[ Jesse watches Jack with something like wonder tucked behind his tired eyes; carefully hidden, like a photograph kept in a wallet too long. The kid's all brightness, a strange kind of gravity that pulls without demanding. He's soaked from the knees down, shoes MIA, face lit up with that open, guileless grin. Jesse doesn't understand people like this. Not really. But he's starting to wish he could. The question about yelling makes him huff a quiet breath of laughter, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. It softens something sharp in his expression, like rust being worn smooth by salt air. ]
Yellin' definitely helps, man. [ Jesse flicks a grin in Jack's direction, but it doesn't quite hide the fact that his fingers are trembling from more than just the heat. ] If the machine's a stubborn bastard, you gotta out-stubborn it. Talk dirty to it. Threaten its bolts.
[ Jack takes it seriously at first, and then realizes, and then says it's funny. Jesse's heart folds a little, like paper under pressure. It's not mockery, not even close. It's endearing. The kind of honesty that slices right through the layers Jesse usually builds around himself like insulation. He plucks a couple of the suspicious hot dogs up with a pair of tongs and sets them down on the grill, where they sizzle like they've got something to prove. Smoke curls up around them like stage fog.
When Jack says he’s glad to see him with no hesitation, like it's a fact of the world that can't be argued, Jesse glances sideways. It stings a little, in that good, confusing way. Like pressing a bruise just to see if it still hurts. He doesn't answer right away. Just watches the hot dogs curl and hiss, flipping them once with an unnecessary level of care. ]
Yeah, you too. I'm uh, I'm good. [ He responds automatically, then catches himself and softens it with a huff of honesty. ] The fender-bender? That was nothin'. Just a dent and a ditch. You pullin' my van outta there was the highlight of my week, not gonna lie.
[ He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, flexes his shoulder like it's still stiff. ] But, uh... most of this? [ He gestures vaguely toward himself, the half-hidden bruises on his face, the band of ache across his ribs. ] This was already on me. Arrival kinda roughed me up. And before that... [ He trails off with a vague hand-wave, like the rest doesn't need to be said. Like Spooge and his batshit girlfriend who pistol-whipped him with his own gun are better left buried. ] I'll live. Ain't the first time I been busted up. Probably won't be the last.
[ He pokes at the hot dog with the tongs, satisfied by the hiss it makes. ] You want mustard, ketchup, or you one of those freaks who eats it plain?
no subject
Yellin' definitely helps, man. [ Jesse flicks a grin in Jack's direction, but it doesn't quite hide the fact that his fingers are trembling from more than just the heat. ] If the machine's a stubborn bastard, you gotta out-stubborn it. Talk dirty to it. Threaten its bolts.
[ Jack takes it seriously at first, and then realizes, and then says it's funny. Jesse's heart folds a little, like paper under pressure. It's not mockery, not even close. It's endearing. The kind of honesty that slices right through the layers Jesse usually builds around himself like insulation. He plucks a couple of the suspicious hot dogs up with a pair of tongs and sets them down on the grill, where they sizzle like they've got something to prove. Smoke curls up around them like stage fog.
When Jack says he’s glad to see him with no hesitation, like it's a fact of the world that can't be argued, Jesse glances sideways. It stings a little, in that good, confusing way. Like pressing a bruise just to see if it still hurts. He doesn't answer right away. Just watches the hot dogs curl and hiss, flipping them once with an unnecessary level of care. ]
Yeah, you too. I'm uh, I'm good. [ He responds automatically, then catches himself and softens it with a huff of honesty. ] The fender-bender? That was nothin'. Just a dent and a ditch. You pullin' my van outta there was the highlight of my week, not gonna lie.
[ He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, flexes his shoulder like it's still stiff. ] But, uh... most of this? [ He gestures vaguely toward himself, the half-hidden bruises on his face, the band of ache across his ribs. ] This was already on me. Arrival kinda roughed me up. And before that... [ He trails off with a vague hand-wave, like the rest doesn't need to be said. Like Spooge and his batshit girlfriend who pistol-whipped him with his own gun are better left buried. ] I'll live. Ain't the first time I been busted up. Probably won't be the last.
[ He pokes at the hot dog with the tongs, satisfied by the hiss it makes. ] You want mustard, ketchup, or you one of those freaks who eats it plain?