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On any other day, the great oaken doors to Doctor Henry Jekyll's office would have closed with a gentle 'thud' and 'click' or even a slam of finality-- either way, succinct. Today, however, these doors fell closed with a worryingly slow groan of wood. And behind those doors, the good doctor himself resided.
A hand fisted in his brown locks-- mussing hours of earlier effort to keep precise-- and the other squeezed in a fist against his desk-- his shoulders suggesting that was the only thing keeping him upright. These shoulders rose with immense emotion, threatening to burst out of the finely-tailored suit, before seemingly melting with a shuddering exhale.
After a moment had passed, Dr. Jekyll heaved himself back into a standing position with a sharp breath. With measured steps, he came before one of his many glass-cabinets. This one didn't hold the alchemical supplies that graced the shelves of the other cabinets, though many would find its contents were equally magical.
The doors opened with only the softest, most well-oiled creek as crimson eyes widened ever-so-slightly with desire. A single gloved hand approached the crystalline bottles with the stuttering hesitation of someone who had sworn to moderation but who had a penchant for sin. But the guilt of pleasure melted away once his thumb made contact with one of the glass vessels.
More adventurous now, he graced his fingers over each bottle with reverence. Chardonnay and Cabernet, Riesling and even a flask of Mead from a kindly old woman who insisted he enjoy the "sweeter things in life." These thoughts brought a gentle, fond smile to Dr. Jekyll's lips. Even so, he skimmed past bottles of Claret, Sherry, and Champagne before he found purchase with the desired vessel.
It was anything but pretty, to be quite honest. Ugly bubbles textured the glass and a few disconcerting stains dotted the cap. It was hideously cheap...
...but it was home.
It was opened deftly and drank with passion by its owner. An owner who had long-since numbed to the burning sensation in his throat and instead focused on the warmth pooling in his belly.
He could remember when this started. Late nights in Glasgow. Fleeing to the rooftops for just a taste of isolation and a swig of his uncle's Scotch Whiskey.
... There and back again and not a single thing learned.