log: dylan & max
If dressing up for tonight occurred to Dylan, he didn't follow through with it. Suits had never been something that he felt at home in, and now that he didn't have any governmnt office to report to, Dylan didn't even own one. Maybe it harked back to the days of undercover work, but comfort just seemed critical to him. He preferred shoes that he could run in, and bluejeans, and sunglasses even at night. It was a uniform all its own, discreet and bland and functional. Just like the black jacket, despite it clearly being summer, meant that he was probably carrying concealed. A man didn't emerge from Covert Ops missions in Mexico, and exploding apartments, and government blacklists with any kind of tolerance to open air and crowded streets unless he was armed. The whole last decade had been a fire fight, he didn't expect it to stop now just because he wasn't working for the government for the first time in his life. The fact that the prospect of catching a charge for bringing a gun into a bar, of breaking the law, didn't deter him probably would have said a whole hell of a lot if he'd been in the mood for introspection. But he really wasn't.
The speakeasy theme might have entertained him before, and maybe that kind of whimsy would again one day, but tonight he walked in from the phonebooth and past the bouncer with little appreciation for the motif. Head down, sunglasses tucked into the lining of his jacket, Dylan made for the bar. Max was easy to spot, even with the illusion of years between the last time he'd seen her and now. Always ignoring and looking seemingly annoyed by civilians, beer in front of her. He hadn't expected her to wear something nice, and Dylan wasn't disappointed. Honestly, if she had, he might have just turned right back around and slipped out to avoid the whole thing entirely. He didn't think he was ready for dressing up and playdates.
Shit, he didn't know if he was ready for this. Talking over the journals was one thing, it allowed him to save face and put up the familiar act of the clown-nerd hybrid. But he hadn't even touched a video game since coming back, he smile felt broken. He stayed up all night writing strings of code until his eyes burned, and then sleep felt like a reward and not something to be dreaded. But he could do this, he told himself, and he slid into the seat beside her at the bar.