The second Killian pulled out his flask, Matt could smell the alcohol. It only got stronger when he uncapped it and added some to his coffee. The scent, that scent, always reminded him of his father. Even when he was drinking in a bar with Nelson, the burning sensation that settled into the middle of his skull when he breathed that in brought him back to his childhood. Pulling stitches out of his father’s eyebrow, using whisky as painkiller, nerve steadier and disinfectant. He didn’t really frown on, or think too much, about people who used alcohol as a kind of constant in their life. For him, it was nostalgic -- and he didn’t feel one was necessarily more or less a crutch than the other.
Matt reached under the table and gave Killian’s thigh a gentle squeeze. It was a response to the nudge, a thanks for the breakfast, and maybe something just a little bit more nuanced. Not in a romantic way, but certainly in an understanding way. The work that Matt did often put him in a situation where the right thing, and the wrong thing ran very close together. Doing the wrong things for the right reasons, even, was a concept he’d become more familiar with.
“I don’t want to try death. I’ve woken up after blackouts before. I don’t need to do that more often.” He started in on his coffee and toast, taking a few bites before picking up the conversation again. “So, bartending -- barkeeping. Tavern wenching -- is that pretty much what you do here?”