The whiskey stung at his throat, and all he could hear was his blood rushing in his ears with the rising mixture of anger and hurt. He was seething and silently boiling over by the time Abi just snatched the bottle from his hands. He looked up at her with a sort of surprise and a strange feeling of awe that he couldn't quite place at that moment.
Words.
He stared at her silently, with a wide-eyed, pathetic expression on his face as he searched his furious brain for a word to describe it at all. Words were his currency, his therapy, his armour and ammunition, and yet he felt at a loss.
"About... fifty of them. That's how many you need to get a gun back from Jack Hemingway."