Re: quicklog: Newt & Des (& Patrick, eventually)
[Patrick rapped his knuckles against the door once before entering in the same ensemble he had been wearing since changing after the bar the evening before. He had still not slept, and now the clean clothing smelled of greasy diner food, cigarettes, beer and whiskey. His eyes were bloodshot, and his right hand was swollen, purple and red at the knuckles and lightly scabbed over.
He crossed the living room and walked into the kitchen with a strange feeling of remembrance; it had been two years since the dude had lived here, and he had not expected to return. After drinking with Jack, he was not even sure he should come. After the way the phone conversation with Newt ended, he was even more uncertain of his welcome; he knew he had not been kind. The conversation with Adrian was still vivid in his mind. He was so confused, man, and he knew some sleep would assist, but he did not think he would be able to sleep; he had not slept since before the book, and this was probably not assisting with matters. As for Destiny, dude had no idea how to read her anymore. His interpretation of their phone call was that she required assistance to survive, and he was here to offer it. He had promised he would be responsible for her, and so he would be, and her assertion that she had no way to pay for health or car insurance, no way to work, definitely indicated help was required. This was simple to Patrick.
The past two years had been magical ones, and Patrick detected the strangeness in the air before he even entered the kitchen; this would not have been the case before. He looked from Destiny to Newt, and he did not enter the room fully. He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed and nary a hiss for his mangled hand. The stones were in a satchel tucked into his hoodie and on a leather cord. He shook his head, and his voice held a hint of slur, but he was not teetering or unable to speak.] Nothing for me.