|Jack always is (endnoted) wrote in repose,|
@ 2019-01-12 19:18:00
|Entry tags:||*narrative, jack penhaligon|
Narrative: Jack P
Who: Jack P
Warnings: References to alcohol addiction, but tame.
He could pinpoint it after the fact. After the fact became considerably after the fact, because it turned out you spent less time watching the clock tick on dreariness if you actually remembered the reason for being more than a meat-sack with a booze bottle in hand. Jack wasn't an idiot, he'd been too bloody bright for his own good when young and it took the best part of a bottle of whiskey to forget he had a brain in his skull as it was. The rules his gifter had helpfully suggested kept things on the straight and narrow. He hadn't forgotten Newt's existence - family, friends, all of that was wallled off. Newt had a degree of sanctity that Jen hadn't been afforded, poor bitch but he did wake up Christmas morning and rather forget what had been essentially, existence for the last months.
It was the shakes that did him in. Half-way in to following a story around the Undercity (hello, curiosity, my old friend) it was the way his hands shook so he couldn't hold a bloody pen. Rationally he understood why. You didn't sink significant amounts of drink without an end in sight without acquiring an unhealthy dependence but it did, for want of a better word, shake Jack. He'd been operating under the blind faith he could shake off the habit as quickly as he'd gone back to it, but rather than being a comfort it had become routine. With a degree of purpose lighting a spark in his veins, it was harder to feel the urge. He felt the dependence, however, resurrect itself in an alley in the middle of bloody contested territory, and he found the nearest place that sold something he could recognize, sank a shot until his hands steadied under his own control.
It began like that, you see. Rehab was out of the bloody question, navel-gazing for ninety days among other equally sad-sacks when he'd rediscovered why it was he meant to be here. Took a scientific approach, which was to say he drank as little as he needed to keep his legs in working order and gradually reduced day by bloody day. Half-way through January or thereabouts and he was managing near-sober. The drink wasn't an end in itself, and the flat above the bookshop had seen less and less of him until the air was no longer scented with old, too-sweet sweat and stale alcohol.
He forgot the forums. Funny how that worked, he'd meant to ring Newt, to let him know, to wish him happy New Year, but time seemed to run like melted butter, far too quickly and day became night, which was the best time to go after the people in the know, and when it was day again, he was too bloody tired to think. And when he could think, he worked every connection he could. Repose wasn't going anywhere. Newt seemed settled, happy or at least, set up to be happy. Patrick was a good egg, if a little young, but gregarious enough and the two seemed serious, in as much as Jack could see. Newt wouldn't mind, if he found an avenue worth exploring that took him out of town a little while, and Jack explored old friends and those who hated him with the equanimity of knowing either was better than not knowing him at all.
When the call came it was expected. It was enough to scrape together the contents of the flat, pack a bag and then sit down for the first time in weeks and focus on something that wasn't a story. London, back to old stomping grounds at least temporarily. He'd have to find a place to stay, but that was second-order important. Jack wrote instructions, authorized bank draws by the managers of the two businesses, and left the place dark.