[ The laugh catches him off guard. It's short, bright, real - the kind of sound that doesn’t belong here, not with the broken moons hanging like unfinished thoughts overhead and the air warped around the edges like heat off asphalt. Jesse glances up from the grill and sees Jack. Really sees him. Not just the Nephilim he knows he is, but a kid for a second. One who laughs at busted grill jokes and talks about mustard like it's a revelation. Jesse's stomach does this weird twist, like something inside him just recognized an ease, a relaxation, that it forgot it needed. Or maybe it's just foreign. He's so used to each day being dialed up to eleven, constantly waiting for the next shoe to drop. It's nice to just let go, even if it only comes piecemeal, in moments like this.
He doesn't say anything right away. Just flips one of the hot dogs over again, watching the skin blister and crisp. There's grease crackling at the edges and smoke that smells like memory: cheap barbecues and late summers, a plastic chair creaking under his weight while his aunt Ginny yelled at the neighbor's dog for trying to steal buns.
Jack's voice cuts through that like a blade made of soft light. You can always call me. I'll always come. Jesse blinks. He doesn't look directly at Jack when he says it, because something in his chest's already gone too soft. Like the heat from the grill settled into the center of his ribcage. He can't remember the last time someone said that and meant it. Maybe Combo, once. Maybe Jane, almost. Maybe no one. The grill pops, snapping him back. Jesse clears his throat, nudging one of the weird hot dogs with the tongs. ]
Shit, man. You sure you're not a superhero?
[ It's not mocking. Not even teasing. There's something else under the words. Not quite awe, nor doubt, but more just trying to make sense of it all. Trying to make sense of Jack and the way he acts like being kind isn't a gamble; like it doesn't cost him anything. Jesse doesn't fully trust it yet, but he wants to, and that scares him a little. He hands Jack a plate with the most edible-looking hot dog of the bunch, then moves to fix one for himself, slowly and methodically, because it gives his hands something to do.
Jack's intensity when he says 'they'll regret it' hits him sideways. Jesse doesn’t react outwardly aside from pausing in the middle of assembling his food. But yeah, he saw that strength before. Saw how the kid lifted the van like it was nothing. Whatever Jack's packing, Jesse knows it's not 'normal'. Probably not entirely safe, either. But the weirdest part about it is that Jesse doesn't feel afraid. Not at all. He passes Jack a ketchup bottle without speaking, then squeezes mustard onto his own with way too much focus. He finally glances over again, voice quieter now. ]
You, uh...you don't gotta protect me, man. I mean...it's cool that you want to, don't get me wrong. Just. Don't burn the world down for me.
[ He says it lightly, but there's something in his tone that says he's seen too many fires started over less. It says maybe he's already been someone's reason for doing something they couldn't take back. He takes a bite, chews, and swallows, then looks out at the pool and the shifting crowd. The hum of the resort buzzes in his ears like a radio between stations. He feels like he's standing on the edge of something, and then he grins, suddenly changing the subject, shifting focus. Deflecting. He's always been good at that. ]
Yo, this might be the weirdest cookout I've ever been to. And that includes the one time my boy Badger tried to grill frozen pizza on a shopping cart. What about you - been to a lot of barbecues where you're from?
[ He tries to lighten the mood, tries on optimism for size, like maybe this night won't turn sour after all. It's still a foreign feeling for a guy used to everything possible in his life going wrong. Maybe having a friend at his side, even someone half-celestial in half-damp jeans, isn't the worst thing to happen to him lately. Maybe he could get used to this. Being here. ]
no subject
He doesn't say anything right away. Just flips one of the hot dogs over again, watching the skin blister and crisp. There's grease crackling at the edges and smoke that smells like memory: cheap barbecues and late summers, a plastic chair creaking under his weight while his aunt Ginny yelled at the neighbor's dog for trying to steal buns.
Jack's voice cuts through that like a blade made of soft light. You can always call me. I'll always come. Jesse blinks. He doesn't look directly at Jack when he says it, because something in his chest's already gone too soft. Like the heat from the grill settled into the center of his ribcage. He can't remember the last time someone said that and meant it. Maybe Combo, once. Maybe Jane, almost. Maybe no one. The grill pops, snapping him back. Jesse clears his throat, nudging one of the weird hot dogs with the tongs. ]
Shit, man. You sure you're not a superhero?
[ It's not mocking. Not even teasing. There's something else under the words. Not quite awe, nor doubt, but more just trying to make sense of it all. Trying to make sense of Jack and the way he acts like being kind isn't a gamble; like it doesn't cost him anything. Jesse doesn't fully trust it yet, but he wants to, and that scares him a little. He hands Jack a plate with the most edible-looking hot dog of the bunch, then moves to fix one for himself, slowly and methodically, because it gives his hands something to do.
Jack's intensity when he says 'they'll regret it' hits him sideways. Jesse doesn’t react outwardly aside from pausing in the middle of assembling his food. But yeah, he saw that strength before. Saw how the kid lifted the van like it was nothing. Whatever Jack's packing, Jesse knows it's not 'normal'. Probably not entirely safe, either. But the weirdest part about it is that Jesse doesn't feel afraid. Not at all. He passes Jack a ketchup bottle without speaking, then squeezes mustard onto his own with way too much focus. He finally glances over again, voice quieter now. ]
You, uh...you don't gotta protect me, man. I mean...it's cool that you want to, don't get me wrong. Just. Don't burn the world down for me.
[ He says it lightly, but there's something in his tone that says he's seen too many fires started over less. It says maybe he's already been someone's reason for doing something they couldn't take back. He takes a bite, chews, and swallows, then looks out at the pool and the shifting crowd. The hum of the resort buzzes in his ears like a radio between stations. He feels like he's standing on the edge of something, and then he grins, suddenly changing the subject, shifting focus. Deflecting. He's always been good at that. ]
Yo, this might be the weirdest cookout I've ever been to. And that includes the one time my boy Badger tried to grill frozen pizza on a shopping cart. What about you - been to a lot of barbecues where you're from?
[ He tries to lighten the mood, tries on optimism for size, like maybe this night won't turn sour after all. It's still a foreign feeling for a guy used to everything possible in his life going wrong. Maybe having a friend at his side, even someone half-celestial in half-damp jeans, isn't the worst thing to happen to him lately. Maybe he could get used to this. Being here. ]