Re: Jack + Newt: The B&B
It had been a very long bloody night, yes. Though, for Newt, it was long for different reasons, obviously. Worrying—while it came naturally to him—was a practice he sought not to indulge in. And though he'd fretted after Jack, there wasn't much of anything he might do and he was aware of that acutely. He'd spent the span of hours in his case (which was now closed, and under his bed), sitting with Dougal, the demiguise, and a few occamy hatchlings, as he attempted to transcribe any and all details he remembered of the creature he'd seen with Adrian's brother. He'd scratched out an inky sketch on a scroll of parchment, then set it to press flat between the pages of a few tomes. Once he'd wrung all all the verdancy of the vegetation, curious, alien flora made black on white, and every last shred of detail he had in him—out, he'd said his good nights to his diurnal creatures, good morning to the nocturnal, and he'd come back up, into his room.
There was less to do up here, so the man'd occupied himself with a smattering of readings, too many cups of tea, and some old-fashioned (vivid) imaginings, ranging from Adrian in his bed, to what Jack might've found at home, to everything in-between. It was only in the last hour or so that he'd bothered to rouse from the sheets of his disheveled bed to begin the makings of going about his day. And, as you know already, he'd managed to distract himself partway through that, so that now, as Jack lumbered into the narrow, let room, Newt was perched atop the same unkempt bed, half-properly clothed and half-not. His hair was wiry, flat in the back from his pillow and palm, but he never bothered with brushing it out of his face. It was perfect for hiding behind, if only in spirit and if only out of habit, and he did so now, quite nearly shy as his brother sat himself in the lap of that old, velveteen chair.
Still, however inconstant the flicker of his gaze, it did light over Jack with a consistency of intention. He took in, of course, the layer of elements, the eau de l'alcool, the tributaries of exhaustion over expression, even the languor of Jack's gait—he absorbed all of it, without any direct means necessary. His smile was careful, but it wasn't insincere. It held its usual warmth, and its usual fluster. Newt's eyes flicked to the clean glasses paired, then back to how his brother sat, with the bottle as an anchor between his knees. He settled back onto his bed, long legs crossed beneath himself. "A smidge," he allowed, knowing it was a terribly stupid thing to do. But, he'd have that and nothing more. He plucked up his now-full water glass and, before he took a draw from it, offered it to Jack, as if it'd only just occurred to him (it had not). "If you'll drink with me, of course." He smiled, softer, allowing himself to meet his brother's gaze, if able.
He seemed wholly unaware that he was still half-clothed. It didn't matter. Newt had been about to speak when Bukowski emerged from beneath the bed, stretching and clawing the carpet. "Ah, yes. Look who's back, Bukowski." His smile slipped, but not out of disingenuousness. The man was only attempting to remember the conversations that had been had. "You've—erm—been by Cat's?"