[ Irving smiles faintly, mostly with relief, because right now all he wants is a drink; it hadn't been intended as a sexual invitation, though he's almost immediately feared it would get taken as one, and then possibly even worse, rejected as one.

He stands there, waiting for Jack to finish texting before walking alongside him at a measured, reasonable distance-- close enough to converse, but not close enough to touch. Officer habits die hard; he stands on things like performance and ceremony. ]

Just so long as they serve spirits there, the quality of drink is of no major concern to me. [ Just get him drunk, he doesn't care on what. Except: ] And that it be anything but rum.