"Don't," he snaps, raising a hand to warn Aimery off, whether or not the other man had even considered approaching. He can't keep the arm steady, and it's hard to tell if that's a sign of vulnerability or hostility. (Or both.) Pulling both arms back in to hide it, he rakes his fingers back through his hair, yanking on the ends.

This would be easier if he wasn't already drunk. If his head wasn't already a mess of deeply repressed want finally unleashed, his carefully constructed restraint already in shambles. What capability he has for self-control is now scrambling to catch up, reeling from the abrupt change of gears, and there's nothing else to anchor him.

His eyes stay on Aimery. Looking at the scars, all of them but that one in particular, and then at the rest of him, too. It's so obvious, he doesn't know why he didn't think– not that Aimery bears much physical resemblance, but Jack has his habits, his preferences, that instinctive tendency to zero in on certain qualities in a person and respond in a certain way. It's the same pattern. He sees someone out of their element and he has to charm them, seduce them, build up their hopes and dominate their attention – and be able to cut them down to nothing again when he's done. Just like Joseph. It's just like Joseph.

He feels sick. "I'm fine."