses his hand on Grady's elbow to guide them closer to the building, affording them a little reprieve from the glaring sunlight.
"Yeah---" A raspy chuckle escapes him. "We probably ought to."
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Grady lets himself be guided sideways, then decides that he's tired of both the goddamn daylight and standing in the street and wants to get on with making bad decisions while he's still conscious. He tugs his arm out of John's grip and takes a few slightly wandering steps in the direction that his companion had previously indicated, then glances back over his shoulder.
Hurry up, he signs, automatically, then remembers belatedly who he's talking to. He starts patting down his pockets instead, hunting his own cigarettes. "Let's go, man, come on."
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Bastards is muttered under his breath at the group that interrupted as he's left clutching empty air when the other man starts off down the sidewalk. It takes him a moment for his head to catch up. Slow on the draw. He notes the sign and doesn't know what it means. If anything he's more familiar with any BSL and that's dodgy at best. An old fling.
His feet catch up with the rest of him and he's moving, swaying into step next to the other man as he goes. He points up towards where they are headed.
"Starling Lane is where we're headed, chief."
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The commentary is given as Grady searches for his smokes, then apparently gives up the job as too complicated for his brain to handle right now. He does find a toothpick in his pocket and sticks it between his teeth instead, mostly to give his restlessness something to bite down on.
It's more than a little strange to be walking through the town during a day that feels like night (or is it night that feels like daytime?). In his life before Deerington, he never had much cause to wander around a place unless he was casing the joint or following a mark. He and Wes didn't have much in the way of downtime, and what they did have was usually taken up with getting supplies and patching themselves up for the next job. Having time to do whatever he wants is something Grady is still getting used to.
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He motions when they wander up to the junction and starts heading up towards the house. It's nothing in looks like his old place back in England but it's still got that odd feel to it. Like there's something left behind. He'd almost appreciate it if it didn't leave a bloody sour taste in his mouth.
"Nevermind the bloody street names." John mutters accusatorily as he jabs a finger skyward. "I want to know what's going on with whatever stupid git decided it should be always sunny. Cause whoever they are? They're a tosser."
Hello God, is that you? It's me, John. You're a wanker.
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His commitment to the argument fades quickly, especially once he realises he's still holding the other man's hand. He looks at it for a second and then lets go, focusing instead on the house as they come up to it.
"Nice place. Who'd you live with, the Munsters?"
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"Smited, eh? I dare 'im. He'd have nobody worth their salt left to clear up his mess," spat out derisively. How's that?
Distracted, though, by the lingering hand on his own. He follows it as it relinquishes his own, clearing his throat as he shoves it in his coat pocket.
"Yeah, sure. That'd be almost normal in my book."
He heads up the stairs and opens the door, not having bothered with locking it up. He's got enough protections that it shouldn't be a problem. And it isn't as if he's overly concerned by keeping out thieves and the like. Especially if he can manage Jasper's old zero gravity trap here. That could be fun.
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He scratches his beard thoughtfully and wanders a little further in, peering around like a guy trying to get rid of the habit of keeping an eye one very possible exit.
"On your own, huh?"
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He shrugs his coat off and tosses it over the back of the sofa.
"Just me, yeah."
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Grady lets that thought and the heat still idling in the pit of his belly urge him forward, crowding into John's personal space, meaning to back him up against it. One hand returns to the front of the other man's shirt as the other slides into his hair, pulling his head down to kiss him, meaning to pay back every bit of patience he's had to hold on to since they left the bar.
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Distance closed between them, John lets him crowd him back against the sofa. He can feel the warmth of his hand through his shirt as he goes with the tug to pull him into a kiss. The rasp of his beard, the scent of cigarette smoke heavy and the taste of liquor still there. It's easy to get lost in. Easy to return the kiss with a heady sense of urgency.
Reaching out, he blindly hooks fingers in his belt look to tug a little then John reaches up push at the coat on Grady's shoulders.
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He shrugs out of his coat, letting it fall onto the floor with a thud -- probably not the best idea with a loaded gun in the pocket but he's not exactly thinking with a clear head right now -- and starts to unbutton his shirt, then gives it up once he remembers he has more interesting things to do, like trying to get John's belt undone and leaning back into the heat of that kiss.
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The coat hits harder than he expects but he's quickly distracted by Grady's proximity. By the skin exposed with each button and the fumbling at his belt. Good idea, that. Maybe in a better spot than the back of the bloody sofa so they don't go tumbling over like a pair of idiots. He thinks it but the words don't come. Too distracted by the rest, kiss more sloppy than what might be if he had a head for finesse at the moment.
He doesn't and he's glad for that. Nothing but spur of the moment bad decisions that he may or may not have to pay for come morning. Doesn't stop him from impatiently tugging the other man's belt loose as one hand reaches up, clasping around the back of his neck to keep him close as they kiss.
Breaking away is done with no small amount of reluctance, panting a breath in a second, forehead to forehead with him. His voice is a little rough.
"Should maybe consider taking this upstairs, yeah?"