Re: Jack + Newt: The B&B
Bukowski rubbed the sinuous furry length of himself along the glazed-blood of Jack's knuckles in something that was either rapprochement or amnesty but would inevitably be brutal chastisement for leaving in the first place, if Jack knew his own animal. He rolled finger and thumb over the pebbled-brindle of Bukowski's head between his ears and the animal stretched out its neck and leaned in with chain-saw purr rusty over the splash of the whiskey and the chink of Newt's teeth against glass.
Jack drank from the glass with his free hand. It wasn't the determined downing of liquid purely chasing the end of the bottle, given the man on the bed's proximity. Christ knew he wasn't so far in that he lacked cognisance that they were walking over old minefields long plumbed for ammunition but still capable of spiking high. The bottle wasn't one for keeping around as it was obscenely expensive. The taste slid over his tongue and the back of his teeth and he smiled into the glass when Newt professed a preference for whiskey served warm and adulterated.
He set the glass down on the cluttered nightstand in anticipation of Newt's follow-up and leaned over his knees all the further, the curl of his back a navy comma as the cat rolled and rubbed along the lengths of his pants in ardent fervor for re-marking the man once more. "Generous of her." Jack's remark lacked sarcasm but the dry twist of the words had the hollowed-out echo of self-assessment. "The embargo."
He considered this as Bukowski turned his head sharply to bite the expanse of fist between thumb and little finger knuckles without sympathy, and Jack laughed and reached for the glass, letting go the feline. "Temporarily lifted."