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Alex knocks twice on Jack's door, stepping inside after a moment of no response.
At first, he thinks Jack is asleep in the armchair, but then he notices the almost-empty glass of scotch dangling from his fingers and the wide, tired eyes that stare at the fire in front of him.
"'You have come to kill me,'" he says.
Alex blinks. "Uh," he stops. "What?"
Jack continues as if he isn't there. "...the Owl King says. 'I have?' the sword smith's daughter asks."
"Are you really, really drunk right now?" Alex asks, looking at the almost-empty glass of scotch and the bottle on the table beside Jack.
"'They always find a way to kill me. They have found me here, now, even in dreams.'" Jack turns to Alex as he says here, not quite looking at him but almost through.
"Jesus, you are really, really drunk right now."
Alex watches as Jack resumes his storytelling, half to him and half to the unoccupied room before him. Alex looks again at the table; next to the bottle is Jack's copy of Fortunes and Fables, open to the story of the three swords, showing the illustration of an owl atop a pile of books on a candle-covered tree stump.
"'A new king will come and take my place,'" Jack says. "'Go on; it is your purpose.'"
He holds out his hand dramatically, once again letting the glass dangle from his fingers. Alex takes the chance to take it and place it on the table.
Secretly, he'd wanted another storytime with Jack, but not like this. He stands and listens and watches as Jack recounts the beheading of the owl, the crown disintegrating, and despite the odd nature of the story it feels more real than when he read it from a page.
"And then she wakes, still in her chair by the fireplace in her library." Jack's head falls against the back of the armchair and his eyes shut and stay shut. Alex moves forward to check on him, but as soon as he does, Jack leans forward and continues as if he hadn't paused at all.
"On the shelf where the sword had been there is an owl perched on its empty case." He points behind Alex to the bookshelf, eyes still closed. Alex turns and finds a painting of the owl with its crown over its head nestled between the books.
"The owl stayed with her for the rest of her days," he murmurs, voice low in Alex's ear. Then he slumps back into the chair.
Fuck. Even this drunk, he's an incredible storyteller.
"Who is the Owl King, exactly?" Alex asks, mostly to break the silence that comes after the story.
"Shush," Jack replies. He lifts a hand to Alex's mouth to quiet him with wide eyes. "We can't know that yet. When we know it'll mean the story is over."
His fingers linger on Alex's lips for just a moment before they fall back into his lap. The moment tastes of scotch and sweat and the turning of pages.
Jack's head rests on the tall back of his chair and their late-night drunken storytime is over.
Alex gently picks him up. He sets Jack in bed, tucks the sheets around him and heads for the door.
He stops at the table beside the chair and picks up Jack's almost-empty glass. He drinks the little that's left, partially so Jack won't finish it himself but mostly so he can taste what Jack did. Smooth and smoky and somewhat melancholy.
He closes the door as quietly as he can, leaving Jack sleeping and maybe dreaming in his little corner of the underground Harbour on the Starless Sea.