There was definitely a part of Hemingway that was still looking for excuses and blaming himself. He was sure that Jack was just sick of him. He figured that he had pushed him to his limit. But replaying the conversation inside his head, Ernest knew logically that he hadn't said anything that really warranted such a harsh reaction. If he'd really been having an episode, he knew from experience that he would have been much more brutal. It just proved to him that Jack wouldn't be capable of stopping him if he really did want to die. He couldn't trust him with that. Maybe it was too much to put on him anyway.
But her words did amuse him, and he gave her a confused and curious look. "I don't even know what a spantecks catsuit is," he fumbled over the words like an old-fashioned, adorable fool. "No, it's not loaded," he told her, with a bit of a laugh. "Just the foot?" he teased lightly.
Hemingway looked down at the bottle, and realised just how badly he was pining for a drink. He'd never really considered himself to have a problem until very recently, but if it hadn't been obvious to him before, the desperate need he felt now would have been a bit of a red flag. He felt like whimpering and begging for it.
"That was it. He said... did it not revert back when he disappeared? And take the damn gun. I said no, and I didn't know where he'd put it. He told me, met me, gave me the gun and the key," he told her. "He did try. For about two or three sentences. But apparently I'm just that fucking persuasive. I don't know why I'm so annoyed. I got what I wanted, after all."