[ Jesse doesn't take it personally when she turns down the joint. Doesn't even blink. Hell, she's probably smart for it. Around here, you never really know what's in anything. Her voice is steady when she says no, and he respects that more than if she’d made some excuse just to be polite. That kind of honesty is rare currency in a place where the sky is always changing and time feels like it loops when you're not looking.
He takes another hit and lets it sit in his lungs just a second longer than usual. Then one more. The joint burns low, singeing his fingertips. Jesse doesn’t flinch. He just stubs it out on the bumper of the van and pushes the half-finished joint into the crumpled pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Waste not, want not. Around here, even the ash feels like it might matter someday.
He doesn't flinch at her question. If anything, it lands too close to something he's already been chewing on. Something slow and low in his gut that doesn't quite have a name. Weird as shit. Like that's not already the baseline. The parking lot buzzes behind them like a wasp hive that just forgot how to sting. The two hotheads are gone, off in search of beer or maybe just a new direction to point their rage. Jesse doesn't watch them go. His eyes flick back to Nashua instead. ]
Pretty sure I’m already there...
[ His voice is low when he answers, a rasp with edges sanded down from overuse and under-sleep. He rubs a hand under his nose, then scratches the back of his neck. Weird as shit? Shit, he doesn’t even know what normal is anymore. Was it the house with the picket fence? The desert that ate his friends and spat out ghosts? The look on Walter White's face when he realized Jesse wasn't just some kid in over his head, but a reflection? ]
Nah, for real. [ He continues after a beat, glancing back toward the van. The moons spill soft purple and silver across the rusted hood. It looks like a painting someone gave up on halfway through. ] This place? They pump in weird like it's chlorine in the pool. We're all breathin' it in. You ever stand still too long, you start thinking weird is normal. Like maybe the problem's just you for remembering what it was like before.
[ He shrugs, but there’s no real weight to it. Just motion. Habit. A pause, then a tilt of his head, eyes narrowing just slightly (not suspicious, just curious). ]
no subject
He takes another hit and lets it sit in his lungs just a second longer than usual. Then one more. The joint burns low, singeing his fingertips. Jesse doesn’t flinch. He just stubs it out on the bumper of the van and pushes the half-finished joint into the crumpled pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Waste not, want not. Around here, even the ash feels like it might matter someday.
He doesn't flinch at her question. If anything, it lands too close to something he's already been chewing on. Something slow and low in his gut that doesn't quite have a name. Weird as shit. Like that's not already the baseline. The parking lot buzzes behind them like a wasp hive that just forgot how to sting. The two hotheads are gone, off in search of beer or maybe just a new direction to point their rage. Jesse doesn't watch them go. His eyes flick back to Nashua instead. ]
Pretty sure I’m already there...
[ His voice is low when he answers, a rasp with edges sanded down from overuse and under-sleep. He rubs a hand under his nose, then scratches the back of his neck. Weird as shit? Shit, he doesn’t even know what normal is anymore. Was it the house with the picket fence? The desert that ate his friends and spat out ghosts? The look on Walter White's face when he realized Jesse wasn't just some kid in over his head, but a reflection? ]
Nah, for real. [ He continues after a beat, glancing back toward the van. The moons spill soft purple and silver across the rusted hood. It looks like a painting someone gave up on halfway through. ] This place? They pump in weird like it's chlorine in the pool. We're all breathin' it in. You ever stand still too long, you start thinking weird is normal. Like maybe the problem's just you for remembering what it was like before.
[ He shrugs, but there’s no real weight to it. Just motion. Habit. A pause, then a tilt of his head, eyes narrowing just slightly (not suspicious, just curious). ]
Where were you from? Like, before this.