Work Text:
The dichotomy of his mouth being parched and salivating as he stares at the martini glasses all lined up and waiting. He can already taste that bitterness; the perfect balance of gin and dry vermouth, just the way he likes it. The slow trickle of condensation down the glasses look, to him, like tears of happiness; they are glad to see him and his own eyes prickle. He smiles wide.
And then his smile disappears.
That fucking wagon, that fucking dirty wagon. They beg and plead for you to get on it, saying it’s better this way, saying you’ll be the master of your fate now. Action versus acted upon, right Jacky boy? He hears them, twittering and mocking, snickering behind him. He turns. He’s alone, there is no one else here. The booths and tables are as empty as they have always been. His smile returns and he feels smug; he knows this game.
He turns back and sees the martini glasses exactly as he left them, so patient. He grabs one, feels the smoothness, the wetness and gulps it down with the desperation of a man dying of thirst.
“That ain’t bad,” Jack says to Lloyd, “That ain’t bad at all.” His PR grin stretches wider.
“It’s the fucking kid, you know,” Jack tells Lloyd, conversationally, “it always comes back to that fucking kid.” More laughter behind him and he turns quickly, feeling a prickle of shame; there is no one.
He turns back to Lloyd, takes three shots, each with the same harried desperation as the first.
“It’s the measure of a man, Lloyd. The measure of a man is how he is able to provide,” Jack gestures carelessly, “I fucked up. And she will never let me forget it--I love that little bastard too!”
“But I’ll always be the enemy, because I made one little tiny measly mistake,” Jack smacks the counter and the sound echoes, followed by louder laughter that he ignores. He brings a cloth out from his back pocket and wipes his lips, then puts it away, laughs and takes four more shots. Down the hatch!
He feels his face contort and half wonders who it belongs to. They always want you on that wagon. He looks behind him, the laughter sending a spike through his head, but there is no one there. He turns back and there are no drinks; there never were, no Lloyd. Jack smiles to himself, takes three Excedrin; the crunch familiar and just what he needs to get through his hangover in the morning.