There's a certain familiarity to the place he's found himself in. The more Grady looks at it, the more it seems like he should know where he is. Like it's a postcard he's seen in a store, or something from a movie. He squints around at the houses, the little walks and the streets, trying to figure out where it's supposed to be, trying to sort his mind into some kind of order. The last time he checked he was asleep, so maybe this is just a really intense dream, right?
"Just a dream," he murmurs to himself, rubbing his hands together in the frigid air. Figures he would dream about being cold. Even his imagination can't stretch to getting him out of goddamn Minnesota.
Distracted, he doesn't hear the footsteps until the smack of one heavy boot against the sidewalk. He doesn't so much turn as startle in place, undignified but it's not like he's got anyone to impress here anyway. One hand automatically drops to his hip and in the split second that he remembers he hasn't got a gun he also recognises the figure standing before him, those wide shoulders and unruly curls and the goddamn fringe he loves to hate, so the sum total of his body language relaxes for the beat it takes for him to realise he's being held at gunpoint.
Automatically, he makes the universal gesture of 'let's everyone calm down a minute here', palms up and out, fingers spread. Then, with a frustrated growl, he gives that up for something more useful.
Hold on, what the fuck? What the fuck are you doing? What is this? His outflung arms beg the world to answer. He takes a small step forward, frowning as he takes in the sight of his partner. You look like shit.
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"Just a dream," he murmurs to himself, rubbing his hands together in the frigid air. Figures he would dream about being cold. Even his imagination can't stretch to getting him out of goddamn Minnesota.
Distracted, he doesn't hear the footsteps until the smack of one heavy boot against the sidewalk. He doesn't so much turn as startle in place, undignified but it's not like he's got anyone to impress here anyway. One hand automatically drops to his hip and in the split second that he remembers he hasn't got a gun he also recognises the figure standing before him, those wide shoulders and unruly curls and the goddamn fringe he loves to hate, so the sum total of his body language relaxes for the beat it takes for him to realise he's being held at gunpoint.
Automatically, he makes the universal gesture of 'let's everyone calm down a minute here', palms up and out, fingers spread. Then, with a frustrated growl, he gives that up for something more useful.
Hold on, what the fuck? What the fuck are you doing? What is this? His outflung arms beg the world to answer. He takes a small step forward, frowning as he takes in the sight of his partner. You look like shit.