Re: Jack + Newt: The B&B
Jack wore whiskey like cologne but the sort that didn't sit on skin as much as surface. He wasn't three sheets gone, perhaps half-masted one and the glasses in his fingers were clean. There had been a token effort in the newspaper office to wipe clean the evening with the soporific and blunt instrument of the contents of the bottle but it was by no means a deep inroads made. Had he been, the knock on the door wouldn't have come.
The blue wool sweater was by now thoroughly damp at the shoulders, a smattering of snow dampening at the seams until it was weighted navy blue turned brackish and his weight was carefully over his knees - erect bloody carriage, even if the doorframe looked like an excellent prop. He hadn't counted the hours between the last piece of broken computer equipment and a realm of white paper tossed below, and the first drink. He hadn't counted the intervening hours. The bar had been dark by the time he'd emerged from the newspaper once more and the air held the damp promise of morning already.
It had been a very long bloody night. He watched Newt drag the waistcoat from the back of the chair with unfettered lack of comprehension. The bruising and the battering were metaphorical but even moderately inebriated, Jack's face showed what lay beneath like spilled whiskey over thick paper, diluting to thin transparency in pungent fume. Newt, who looked like he hadn't gone to bed in the first place or had risen early. He'd run out of room for guilt about Newt, it layered thickly like oil paint, built up and brackish and tactile. He could feel it solid in his throat and he leaned his shoulder into the doorframe and entered the room, the heel of his shoe catching the door to let it swing softly closed behind him.
Jack's progress was quiet and he was deliberate about the path he picked. Newt didn't look exactly at him, but Jack didn't look exactly back. When he did, it was soft-washed blue and the weight of the day and the evening and the night tugged downward until his face was tired lines. Newt's smile was careful, it said nothing of the note in his voice on the 'phone and it wasn't recrimination. Jack put down the glasses on the nightstand, slid into the now-empty chair, his upper body slinging forward and his forearms on spread knees and the bottle dangling in his fist.