Tory & Jamie: the Apartment
He'd started thinking about what memories were out there around the second shot. Like, he could blame himself for dreaming, right? Those were choices, asleep choices but choices, his mind had thrown a little history in there and blended it with some serious awkward and the aftermath had been like, a million bad choices, all of which had kind of cooked together into a really bad situation w/his sister. Which had taken like, a year to get to 'better'. So he'd thought about it and now Jamie was determinedly trying not to think about every embarrassing memory out there, including the like, highlight reel of shit he'd done that strangers would get an eyeful of.
So he wasn't like, 100% sober. And it was kind of hypocritical to feel shitty about anyone he knew - or didn't know - getting a hands on experiential of his stuff when the guy he'd been for ten minutes was showing up w/pizza or whatever, but whatever. He was riding a tide of underlying anger, residual echoes of whatever Tory had felt about Colin, and three shots of tequila and guilt, because it wasn't like Jamie had forgotten the whole REASON for being a shit to his sisters and brother, right? So. Pizza. Challenge accepted.
He hadn't made a serious fucking effort here. The guy was a romantic, right? A little obsessive, if the counting hours thing was a consistent thing and Jamie hadn't bothered to leave the apartment since skipping out on the rec center in favor of staying home and getting at least half-cut on the booze in the kitchen cabinet. He was in sweats and a henley, and the heat in the apartment was cranked to knock out the last of the chill, and Jamie opened the door, bare foot and not even five ten, blond and mussed and the kind of frame that should probably have been stocky on an average guy and was bone and muscle and not a lot else despite the dent he'd made in like, the ED stuff since January.
He made an assessment in like, point two seconds and he made the assessment obviously enough, from feet to face with the kind of brief smile that made it abjectly clear what the assessment ended up as. Tory - the obsessive - was cute. Red hair, which Jamie hadn't even thought was a real THING that color, and he looked like, more dressed up than was like, necessary in a Repose fuckery, bunker situation and Jamie reeled back from the door to let six foot of scientist and steaming pizza into his place.
"Hi. No blue fox suit? I kinda expected it. Come on in," he gestured to the tiny kitchen, to the living area further in, the couch occupied by a seriously unimpressed tabby cat, in the leggy period of kittenhood. "Cat's over there, tequila's over here, I already started."