Jeremiah Spindle was not and never had been a drinking man. In sickness or in health, he tried to stay away from the drink. Weren't like he'd never had it before, nah, nothing near as like that. Just he could smell the cling of whiskey and gin to Elijah, some dark stormcloud, looming over a child who still didn't like as know what he'd done wrong. So Jer didn't drink, not much.

Sometimes though, there were occassions and happenings in a man's life where there was no deeper comfort than the bottom of a bottle, no sweeter atmosphere than the darkness of some bar. Vicka, sweet girl, had gone and got herself a job somewheres rather like that. Somewheres that fit the bill just fine for what Jer wanted. Cai had come home, said where he was but-- Jer hadn't been listening, hadn't said much. Didn't confront him about what all Vicka had said, that was for damn sure. He wasn't ready to do that, yet. What did a man say to that kind of betrayal? He was so bad with words to start with, it would be better if he left it well enough alone until he'd had a little more time to sort himself out in his own mind.

The walk was long, and colder than he'd bargained on. The sharpness in the air did him some good, helped him start to untangle that mess of thoughts and feelings in his chest. Most of it he tried to push down, but ah, Alioe. He ent never expected this, nothing like this. Not some dishonest slinking. If-- If their marriage was-- if it was all-- Jer couldn't think as to what this meant. Whatever it was, he sure as sure wished he hadn't heard it from Vi, darling Vi who was just looking out for him.

Ma would have heard, by now. If Vicka knew, the town knew, and if the town knew Ma knew too. He expected a visit from her in the morning. Just one more reason to wander down to the Stag. He hadn't been to a bar in years, going on a decade even, but there was nothing different here from any he'd ever seen. Same sorts of faces, same sort of atmosphere. Jovial tonight, and why not? Not everyone'd been betrayed by someone they loved more than anything in this world recently. Some had, maybe, he could see it a bit, but it was the happy ones he was hoping as would rub off on him.

Jer grabbed himself a seat at the bar, not directly next to anybody, looking around for Vicka.

Vicka spotted Jer as soon as he came in, but was unable to get away from the customer she was idly flirting with for a moment. He grabbed her hand; Vicka playfully batted him away, sauntering back to the bar. The saunter turned into a brisk walk, absent the hip action that she was so proud of, having perfected it at the young age of twelve.

"Hey," Vicka said softly. She found a newer, neater looking clay mug that the Stag was famous for, and made to fill it from a tap. "I wondered if you'd drop by."

She set the mug before him, not asking for any money. Jer would pay her on his own if he felt the need, but he was family, and he was in a tough spot. "D'you need anything else?"