Re: Evans & Peel: Jack/Patrick/Newt
Patrick took the scenic route to the table. One that enjoyed several social stops. And Newt, who watched for a moment, looked away, so as not to seem overly attentive, and idly scratched into the condensation on the glass of his drink with his thumbnail. Once Patrick joined the table, flipping his chair about, Newt smiled at him and looked back to Jack in fits, his gaze grazing the rim of his glass, his freckled knuckles, the tabletop, anywhere else. He was listening, though people often thought otherwise, when he wasn't looking at them, and he glanced up when he sensed Jack's attention turning in his direction. Jack said the place would make some money, and Newt nodded as if that make sense. Er, because it did, and he knew nothing about these things, really. Money was a highly tenuous concept to him, Muggle and wizarding alike. It didn't interest him, and so, he paid it very little mind.
Of course, if he'd known the bar was meant as a sort of stand-in for a failing of his—or a future failing of his, he might've had something more to say about it. As it was, he'd the silly idea that his having stayed around for the past several years, along with his talking to Jack, which, he'd thought, had evolved quite a lot,—Newt had the idea that this constituted family and support in ways that mattered. But, he didn't realize it all lacked substance in Jack's mind. It was for the best, in any case, as he wouldn't've taken well to the news.—Oblivious, he sipped at his drink, trying as best he could to be here and present for Jack, to be supportive of his brother's choices and so on. He wasn't talkative, he knew, but, surely Jack knew that this was all rather difficult for Newt, being here and around people, and surely he knew he, Newt, was making an effort.
Patrick offered himself, should anything go awry or trouble be run into, and Newt, if he'd felt more comfortable in the setting, might've teased about Jack's penchant for trouble (and shoot-outs), but he was still struggling to pay mind where he was meant to. Newt was both shy and easily overloaded by sight, sound, and societal expectation. He'd never flourished in these sorts of situations, and that'd not changed in the last two decades he'd been apart from family.—He looked between Jack, who appeared thoughtful, and Patrick, who was winking at him—oh, at him, at Newt. Newt blinked. "Oh, no." He smiled. "Thank you—" He bit off any term of endearment that'd naturally offered itself and shook his head, lifting his drink, as if to illustrate he was fine with just this. ...Actually, when he thought on it, Jack might feel his, Newt's, reception was better to this whole thing, if he, Newt, were properly drunk. "Er. Actually. I'll get another drink." His gaze shifted to the bar, a long way off, then back to the two men. He steeled himself. "I'll be right back. Please, keep talking." Newt gave a faltering smile as he stood, in spite of just having sat, and he left his mostly-full Old Fashioned on the table. He'd already forgotten about it. He'd just find something stronger.