It. (rasatabula) wrote in repose, @ 2018-03-31 23:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, jack penhaligon, patrick gunster |
Quicklog: Jack P and Patrick G at the Cat
[Jack hadn't actually been on a bender in a reasonably lengthy amount of time. A bender, traditionally defined by getting so bloody drunk you had enough to regret the following morning that drinking once more when you woke seemed like the only reasonable response to the situation. They ran one after the other pleasantly enough until you either ran out of cash or ran out of booze and while he wasn't sober in the meaningful sense of the word and hadn't been since before Halloween, Jack was also not passably acquainted with drunk.
The painkillers took a proportion of the edge off but it was nebulous, that edge. And it wasn't as active a proposition as going somewhere, sitting down with a pint - or really, rather, a fifth of whiskey until the edge became entirely forgettable - until he'd re-learned the forgetting of fear. It seemed like an odd thing to hold onto. Fear, the lack of it was a young man's game and Jack was more aware than most weeks that he was not a young man. Newt's troubles notwithstanding, the uneasy truce built on the back of what felt like half-truths and glass walls with Leena and whatever it was with Cat, Jack took himself to the Cat to find somewhere to the bottom of it for long enough that he felt more like himself now and less like himself several years ago.
He sat at the bar, because there was scarcely anybody in the place apart from the ever present-Cash and he ordered a beer and a whiskey because he couldn't get the idea of the taste of the latter out of his head but if he ordered the first perhaps he would, and he didn't expect either Newt, Leena or Cat through that door. Nor 'Jane'. Whoever it was Jane was.]