It. (rasatabula) wrote in repose, @ 2017-02-02 22:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, jack penhaligon, newt penhaligon |
Jack + Newt: The B&B
Who: Jack & Newt
When: Fuzzy-recent
Warnings: Probs language
By the time Jack circled back to the B&B, with overcoat and the bare decks of the newspaper office gleaming-clear in streetlight from outside, the tarred-pitch had burned itself extinguished and what was left could be doused with horrendously expensive single malt. Did Jack feel guilty? To determine as such would be to examine rip-seams and guilt was ember dulled to nothing in so much sodden disgust. He hadn't forgotten Newt. Newt who had been steadfast voice on the end of the phone in the maelstrom of the storm, thinned to violin-string pluck, staccato. What did Newt think? He couldn't bloody remember ever opening the door on this to the little brother who presented him with the flora and fauna of the old estate with an air of gravity well beyond the six or so spread of years between them. Nah. It was memories as visceral as home movies that reeled in Jack's head as he walked the corridor between rooms with a heavy, if steady tread.
Temptation presented itself in the solo armchair and the whiskey bottle wrapped in twist of paper. Jack stood, damp blue in the dim light from the hallway and regarded the frills and fussy comfort of the B&B room and did it stop being temporary, when you stayed there long enough that you acquired permanence simply through longevity? Another stasis of another kind and he collected the whiskey bottle and the pair of glasses that stood on the bedside cabinet in two fingers, and went down the hall to his brother.