[ A suit is a suit, as far as Bradbury is concerned. He has a fairly simple set of rules he sticks to when he's looking for one. Always plain and utilitarian, loose enough to move in comfortably, nothing that can get in the way of a shoulder holster or drawing a gun from one, and never expensive, except for the ones he saves for special occasions. Function over form, in other words. Besides, for all that he wears them every day, he knows he isn't the kind of guy who's really made for wearing suits: he can dress up in whatever he wants, but at the end of the day it's still the same guy staring back at him in the mirror. Ex-Marine, ex-cop, ex-husband.
He isn't sure what he's doing here, other than he'd thought Bond had been pulling his leg about it. Another suit, what did Bradbury really need another one for? He'd come along to humor him, because the guy seemed pretty adamant about it, but now he's seriously starting to have second thoughts about the wisdom of the idea. The atmosphere of the place makes him feel out of place enough, but it's only made worse by the fact that he's as dressed down as he can possibly be. Just jeans and (at least) a button-down shirt like a man who hadn't been expecting to go out for anything more sociable than a drink at a bar.
The tailor's professional enough not to stare, but he certainly isn't looking at Bradbury with the same regard as Bond. To occupy himself, Bradbury wanders over to another selection of fabric, squinting down at them like the squares labeled "poplin" and "jacquard" and "seersucker" might magically tell him what the fuck they have to do with... well, anything. The most tailoring he's ever had done was to take up the hem of his slacks and jackets; what does he know about suit couture? ]
no subject
He isn't sure what he's doing here, other than he'd thought Bond had been pulling his leg about it. Another suit, what did Bradbury really need another one for? He'd come along to humor him, because the guy seemed pretty adamant about it, but now he's seriously starting to have second thoughts about the wisdom of the idea. The atmosphere of the place makes him feel out of place enough, but it's only made worse by the fact that he's as dressed down as he can possibly be. Just jeans and (at least) a button-down shirt like a man who hadn't been expecting to go out for anything more sociable than a drink at a bar.
The tailor's professional enough not to stare, but he certainly isn't looking at Bradbury with the same regard as Bond. To occupy himself, Bradbury wanders over to another selection of fabric, squinting down at them like the squares labeled "poplin" and "jacquard" and "seersucker" might magically tell him what the fuck they have to do with... well, anything. The most tailoring he's ever had done was to take up the hem of his slacks and jackets; what does he know about suit couture? ]