Re: [Bar: Jack & Patrick]
[Jack hadn't thought about all the consequences of small towns before he'd selected the bar. He'd thought about running into Dahlia, but the probation order meant she was probably if she knew what was bloody good for her, sober and steering clear of establishments. He hadn't pictured sitting down at a bar to temporarily find a way to blitzkrieg his conscious into sub- and sitting alongside the man of the hour, as it were.
He was a journalist. But over and above that, he remembered more of the man who had ducked law enforcement and people who knew him, presently than he cared to admit. Jack's eyes flinched on his companion's hand because it was ...well, it resembled a cheap cut of meat. And he dropped to the license because it was on display.
Christ.
Jack contemplated, on the provision of beer and the whiskey, what exactly it would take to turn and walk out of the bar. He hadn't any wisdom. None whatsoever, not a bloody scrap of it. He hadn't the desire to shake the man - a glance, obvious because Jack didn't give a fuck if Patrick saw him. It felt more like exhaustion and cold apprehension this could go as horribly wrong as anything else might if he opened his mouth.
But he wanted the beer. And he opened his mouth. It was British. Jack's, that was, clipped in a way that said half a dozen things no one American really understood, without saying a bloody word. His voice was deeper than his brother's and a little less refined because Jack had spent a decade busily shedding the traces of a background that was less help and more hinderance in the field. But still, it sounded similar enough.]
Patrick. [The beer arrived. Followed by the whiskey. Jack contemplated both and reached for the whiskey.] You look shockingly worse for the wear, ought you to be in here?