the morning after
Who: Handy and Jack
When: The morning after their conversation on the network.
Where: The cafe
What: Handy is in no mood to discuss what he nearly let slip over the network to Jack. So who does he run into the very next morning?
Handy awoke curled up on his side in bed, his laptop under one arm. He blinked at the too-bright screen, aching head protesting. The little bottles he'd found in the minibar and subsequently emptied stood on the nightstand, a reminder of what he had done once he'd finished tearing his way through half the hotel with a malfunctioning screwdriver.
Rassilon, the hotel. He groaned and turned his head into the crook of an elbow. If that hadn't been fixed by the hotel, he'd have a lot of stuck doors to answer for. Not to mention the chandelier, the exploded light bulbs, the smashed glass all over the bar....
Sitting up, he finally looked at the screen of the computer beside him, not remembering for a moment what he'd been doing with it when he'd fallen asleep. When he saw the last few messages he'd posted to Jack (and of course it would have to be Jack he'd message when he was drunk and alone, wouldn't it?), he groaned aloud and pinched the bridge of his nose. Stupid. Stupid, stupid drunk idiot. He didn't bother scrolling back through the rest of the conversation, remembering enough of it to know he didn't really want to know just now how much else he'd told Jack that he'd never meant for the other man to know.
A quick shower made him feel slightly more--well, human might not be the best word--but his head still hurt and everything was all blurry around the edges. He'd hoped something might materialize in his room, but when it failed to do so, he had no choice but to venture out to the cafe in search of something to make him feel slightly less awful. He slumped down in one of the chairs when he got there, hair mussed and head throbbing, and waited for one of the waiters to come by.
When: The morning after their conversation on the network.
Where: The cafe
What: Handy is in no mood to discuss what he nearly let slip over the network to Jack. So who does he run into the very next morning?
Handy awoke curled up on his side in bed, his laptop under one arm. He blinked at the too-bright screen, aching head protesting. The little bottles he'd found in the minibar and subsequently emptied stood on the nightstand, a reminder of what he had done once he'd finished tearing his way through half the hotel with a malfunctioning screwdriver.
Rassilon, the hotel. He groaned and turned his head into the crook of an elbow. If that hadn't been fixed by the hotel, he'd have a lot of stuck doors to answer for. Not to mention the chandelier, the exploded light bulbs, the smashed glass all over the bar....
Sitting up, he finally looked at the screen of the computer beside him, not remembering for a moment what he'd been doing with it when he'd fallen asleep. When he saw the last few messages he'd posted to Jack (and of course it would have to be Jack he'd message when he was drunk and alone, wouldn't it?), he groaned aloud and pinched the bridge of his nose. Stupid. Stupid, stupid drunk idiot. He didn't bother scrolling back through the rest of the conversation, remembering enough of it to know he didn't really want to know just now how much else he'd told Jack that he'd never meant for the other man to know.
A quick shower made him feel slightly more--well, human might not be the best word--but his head still hurt and everything was all blurry around the edges. He'd hoped something might materialize in his room, but when it failed to do so, he had no choice but to venture out to the cafe in search of something to make him feel slightly less awful. He slumped down in one of the chairs when he got there, hair mussed and head throbbing, and waited for one of the waiters to come by.