"Are you ordinarily much of a drinking man, Mr. Jacob?" Edward smiled, leaning back in his chair. His glass clinked down on the table beside him; arm freed, he set it on the armrest and it hung limp.
The old man, too, had begun smiling for the first time since the courtesy of their initial greetings, his pale face flushed. He chuckled, likewise, for the first time at all that Edward had heard that night - a faint draft sound. Peter shook his head, a few small, restricted beats. Then he paused, shaking it.
"From time to time," he said, a weary croak threaded across every syllable out of his throat like the moan of wooden eaves in an ancient house. "Often, it's the only way I'm able to get even the slightest bit of rest." He inspected his own glass as he moved as well to set it down - another shake of his head as it, too, clinked. "Other nights, I don't dare."
Edward nodded as if to an interviewed patient. When Peter rested forward and looked him in the eyes, the old reporter's smile had gone. "I find that - the dreams aren't worth it."
A strange, almost matter-of-factly neutral yet wandering, drifting half-whisper.
"The irony," Edward said - a twist of humor tugging on the corners of his lips in wholly involuntary earnest. He picked up the decanter of whiskey - poured it onto the little stones of ice still remaining in his glass and listened to them clink and dance and spin against each other, like change in a purse. "There were moments during my own ordeal in this house that I achieved a boost of what was at the time much-needed resolve from slipping aside to indulge in my favorite port."
"Really," breathed Peter; Edward thought he could hear a swell of amusement.
A nod, before Edward raised his glass to the old man.
"It helped me grow accustomed all the more quickly to a waking nightmare, I suppose." He tilted his head slightly; let a hint of warmth grow his grin. "I don't imagine that removing the artifact from your possession will put an end to dreams of war, man or Ancient...
"But let this mark the hopeful liberation of your conscious mind, Mr. Jacob, after all that you've endured."
Peter laughed - hollow and dry. "That may be too much to hope for. Men change after - seeing things. I must admit that I'm astonished by how well it seems you've held up. After discovering such things as you have under the very place where you live."
And Edward, in turn, chuckled. "Perhaps that is the continuous magic of keeping high-quality spirits on hand, mm?" he said, holding his glass higher; his throat was warm. "A constant supply of liquid courage, for when the nightmares start to seep back into places where you know they cannot be...!"
Peter's smile had grown weary. Distant, as he rubbed his thumbs together atop where his hands laced together in his lap, but thoughtful.
"Another toast," said Edward. "To removal of the catalyst."
Peter's eyes lifted. He reached a bony arm out to pick his glass up again - still half-full. Raised it.
Cling.
"To some relief," said Peter.
"May your waking dreams be sweet."
Written for the r/FanFiction April Daily Prompt challenge. April 1st: "It Started With a Strong Drink".