Every detail was a precious piece of information. Expressions, gesticulations, drinks and entrées were all carefully catalogued into his memory as he scanned the main dining room of a four-star restaurant. He was to paint the scene he saw, on commission from the owner to make a poster promoting the fiftieth anniversary of the restaurant's founding. The place was packed with upper-middle class citizens treating themselves to a special occasion or an abundance of the one percent looking for a cheaper-than-usual night out.
There was a specific person there, a man, that caught his attention. He was interesting, fairly, but there seemed something odd too. He was more relaxed then those he was with. If he were to paint a scene from the dining room, he was going to paint their table. There was just something about it. He got up, the owner in tow, and went over to them as he straightened and figeted with his uncomfortable suit jacket. He moved to a different seat to get a better angle, speaking with the owner who was his old friend. Every few seconds, he would look up at the man sitting afar, taking in his and his table's, every detail.
(sorry about the ambiguity of the post, I'm not entirely sure if this would be enough for Jack to notice? If not, I can add to it. )
There was a specific person there, a man, that caught his attention. He was interesting, fairly, but there seemed something odd too. He was more relaxed then those he was with. If he were to paint a scene from the dining room, he was going to paint their table. There was just something about it. He got up, the owner in tow, and went over to them as he straightened and figeted with his uncomfortable suit jacket. He moved to a different seat to get a better angle, speaking with the owner who was his old friend. Every few seconds, he would look up at the man sitting afar, taking in his and his table's, every detail.
(sorry about the ambiguity of the post, I'm not entirely sure if this would be enough for Jack to notice? If not, I can add to it. )
Jack Vindici smirked at his female companion, sipped his vermouth, and gestured for a waiter to come over to his table and serve more drinks. He was in the same restaurant because it had a lot of people there, and he liked that, but it also had a lot of liquor, and he loved that; while the people present weren't as high-class as the usual guest list from one of his parties, the activity and bustle was nice. He turned his head to see something move and caught an artist preparing to paint his table, then smirked at the restaurant's owner, also a close friend; the man in pinstripes rose from his table, gently patted the woman's hand as she gave him a quizzical look, and then walked over to the artist and peered his head over the man's work.
"Say, not bad, mac. Of course, if you're going to paint me, you might get my good side. Forget these other mugs, I'm the only one you should be painting here. You see that dame there?" He gestured to the woman he had been sitting with before, "She's a real tomato, but nothing's upstairs; don't bother painting her, because, really, I don't even know her name."
He moved from the artist and brushed a speck of dust off the restaurant owner's jacket with a friendly sneer.
"Nice to see you again, bo. How's tricks?"
"Say, not bad, mac. Of course, if you're going to paint me, you might get my good side. Forget these other mugs, I'm the only one you should be painting here. You see that dame there?" He gestured to the woman he had been sitting with before, "She's a real tomato, but nothing's upstairs; don't bother painting her, because, really, I don't even know her name."
He moved from the artist and brushed a speck of dust off the restaurant owner's jacket with a friendly sneer.
"Nice to see you again, bo. How's tricks?"
"Mr. Vindici, how are things?" The owner smiled greatly and clasped Jack's elbow, pulling him in for a friendly pat on the back.
The artist looked at Jack with a challenging glare, upset that he told him what to paint and what not to paint. No one did that. Didn't he know how artists were? Apperantly not. He huffed and continued sketching, now paying extra detail to the woman just to spite him. Cocky bastard.
He finished his sketch as the two men spoke of trivial affairs, setting down his pencil and eraser carefully. He then took out his collection of acrylics from the bag at his feet, not really caring that everyone would stare at him. He mixed colors with a trained eye on his palette, making hues of blue, red, and yellow. He paused on the greens- there weren't that many in the decor of the restaurant. Those could wait to be used as highlight.
The artist looked at Jack with a challenging glare, upset that he told him what to paint and what not to paint. No one did that. Didn't he know how artists were? Apperantly not. He huffed and continued sketching, now paying extra detail to the woman just to spite him. Cocky bastard.
He finished his sketch as the two men spoke of trivial affairs, setting down his pencil and eraser carefully. He then took out his collection of acrylics from the bag at his feet, not really caring that everyone would stare at him. He mixed colors with a trained eye on his palette, making hues of blue, red, and yellow. He paused on the greens- there weren't that many in the decor of the restaurant. Those could wait to be used as highlight.
Jack tapped the owner's chin with his knuckles, in a gesture of friendly greeting, as he stepped closer to speak to the man. Contrary to what Cole may have thought, they didn't discuss trivial affairs at all; rather, there was a rather important dignitary in town next month, and the owner inquired as to whether Jack could use his network of connections and contacts to pull a few strings and get the dignitary to stop in at the restaurant. Vindici was noncommittal as he watched the artist work, and finally told the owner that he would try, nothing more could be promised. Once Cole had paused on the greens, Jack tapped against the edge of his sketch with his finger.
"So, what's the rumble, mac? Maybe you don't appreciate being talked to, or maybe you just don't like me; maybe you're hoping that you could draw her and get her number. In any case, you're wasting your time. She's here because that guy over there," Jack pointed at a young man with a flashing smile and flashier suit, "is a casting agent for a big production house, and she wants to break into Broadway. She told me as much, even tried to get me to put in a good word for her, and I don't even know this bird's name. You oughta paint something with a little more substance to it, bo; she's all surface, like all these starlets running around today."
"So, what's the rumble, mac? Maybe you don't appreciate being talked to, or maybe you just don't like me; maybe you're hoping that you could draw her and get her number. In any case, you're wasting your time. She's here because that guy over there," Jack pointed at a young man with a flashing smile and flashier suit, "is a casting agent for a big production house, and she wants to break into Broadway. She told me as much, even tried to get me to put in a good word for her, and I don't even know this bird's name. You oughta paint something with a little more substance to it, bo; she's all surface, like all these starlets running around today."
"That's what Manhatten is all about, isn't it?" HE didn't look up from his paints, carefully getting the right colors by adding in different amounts of black and white to get the hue correct. "Pretty young women trying to mooch their way onto Broadway." He took out an array of brushes, taking the largest to apply the basic background colors in a thin coat so that it would quickly dry. He took a sip of his drink in the meantime. "Don't like you? I don't even know you."
Jack snorted at the artist's response, then dragged a nearby chair over to watch the man work for a moment; he had to admit, the fellow wasn't half bad. The starlet whom Jack had been sitting with got up from her seat, brushed gently against the seated Vindici, and flashed him a smile, which wasn't reciprocated in the least, before she walked off to powder her nose. While she was gone, Jack took out his sterling silver cigarette case and lit up a Wilton from it with a matching silver Zippo lighter. After a few drags, he let the smoke filter out between his teeth and nodded at the painting.
"You ain't bad, mac; if I was one of these hoity-toity types, I'd probably throw away a few large for one of your works. 'Course, I throw away a few large every weekend or so putting on parties for these mugs," he gestured to the gathered people around them, "so it all balances out. So, whattya think; think she could get the part? She can't act, and her singing's worse than her acting, but they've taken a lot less than her and made bank on opening night; what she's really got going for her is a nice pair of gams. Tell you what, you don't see a pair of getaway sticks like those walking down Tenderloin, that's for sure."
He chuckled at his own joke, took another drag of the cigarette, and then flicked it onto a nearby plate before continuing.
"But you don't know this city like I do, bo, if you think all there is to it is the bright lights on Broadway and starry-eyed canaries trying to get their wings. Maybe the reason why you don't know me is because you don't put your ear to the right roads, or beat feet with the right people; a lot of money's going to change hands tonight, in this very restaurant even, and I ain't talking about tipping the waiter. See that fella over there," Jack pointed to a rotund, elderly gentleman in a dark brown suit chugging a glass of champagne like it was water in the Sahara, "has a deal going with the wiseguy sitting next to him." Another gesture, this time to a man who looked a little like Jack, in that he had olive skin, black hair, and an expression that was mixed between snark and malice, although the man sitting across the room from them was a little younger, dressed a lot flashier, and was talking loudly while Vindici had spoken in a low, confident tone.
"They'll switch the kale over dessert; a brown, unmarked envelope will be dropped onto the floor by fatty, after which, the goon will drag it over to him with his feet, let it sit tight for a while, then stoop down to tie his shoes and bring it onto his lap. After that, a waiter will drop by their table, leave a small, unassuming box, small enough to have a ring in it, by fatty there, and that will be that. Now, why am I telling you all this?"
Jack paused momentarily, his rhetorical question lingering in the air like a foul odor, and flashed Cole a mischievous leer.
"I'll tell you why; see, fatty doesn't know it, but his brown envelope has been switched for one carrying a lot of newspaper strips. But that's not all; the goon's little box has already been picked up in the kitchen by one of the city's finest, and now they're waiting to see if wiseguy here is going to plug the mark or if he'll wait until he's left the restaurant to count his take, in which case, the buttons will be dragging two mugs downtown, instead of one mug and one corpse. But, if the goon does check his money, you can bet that fatty'll get his first, and then he'll start shooting at me, since I set this little deal up and tipped off the cops. You might want to give it a rest and go take a powder in about fifteen, just to be safe."
(Oh wow, I didn't even realize how long this was!
Sorry about the lengthy post)
"You ain't bad, mac; if I was one of these hoity-toity types, I'd probably throw away a few large for one of your works. 'Course, I throw away a few large every weekend or so putting on parties for these mugs," he gestured to the gathered people around them, "so it all balances out. So, whattya think; think she could get the part? She can't act, and her singing's worse than her acting, but they've taken a lot less than her and made bank on opening night; what she's really got going for her is a nice pair of gams. Tell you what, you don't see a pair of getaway sticks like those walking down Tenderloin, that's for sure."
He chuckled at his own joke, took another drag of the cigarette, and then flicked it onto a nearby plate before continuing.
"But you don't know this city like I do, bo, if you think all there is to it is the bright lights on Broadway and starry-eyed canaries trying to get their wings. Maybe the reason why you don't know me is because you don't put your ear to the right roads, or beat feet with the right people; a lot of money's going to change hands tonight, in this very restaurant even, and I ain't talking about tipping the waiter. See that fella over there," Jack pointed to a rotund, elderly gentleman in a dark brown suit chugging a glass of champagne like it was water in the Sahara, "has a deal going with the wiseguy sitting next to him." Another gesture, this time to a man who looked a little like Jack, in that he had olive skin, black hair, and an expression that was mixed between snark and malice, although the man sitting across the room from them was a little younger, dressed a lot flashier, and was talking loudly while Vindici had spoken in a low, confident tone.
"They'll switch the kale over dessert; a brown, unmarked envelope will be dropped onto the floor by fatty, after which, the goon will drag it over to him with his feet, let it sit tight for a while, then stoop down to tie his shoes and bring it onto his lap. After that, a waiter will drop by their table, leave a small, unassuming box, small enough to have a ring in it, by fatty there, and that will be that. Now, why am I telling you all this?"
Jack paused momentarily, his rhetorical question lingering in the air like a foul odor, and flashed Cole a mischievous leer.
"I'll tell you why; see, fatty doesn't know it, but his brown envelope has been switched for one carrying a lot of newspaper strips. But that's not all; the goon's little box has already been picked up in the kitchen by one of the city's finest, and now they're waiting to see if wiseguy here is going to plug the mark or if he'll wait until he's left the restaurant to count his take, in which case, the buttons will be dragging two mugs downtown, instead of one mug and one corpse. But, if the goon does check his money, you can bet that fatty'll get his first, and then he'll start shooting at me, since I set this little deal up and tipped off the cops. You might want to give it a rest and go take a powder in about fifteen, just to be safe."
(Oh wow, I didn't even realize how long this was!
Sorry about the lengthy post)
(( No problem lol it was very well done. that's all that matters ))
His hands carefully worked to cultivate the blank canvas into something beautiful, ignoring the first part of Jack's monologue. He had no interest in the woman at all, he merely switched the center focal point from just Jack to Jack and that woman out of spite for him. "She's not that impressive. She looks lopsided and disproportionate with that, how she doesn't need to walk with a hunch in her back, I'll never know. No, truely beautiful women are even and symmetrical in all aspects. Perfection with a few flaws, not a foible with some completeness." He said as he painted her in full detail, from her dress to her hair, he made sure that every piece of her up-do was in its proper position and every thread of her clothing was right where it ought to be. From this obsessive need for meticulousness, it was obvious that the artist here was a perfectionist.
When Jack spoke of the deal, he paye close attention. "I'm from Chicago, not New York. I don't know of the going-ons of the crime world here." He said simply, though he still listened. He absorbed everything he said and he watched. He watched and waited for it to go down as he painted. Layer after layer of acrylic was put on the canvas in order to create his interpretation of the girl, something he did with ease, but when he was going to move onto Jack, he stopped and looked at him. Cole wouldn't paint him just yet, he'd see what would go down in fifteen minutes like the man said. Then, upon witnessing his true colors, he'd paint him. In the meantime, after studying the scene before him once more, he worked on the rest of the table, just undetailed silhouettes, really, as they had only one purpose and that was to drive the eye to the couple in the front. When he drew the background tables, he made the 'unimportant' ones hazy as they should be when drawing in persepctive, but he made the tables and the men Jack outlined more detailed. SOmething that would make the observer take a double take.
His hands carefully worked to cultivate the blank canvas into something beautiful, ignoring the first part of Jack's monologue. He had no interest in the woman at all, he merely switched the center focal point from just Jack to Jack and that woman out of spite for him. "She's not that impressive. She looks lopsided and disproportionate with that, how she doesn't need to walk with a hunch in her back, I'll never know. No, truely beautiful women are even and symmetrical in all aspects. Perfection with a few flaws, not a foible with some completeness." He said as he painted her in full detail, from her dress to her hair, he made sure that every piece of her up-do was in its proper position and every thread of her clothing was right where it ought to be. From this obsessive need for meticulousness, it was obvious that the artist here was a perfectionist.
When Jack spoke of the deal, he paye close attention. "I'm from Chicago, not New York. I don't know of the going-ons of the crime world here." He said simply, though he still listened. He absorbed everything he said and he watched. He watched and waited for it to go down as he painted. Layer after layer of acrylic was put on the canvas in order to create his interpretation of the girl, something he did with ease, but when he was going to move onto Jack, he stopped and looked at him. Cole wouldn't paint him just yet, he'd see what would go down in fifteen minutes like the man said. Then, upon witnessing his true colors, he'd paint him. In the meantime, after studying the scene before him once more, he worked on the rest of the table, just undetailed silhouettes, really, as they had only one purpose and that was to drive the eye to the couple in the front. When he drew the background tables, he made the 'unimportant' ones hazy as they should be when drawing in persepctive, but he made the tables and the men Jack outlined more detailed. SOmething that would make the observer take a double take.
Jack returned to his table, finished the vermouth he had left there, and looked past the actress as she returned, always watching the deal in preparation. She asked him something, he caught just enough to know to shake his head with a frustrated wrinkle in his brow to dissuade her from asking anything else, and he started to count down the minutes. A waiter who had not been present before walked into the room, passing by other tables with a gait just a little too wide and hands a little too loose on his tray to really give the same impression of a trained server that his outfit was giving. Jack watched, waited; there was the drop, fatty fulfilling his rolê admirably and with none of the exaggerated secrecy that Vindici had anticipated.
The wiseguy reached for his glass, then the tablecloth shifted as he slid the envelope over to his side of the table. Another few minutes passed as the two men continued to talk; the waiter was hovering near another table, his unhealthy focus on the deal just barely disguised with dull nods and absentminded remarks to a party of women having trouble choosing between the chicken Parmesan and the beef porterhouse. Finally, the wiseguy bent down to tie his shoes, causing the older man to jerk his head towards the approaching waiter, then catch himself. Professionals these were not, Jack mused to himself as he stared the deal down over the top of his glass. The mobster rose again, a satisfied sneer plastered onto his face, and the fat man looked pleased with the waiter's offering of his box. The delivery man left the dining room, the fat man slid the box into his pocket and continued to eat, and the mobster shifted his attention to something fascinating in his lap. Vindici flinched just a little, then put a hand on the starlet's shoulder, causing her to give him a look.
"Hey, kitten, go take a powder."
"But I just-"
"Take another," he growled at her."
She left the table, confusion written all over her face, and then passed by Cole without looking at the painter. Jack allowed himself a quick glance at Cole, nodded slightly, and then pushed his chair back, not quite standing. The mobster rose from his seat, pulled a small automatic pistol from his pocket, and sent two slugs into the fat man, causing people to scream and duck for cover. Jack dug out a Colt Police Positive from behind his jacket, but the wiseguy was faster, sending a small caliber round into Vindici's chest. Jack fell, his breath coming in shuddering gasps, but managed to get off a shot before he felt his lung collapse, nailing the mobster just left of his center-of-mass and sending the man crumpling back on the fat man's table.
The wiseguy reached for his glass, then the tablecloth shifted as he slid the envelope over to his side of the table. Another few minutes passed as the two men continued to talk; the waiter was hovering near another table, his unhealthy focus on the deal just barely disguised with dull nods and absentminded remarks to a party of women having trouble choosing between the chicken Parmesan and the beef porterhouse. Finally, the wiseguy bent down to tie his shoes, causing the older man to jerk his head towards the approaching waiter, then catch himself. Professionals these were not, Jack mused to himself as he stared the deal down over the top of his glass. The mobster rose again, a satisfied sneer plastered onto his face, and the fat man looked pleased with the waiter's offering of his box. The delivery man left the dining room, the fat man slid the box into his pocket and continued to eat, and the mobster shifted his attention to something fascinating in his lap. Vindici flinched just a little, then put a hand on the starlet's shoulder, causing her to give him a look.
"Hey, kitten, go take a powder."
"But I just-"
"Take another," he growled at her."
She left the table, confusion written all over her face, and then passed by Cole without looking at the painter. Jack allowed himself a quick glance at Cole, nodded slightly, and then pushed his chair back, not quite standing. The mobster rose from his seat, pulled a small automatic pistol from his pocket, and sent two slugs into the fat man, causing people to scream and duck for cover. Jack dug out a Colt Police Positive from behind his jacket, but the wiseguy was faster, sending a small caliber round into Vindici's chest. Jack fell, his breath coming in shuddering gasps, but managed to get off a shot before he felt his lung collapse, nailing the mobster just left of his center-of-mass and sending the man crumpling back on the fat man's table.
Cole saw the deal go down just as Jack had described, impressed that he;d gotten it right. His expresion was reltively blank when he witnessed the mobster shoot the fat man. He didn't particularly care; he didn't know them so it didn't matter to him. When Jack was hit, though, he got up and went over to him. "Didn't plan for this?" he asked, his voice deadly calm. Unnaturally so. He must've been used to this.
Taking a napkin from the table, he folded it carefully, taking his time, and placed it over Jack's wound in a weak and half-assed attempt to stop the bleeding. "You'll likely bleed out." he said, taking Jack's hand in his and placing it over the napkin. "I'm sure you know what to do." He said. He picked up his gun, examining it carefully. "If you make it into the afterlife, look for a woman named Eliza Labonté. Tell her that her husband says hello." He said softly, his mood suddenly changing at the mention of the woman's name. She meant something to him. She was important.
He watched his wound and his hand over the cloth to see if he was getting too weak to effectively stop the blood. If not, he'd intervene. Jack was mildly interesting.
Taking a napkin from the table, he folded it carefully, taking his time, and placed it over Jack's wound in a weak and half-assed attempt to stop the bleeding. "You'll likely bleed out." he said, taking Jack's hand in his and placing it over the napkin. "I'm sure you know what to do." He said. He picked up his gun, examining it carefully. "If you make it into the afterlife, look for a woman named Eliza Labonté. Tell her that her husband says hello." He said softly, his mood suddenly changing at the mention of the woman's name. She meant something to him. She was important.
He watched his wound and his hand over the cloth to see if he was getting too weak to effectively stop the blood. If not, he'd intervene. Jack was mildly interesting.
Jack slid his hand out of Cole's, as casual as the other man, and reached inside his suit jacket to flip out an ivory-handled butterfly knife, his hands moving deftly as he performed one or two showy tricks before snapping the knife open and digging the bullet out of the wound without even a flinch. After a moment, he stabbed the knife into a nearby table surface, stood up quickly, and looked around for his glass, then drained it. His breath came in wet, gurgling gasps, but he turned his back to Cole for a few moments and it evened out to what it had been before. Vindici lit up a Wilton, turned back, and felt where the bullet had struck him; the blood and hole in his suit was there, but skin showed under the burned cloth.
"In a hurry to send me to my maker, mac? I ain't going anywhere fast, especially not there, not again."
He caught himself, looked away to cast an eye over the failed deal, which the police were picking over now, and then snicked the ashes from his cigarette onto Cole's suit as he took a deep breath, no trace of his injury present in his voice.
"How'd the picture come out, bo? I want to take a look at it," he noted with apparent nonchalance.
"In a hurry to send me to my maker, mac? I ain't going anywhere fast, especially not there, not again."
He caught himself, looked away to cast an eye over the failed deal, which the police were picking over now, and then snicked the ashes from his cigarette onto Cole's suit as he took a deep breath, no trace of his injury present in his voice.
"How'd the picture come out, bo? I want to take a look at it," he noted with apparent nonchalance.
He was floored. No way anyone could survive that, let allow walk away from it. He grabbed Jack's shirt, ripping it open without a care. He touched where the injury was in a scene that must've looked like the story of Doubting Thomas. "What are you." he demanded, not buging to show him the painting. "How can you survive something which should have killed you." He was in no mood for games. He wanted answers and now. This was was too fantastic for him to believe and he wanted to know how and why it happened.
Jack grabbed a nearby trenchcoat and buttoned it up over his ripped shirt, then stepped forward and glared at Cole.
"Hey, that shirt wasn't free, you numbskull; you're paying my tailor bill now."
He paused to toss a nod of his head to the cops, who were busy hauling off the bleeding thug to get medical attention, then walked outside with a gesture for Cole to follow him. If the artist did, Jack turned to the man on the sidewalk and waited for the door back into the restaurant to close.
"You're looking at a dead man, mac. I'll save you the story, it's good for a laugh but I'm not much in the mood right now; just know that you'd have to try pretty damned hard to do more than get my attention if you tried to kill me."
With that, he took another drag on his Wilton, then looked to the street, where his Cord had been driven up; another glance back at Cole told him that the artist must have been pretty surprised by what he saw, so Jack fished out his pocketbook and handed the man a fifty dollar bill.
"Here, get yourself a cab ride home and forget about it. You said you didn't know me, back there. Let's keep it that way."
Jack entered his Cord, threw another long look at Cole, and drove off; he had been clear about not meeting again in his words, telling Cole in no uncertain terms that he didn't wish to know the man. But, his tone was just the opposite; the enterprising sneer, the challenging voice, Jack clearly wanted to test the painter, see if he would be intrigued enough to come looking for trouble.
"Hey, that shirt wasn't free, you numbskull; you're paying my tailor bill now."
He paused to toss a nod of his head to the cops, who were busy hauling off the bleeding thug to get medical attention, then walked outside with a gesture for Cole to follow him. If the artist did, Jack turned to the man on the sidewalk and waited for the door back into the restaurant to close.
"You're looking at a dead man, mac. I'll save you the story, it's good for a laugh but I'm not much in the mood right now; just know that you'd have to try pretty damned hard to do more than get my attention if you tried to kill me."
With that, he took another drag on his Wilton, then looked to the street, where his Cord had been driven up; another glance back at Cole told him that the artist must have been pretty surprised by what he saw, so Jack fished out his pocketbook and handed the man a fifty dollar bill.
"Here, get yourself a cab ride home and forget about it. You said you didn't know me, back there. Let's keep it that way."
Jack entered his Cord, threw another long look at Cole, and drove off; he had been clear about not meeting again in his words, telling Cole in no uncertain terms that he didn't wish to know the man. But, his tone was just the opposite; the enterprising sneer, the challenging voice, Jack clearly wanted to test the painter, see if he would be intrigued enough to come looking for trouble.
He walked home instead of taking a cab, keeping the money for more practical things like buying food or clothing. He went to his friend's apartment, being as quiet as possible as to not disturb him. He knew Henry slept with his bedroom door open, something that his fiancée insisted on. He moved across the hallway with light steps, passing their room and going into the guest room quietly. Once he shut his own door, he set his painting, still unfinished, on the dresser and immeidately undressed down to his undershorts.
He climbed into bed, resting his pounding head on the soft pillows and though about Jack's.. ability until it gave him a headache. He thought about how it could have saved Eliza, his late wife, if she could regenerate like that. Was it even regeneration? Eventually, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep...
..Only to wake to the sound of soft voices and frying eggs. Henry and his girl were up. Cole washed his face in the basin provided, drying off all the dirt from yesterday. He'd bathe after breakfast. Dressing, he went out to the kitchen where he was greeted warmly with breakfast. Once small-talk and the meals were finished, he went back to his room and decided to go back to sleep.
In the evening, he woke again. This time, he washed and dressed. He was ready to go back to the area around the restaurant and try to find Jack again. He needed to know what was going on. He needed to know.
He climbed into bed, resting his pounding head on the soft pillows and though about Jack's.. ability until it gave him a headache. He thought about how it could have saved Eliza, his late wife, if she could regenerate like that. Was it even regeneration? Eventually, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep...
..Only to wake to the sound of soft voices and frying eggs. Henry and his girl were up. Cole washed his face in the basin provided, drying off all the dirt from yesterday. He'd bathe after breakfast. Dressing, he went out to the kitchen where he was greeted warmly with breakfast. Once small-talk and the meals were finished, he went back to his room and decided to go back to sleep.
In the evening, he woke again. This time, he washed and dressed. He was ready to go back to the area around the restaurant and try to find Jack again. He needed to know what was going on. He needed to know.
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