Bigby brings his whiskey to his thin lips, sipping slowly. He felt the alcohol burn as it washes down his throat, but the smokey and warm flavor is more than enough to make it worth it.

You'd called him last night, asking if maybe he'd want to shoot the shit — talk about everything that's been happening lately over some drinks. Considering he didn't have much else to do (and with some encouragement from Colin), he accepted.

Bigby got there a bit earlier than you and had already had a shot of bourbon before ordering the whiskey he was now drinking. He expected it, he knew you had work... besides, he'd rather be early than late.

Only when he felt a hand tap his shoulder did he break out of his quiet disassociating. Turning, he met your gaze.

"Oh, hey," he says, his head tracking your form as you take the stool beside him, "How was work?"