Day Two: Old friends make the best strangers
The room, when Jack finds it, is no where near the bar. In fact, it's up in the air -- stairs that take far too long to climb for the simple goal of lying horizontal for a bit. The decoration matches the rest of this place -- whatever this place is -- decadent to the point of being nauseous.
Two beds dominate the room, flanked by two tables, drawers, and two off-shoot rooms that are too small to use as anything really. One is nearly barren except for a shirt, and a pile of papers rolled and cluttered on the floor; the other holds more by the way of clothing: a nightshift, breeches, shirt, and waistcoat. The material is expensive, and Jack shuts the door on it, confused at the idea that the hotel thinks he should dress the part to stay here.
Then all the more confused that the hotel thinks anything. But it does, somehow, Jack knows with the ingrained logic of alcohol. The hotel knows things, like a ship can know its crew and captain. The thought of Barbossa sloshes around his head and he shakes it loose. Sleep will not come unbidden and negativity will not do best to woo it.
A hat sits on the bed near the window. Jack picks it up, examining it. It's his hat from what he can tell, same white scars across the brim and water-logged leather making it soft, malleable to the touch. Jack thought it lost in the ocean during his swim.
"Ta," he mutters to the room, placing the hat in its proper place on his head. No creak or groan of the woodwork responds and Jack casts his eyes around suspiciously. He adds, "We need to work on your people skills."
Figuring his hat designates his bed, he flops into the sheets, burrowing into the pillows and rolling until he finds the best place in the nest of fabric.
Jack doesn't know how long he drifts on the currents of sleep, in and out of reality enough to feel the trials of the past few days ease from his bones into his muscles and to notice the sun set and rise outside the window. He stays in the safe world of dreams until a key scratches the lock and the door swings open.
So. He has a roommate. Jack lets himself go limp until the stranger makes the first sound.
Two beds dominate the room, flanked by two tables, drawers, and two off-shoot rooms that are too small to use as anything really. One is nearly barren except for a shirt, and a pile of papers rolled and cluttered on the floor; the other holds more by the way of clothing: a nightshift, breeches, shirt, and waistcoat. The material is expensive, and Jack shuts the door on it, confused at the idea that the hotel thinks he should dress the part to stay here.
Then all the more confused that the hotel thinks anything. But it does, somehow, Jack knows with the ingrained logic of alcohol. The hotel knows things, like a ship can know its crew and captain. The thought of Barbossa sloshes around his head and he shakes it loose. Sleep will not come unbidden and negativity will not do best to woo it.
A hat sits on the bed near the window. Jack picks it up, examining it. It's his hat from what he can tell, same white scars across the brim and water-logged leather making it soft, malleable to the touch. Jack thought it lost in the ocean during his swim.
"Ta," he mutters to the room, placing the hat in its proper place on his head. No creak or groan of the woodwork responds and Jack casts his eyes around suspiciously. He adds, "We need to work on your people skills."
Figuring his hat designates his bed, he flops into the sheets, burrowing into the pillows and rolling until he finds the best place in the nest of fabric.
Jack doesn't know how long he drifts on the currents of sleep, in and out of reality enough to feel the trials of the past few days ease from his bones into his muscles and to notice the sun set and rise outside the window. He stays in the safe world of dreams until a key scratches the lock and the door swings open.
So. He has a roommate. Jack lets himself go limp until the stranger makes the first sound.