Jack + Newt: The B&B
Judging by the time, it was two hours 'til sunrise. The world had not lit along its crest, all golden plumage catching ocellus orange; that argent sickle had not cut through the darkness of a winter night-turned-morning—which is to say, Newt's room in the B&B was illuminated only by the old-bulb yellow of a single lamp upon his nightstand, a lonely, luminescent soldier. He'd begun his morning ritual of rising, going to the toilet, and all such related activities, but, as was entirely usual for the man, he'd gotten distracted by a book partway through. Now, normally, he simply transfigured his clothing—which was why it was easy to wear a single outfit. However, Newt was attempting to use less mundane magic when it was, largely, no different than simply doing it how everyone else did. After all, if Adrian did stay a night over, he didn't want to alarm him. As such, he was in his marled trousers and darned socks, but had gotten snagged there, never getting around to removing his pajama shirt.
He was on his unmade bed, his wand stuck in an empty water glass on the stand with the sentinel lamp, and he was on his stomach, reading. A Manual of the Mollusca—brackish-blot cover with golden nautilus shell, spine spilt in freckled palms, brittle pages ripe with dust. He was currently wrapped up in 'Chapter III: The Distribution of the Mollusca in Time,' and failed to hear any approach to his door. Idly, he attempted to indulge in a sip of water, but found himself smacked in the face with wooden wand. Just as he laughed at himself, —well, there was Jack. The moment lasted the span of a blink. The glass was full of clear, cool water, and there was nothing suspicious about that. Newt set it heavily on his night-table and stood, unfolding wrinkled fabric along his frame as he did so.
Jack, about whom he'd worried more than half the night (and about whom Cat had written him with extreme crypticism, which had kept him up half the night, waiting), was, to put it mildly, sloshed. Newt needn't come nearer to know that. He smiled—it held no particular sadness, though it perhaps divulged a distance well-learned. The man went to pull his waistcoat from where it hung over the back of the room's single chair, and he beckoned his brother inside. His ambered gaze skittered across the whiskey. "You've come prepared." He glanced up, then away.