Re: Log, Webster's Vinyl: Daniel W & Newt P
Newt wasn't, by any means, wealthy. He was a writer and magizoologist, supported by the advance on his book. The Penhaligons'd once had land and money to their name, but that was long given to dust, crumbling walls, and a dead man in a bar toilet. So, really, Daniel's associations, while outmoded, weren't entirely wrong. Now, the cleaning was technically volunteer, but it was more out of curiosity than anything else; the money was simply a benefit.
Now, Newt'd come up under an alcoholic. His father had never been particularly subtle, as most drinkers weren't, and he had his suspicions about Daniel, but they were just that: suspicions. He wondered very much about the vampire, more than he ought, but he'd always rather liked dangerous things. Not that the man seemed particularly predatory today, even with the way he honed in on Newt's exposed throat earlier. No, and when the man came 'round the table, around the put-out mugs and around Newt's knees, the ginger man peered upward with a rare straightforwardness. His golden gaze tipped, open, a goldminer's pan bearing fruit.—He didn't flinch from the hand that brushed and held his chin. Instead, he sighed a little, a small, twitching smile on his lips.
"I am distressed," he allowed. He wasn't someone who talked about how he felt with many others, and it wasn't as if he could talk with Patrick about his own brother. Newt bit his bottom lip as he lifted his hand to where Daniel's was and patted there. "But, as I said, you're doing me a favor, letting me come here and rather get out of my head." His gaze had skittered and scattered by now, shifting over the planes of the other man's face, down the length of his extended arm, back up, over his chest, then lifting once more to hover about his mouth. He exhaled slowly and shook his head, chin shifting over palm, if it was still held there. "It's for the best."