[Jack just laughs again, the majority of it carefully muffled into the dregs of his wine as he tosses it back in one swallow -- seems like he really does intend to get to the bottom of a bottle tonight, whenever and however that might be.

He'll pour himself another without pause and top up McGillis' before speaking again, contemplating the slow swirl of liquid over the purple and fuzzy and plush world of the couch that still holds him for now.

It's almost like a parody of the world they've shared until now, this dingy little enclave of couch and carafe.]

I have every confidence in your ability with a proper blade.

[Maybe it's to make up for forcing him to use a pitchfork in the murder?? McGillis did lose the stabbing race, after all, at the end of the day. He throws over something like a lopsided smile, something sharp and fleeting and dark at the edges of it, like clouds chasing each other across the moon over the tower.]

And oh, I appreciate the sentiment, but I fully intend to make myself as much of a nuisance as possible. This is a soul that even the Abyss could not stomach, after all. I daresay she would regret trying to eat me in the first place. [only some of that is coherent, but as established that is just the state of Jack Vessalius, local blond problem of questionable age and indeterminate mortality status] ... Focus on your own wish, Montag. It is right there within your grasp.

One of us must be able to rewrite that particular ending.