Authors note: This is quite pointless. And I'm just no good at writing long stories with… well… plot. But here's a snippet… too long to be a drabble… that came to mind this evening. This chapter was originally a stand-alone, but I've since added more. Still, it's only loosely related to the rest of the story - much more introspective and much less direct than the other chapters. It could have stayed on it's own, but I think it will have a place by the end of the story. : )

I never was a fan of beer. Especially that … stuff… Jack likes to drink.

But tonight… the cool glass bottle he's pushing into my hands, wet with condensation against my sweaty, shaking palms, is like heaven.

I hold the bottle close to my face, rubbing the heel of my left hand against the glass.

My eyes are still closed. I let out a shaking breath, trying to calm my nerves.

I know if I touched the glass to my forehead, it would be like ice, so I don't.

I don't move the bottle closer, but I do breathe in the cool air, the aura around it.

Eventually I lean my head further down, not against the bottle, but against that left hand, still not quite caressing that bottle. My elbows are against my knees, one foot sneaking under the other on the floor to warm my chilled toes and ankles.

It's late, I know.

And I'd rather be sleeping – but at the same time…

…

I'll just stay awake. Such that I am.

Jack, for once, says nothing.

Eventually, I hear Jack put his bottle down on the table. It's a dull sound, not the clink of glass against ceramic, and I know he must not have put down coasters this time. He'll be complaining tomorrow about the hazy circles on the waxed finish, tough guy that he is.

I keep holding my bottle in its awkward position. Sooner or later I'll have to drink it.

I know it will probably help chase away some of the demons, for better or worse, but still…hell.

I shift position, leaning back against the couch rather than in my previous protective crouch, bringing my feet up under me, sick of the coolness toward the floor. Damn Colorado. I hate the cold.

Finally, I take a long pull from the bottle.

Huh.

Jack sees me open my eyes in question.

I glance at the label.

"Local," he says. "I know you think the norm is a bit… heavy."

Master of understatement, that Jack. And I have to agree with him.

"So," he continues, "I thought you'd like this one better."

It's still a beer. But it's a light amber, flavorful. I squint to see the label… it's…

"Flowers? And a bicycle?" Like I said, tough guy.

"Yeah, well," he says. "Bicycle, tire." He shrugs. "Whatever."

I see he still has his much darker brew.

He shifts just a little closer, the warmth at my side now a counterpoint to the cool glass in my hand.

His feet are on the coffee table, our thighs now barely touching, his right to my left.

I lean toward him a bit more, seeking that warmth, putting my head on his shoulder.

It's far too late to question such things, and Jack seems to agree.

I can feel his sigh more than I can hear it, either way, I'm not sure he intended me to.

I close my eyes again, content.

"Thanks," I say.

Although, at this hour of the night – or morning – whatever it is, I'm not sure it's the beer I'm thanking him for.

"Anytime," he answers.

Authors note: I was going to name the beer, but this story isn't actually about the beer, so I guess it doesn't matter.