Bars are not a frequent haunt of Rocket's underboss. He was a social drinker, yes, but in the privacy of his home or the homes of others. He also never allowed himself to drink to the point of intoxication, these days, for there was little value in being seen as sloppy.

Forever the designated driver. Not that he minds.

Elisabeth Fiorelli seems surprised to see him, and Gavin's brows arch in answer of her exclamation.

"At your request," he affirms. "Did you think I'd ignore it?"

Not only was Elisabeth one of his good friends, she was an admin of Team Rocket. Few could boast such importance in his admittedly busy schedule.

Howling is quiet, empty but for the two of them and the bartender.

"Scotch, on the rocks."

"On you?" He shakes his head. "No. Not unless Walsh or the others," he means his fellow underbosses, "were to demand my time in haste."

They hadn't, and so here he was.

He is not taking much time for himself, no. Moments like these are rarities within a life filled with meetings and missions carried out under the banner of Rocket. He is a workaholic, an overachiever. He will grind himself to the bone for their cause.

He lifts his glass and tips it back in acceptance of the toast, feeling the liquor burn down his throat.

"You didn't have to go out of your way," he insists, a light smirk upon his lips as Elisabeth gestures around the empty bar. "We're friends; you could have asked to come round the house if you wanted privacy." He laughs. "Not that I don't appreciate this. It's rare to see Howling so quiet."

It hadn't occurred to him that they'd never shared drinks before; he looks mildly surprised.

"I suppose it is."

"Silly? No." Drinking with friends was a normal past-time, was it not? He does note that she'd specified coworker, however, puzzling over it in his mind. "Might I ask why?"

He doesn't miss the sudden distance in her gaze, as if something either of them might've said sparked some foul memory of hers, but he doesn't press the issue. He didn't want to ruin her night, if she was not here to talk about it.

But should she wish to tell him, he was open.

"I can't imagine you at a club." He laughs at the image. They haven't been his scene for a long time. Perhaps they never had been, but he'd gone a few times in college in a bid to 'find himself'. Unsuccessful. "Did you enjoy yourself, at least?"

Her next comment makes his brow furrow.

"Why should I be any different at home?"

If anything, he was more comfortable there.

"Normal?" He does laugh, then, but not at her. "I'd hardly consider myself normal, but I take your point. You'll find no judgement here."

To him, it's hardly any different from someone wanting to skydive, or to travel to somewhere they've never been. A new experience, that was all. He could get behind that.

Her accusatory glance rolls off him.

"I never said you couldn't," he counters easily, "only that it's difficult to imagine. You have an air of composure about you that those in clubs tend to lack." Perhaps a polite way of saying she's too reserved, usually. "Can you picture me in a club?"

He'd gone with Emma a couple of times, but never Temp.

When his husband enters the conversation, and with some extra consideration for what Gavin knows of Elisabeth Fiorelli's past, he understands.

"Ours is a healthy relationship," he points out, not unkindly. "I hide nothing from him but what Rocket secrets I'm sworn against telling anyone."

Such as the fact that declan walsh could fucking shapeshift.

She's drunk.

Her lack of tolerance surprises him, at first, but Gavin is quick to adjust to the changing circumstances. He'd rather she be drunk around him rather than someone who might take advantage of her.

So when he says, "Oh, I'd love to make him jealous," and his sharp canines flash like fangs in the low lights of the bar, he has no ill intentions beyond teasing a close friend. "He gets rough when he's jealous." His amber eyes sparkle with mirth as he licks his lips, then seems to reconsider his current company. "Not like that," he adds, then shamelessly with a conspiratorial wink, "It's what I'm into."

He's never been shy about his sex life. Sorry, Elisabeth Fiorelli, friendship has opened up a can of worms.

"Get some food." It's sharp, like an order. "You'll regret it tomorrow, if you don't."

The hangover would be murder.

He's turning to flag over the bartender so that she might do just that when her accusation settles in. It had been a subconscious deflection, but a deflection nevertheless. Quinns didn't talk about feelings. Rockets didn't have feelings.

"I have been as I always am, Elisa. Overworked, exhausted, but fine. I'm used to all of it, by now."

"Do you?" Gavin laughs. "I don't know, he's surprised me a few times."

There's colour in his cheeks as he recalls certain intimate moments with Tempest Quinn where he'd allowed his lover to take control, but it's not from embarrassment. He's never known a filter when it comes to conversations like these, even stone cold sober.

"I know what to expect elsewhere, you know." He feels the need to defend his husband from the demons of Elisabeth Fiorelli's past. He could trust Temp never to hurt him, not unless he wanted it. "He's very good to me."

The smell of fish and chips makes his mouth water. It reminds him of Galar, of childhood, in one of the few ways that does not bring grief. He accepts the fork, spearing a french fry on the end of it to pop into his mouth.

"A martyr?" He frowns. The word has such unfortunate, uncomfortable connotations. "I'm not complaining, Elisa; you asked how I was doing and I answered you. I wouldn't give up my position for the world."

Perhaps he was reading too much into it.

Gavin's brow furrows, confusion present in the cant of his head. "In what way?"

He softens somewhat as she disparages herself, so insistent in being better off alone. He knows empathy for her, then. Had he not once thought the same? In Kanto, it had been too dangerous to love. In Hoenn, it had been too late.

But in spite of it all, he'd found his happiness.

"I think it's all right to be alone," he ventures, careful, "but that you shouldn't forbid yourself from feeling, Elisa. That road leads only to loneliness and misery."

She seems upset, and perhaps it's her sullen mood that causes him to take offense in what she'd said. Her sing-song retaliation catches him unawares, however, and the fact that he's not drank enough to be feeling it means he can better process the shift.

He is suddenly morose.

"It's how I was taught to be."

Give yourself to the cause, all of yourself.