Yes, it’s the man with the curls, the Victorian gent. His eyes widening, Jack uses the thirty seconds of walking it takes to reach the bar to get a bead on the man’s temperament from the way he’s sitting. But it all falls away when that face reaches up like an abandoned puppy, sick and wet, and just… pulls at him, droopy damp curls like old springs rusted by the kiss of rain, all bounced and stuck and crusted around a porcelain gaze as old and young as any clock worth admiring, set with two blue stones that bleed. Two blue stones- it doesn’t do Him justice, really… Imagine an ocean begging for recognition from a dead horse? Drink Me! Drink me… please? Drink me? And they say you can’t make them drink.
The Time Agent finds himself transfixed, floating in his own head as though he’s never been in anyone else’s.
“Hey there, honey,” Jack manages finally, pressing a hand across the contours of the man’s lithe, slightly bony runner’s back and rubbing circles. “You look like you could use…”
But a finger tip presses against his lips, and then lips press there too, cramming something inside so Jack is robbed of speech- a blunted tongue, bloated by blackened promises… it feels like.