Setting
INK
Several hours and a ridiculous number of theorem proofs later, Jack sat back in his desk chair, stretching his arms out behind him and letting out a gusty exhalation that strangely resembled a sigh of relief. Huh. That was pretty unusual for him, but then he was indeed relieved. Not only were these damn proofs done, but whatever had come over him earlier had faded.
Standing, he shook out his limbs before padding downstairs in search of something to eat. Technically, his family employed a full household staff, certified chef included, but Jack was the sort of person who was more inclined to do things his own way, and as a result, he'd asked Antonio (said chef) to teach him how to cook. Like most things he enjoyed, Jack wound up very good at it, and Antonio was usually quite happy to let him wander about the kitchen as he pleased. It was one less thing for the beleaguered Italian man to do, after all, and Jack rarely got in the way.
that said, Jack was more in the mood for takeout and television at the moment, and so he rummaged around in the fridge, coming up with several of those smallish white boxes you got from cheap Chinese restaurants. Antonio, busy preparing dinner for Jack's parents, caught sight of them and shook his head disapprovingly, but he wouldn't say anything about it. Jack liked that about the man: he was a good guy, and didn't go out of the way to make himself a pain in the ass.
Wending his way through the house, he selected one of the smaller rooms with a TV (which was still twice as big as the average bedroom, not to mention the fact that the TV was high-definition and flatscreen) and plopped himself on the sofa, switching on the box with a remote on the redwood coffee table. Crossing his legs underneath him, he tucked into the food with a pair of chopsticks, occasionally flipping channels when he got bored.
Standing, he shook out his limbs before padding downstairs in search of something to eat. Technically, his family employed a full household staff, certified chef included, but Jack was the sort of person who was more inclined to do things his own way, and as a result, he'd asked Antonio (said chef) to teach him how to cook. Like most things he enjoyed, Jack wound up very good at it, and Antonio was usually quite happy to let him wander about the kitchen as he pleased. It was one less thing for the beleaguered Italian man to do, after all, and Jack rarely got in the way.
that said, Jack was more in the mood for takeout and television at the moment, and so he rummaged around in the fridge, coming up with several of those smallish white boxes you got from cheap Chinese restaurants. Antonio, busy preparing dinner for Jack's parents, caught sight of them and shook his head disapprovingly, but he wouldn't say anything about it. Jack liked that about the man: he was a good guy, and didn't go out of the way to make himself a pain in the ass.
Wending his way through the house, he selected one of the smaller rooms with a TV (which was still twice as big as the average bedroom, not to mention the fact that the TV was high-definition and flatscreen) and plopped himself on the sofa, switching on the box with a remote on the redwood coffee table. Crossing his legs underneath him, he tucked into the food with a pair of chopsticks, occasionally flipping channels when he got bored.