Re: Quicklog: Jack & Newt at the B&B
[Jack didn't imagine much about his family. God alone knew they'd taken up far too much of his thinking when he had been young and he'd banished the lot of them once he'd found where his niche was meant to be. Newt had been swept into the undertow, largely because he seemed to be entirely happy at that school of his. He'd invited the boy to his wedding, when Newt hadn't been a boy at all. Jen, Jack recalled, had been moderately rude about the outfit then. It hadn't improved much in the intervening years. But if he had leanings toward imagining, he would have pictured the man grown into himself. Unfolded, like an umbrella.
He assessed the state of his brother from the armchair. Comforted, by Bukowski's presence. More than the animal was good for. Bukowski glowered from his coiled position and deigned to sniff. Jack blinked.]
No, he likes to be fed consistently. We have a detente that lasts about as long as his imagining another offence to his person. Usually, marked by his pissing on the bedclothes. His name is Bukowski. [Newt's smile was a gesture, Jack's was thoughtful.]