[ Jesse watches the red-and-black blur that is Wade Wilson stumble fully into the room like some deranged cartoon character falling out of the TV and into real life. There's a whump of boots hitting carpet, a jangle of sword steel against the metal of the window frame, and then the guy is just...in the room, taking up space like it was owed to him, like gravity bends around his entrance to make it more dramatic. Jesse? He just blinks. Because this is where he's at now. In a city that doesn't look or feel like Albuquerque but somehow kind of is, with fucked-up maps that don't make sense because everything keeps shifting and blackouts that have no rhyme or reason, and now a full-grown adult in a spandex condom suit is rifling through his duffel bag like they’ve been roommates for years.
Jesse doesn’t even argue. Not yet. There's not much of importance in there, anyways. He keeps all the good stuff on his person like a good, suspicious dealer. Ex-dealer? Whatever. Point being, Wade isn't going to find anything of much value in there, so Jesse just sits there, slouched at the edge of the bed, one hand curled loosely around his iced coffee, the other propped on his knee. The caffeine's mostly watered down now, all but a couple slivers of ice melted, but he sips it anyway. What else is he gonna do? ]
You’re like...if meth had a personality and then someone taught it gymnastics. [ He mutters mostly to himself, watching Wade with tired eyes. There’s no real malice in it. Just that worn-out tone of a man who has spent the better part of the last twelve hours trying not to break under the weight of a whole new universe. He sets the iced coffee back down on the nightstand. ] And, yo, going through other peoples shit ain't cool, man.
[ But even that comes out flat. Like it’s more habit than heat. Truth is, he’s too fucking tired to care that much. He’s had dealers shake him down with less commentary. At least Wade's being entertaining about it. He rubs a hand down his face, palm dragging slow across stubble and sweat. When he drops it again, Wade’s still there. Still bouncing. Still talking. Still real. Jesse realizes, somewhere in the haze of exhaustion and interdimensional whiplash, that maybe that’s the weirdest part. How real this guy feels in a world that keeps rewriting itself. Wade's chaos is loud, sure, but it's also honest. There's no mask under the mask. No pretense. Just unfiltered madness, flung like glitter in every direction.
Jesse exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, shakes his head once, then reaches into the pocket of his hoodie to pull out a mostly full pack of Wilmington cigarettes. Wade might recognize them as the made-for-TV version of Parliaments, but let's not go breaking Jesse's brain with the fourth-walling and meta shit just yet. ]
You can have a couple. Not all of 'em. And don’t kill the neighbor. He’s annoying as shit, but like...[ Jesse squints, trying to find the right words. ] I dunno, he’s like, part of the ambiance now. Also I'd rather not live next door to a crime scene, so.
[ He pulls a couple cigarettes out of the pack and tosses them in Wade's general direction, putting another one between his lips and lighting it before he flops back against the mattress, the bed springs squealing under him. ]
Anyway, you want weed, you're gonna have to actually be useful or you can see yourself back out that window, sword and all. So what's in it for me? And no murder.
[ He feels like he has to reiterate that no killing thing. At least not on his behalf. It’s only half a threat, though. Maybe less. Honestly, having this guy around is kind of like keeping a feral raccoon in your house on purpose. Loud, unpredictable, steals snacks. But maybe a little less lonely than the silence? For now. ]
no subject
Jesse doesn’t even argue. Not yet. There's not much of importance in there, anyways. He keeps all the good stuff on his person like a good, suspicious dealer. Ex-dealer? Whatever. Point being, Wade isn't going to find anything of much value in there, so Jesse just sits there, slouched at the edge of the bed, one hand curled loosely around his iced coffee, the other propped on his knee. The caffeine's mostly watered down now, all but a couple slivers of ice melted, but he sips it anyway. What else is he gonna do? ]
You’re like...if meth had a personality and then someone taught it gymnastics. [ He mutters mostly to himself, watching Wade with tired eyes. There’s no real malice in it. Just that worn-out tone of a man who has spent the better part of the last twelve hours trying not to break under the weight of a whole new universe. He sets the iced coffee back down on the nightstand. ] And, yo, going through other peoples shit ain't cool, man.
[ But even that comes out flat. Like it’s more habit than heat. Truth is, he’s too fucking tired to care that much. He’s had dealers shake him down with less commentary. At least Wade's being entertaining about it. He rubs a hand down his face, palm dragging slow across stubble and sweat. When he drops it again, Wade’s still there. Still bouncing. Still talking. Still real. Jesse realizes, somewhere in the haze of exhaustion and interdimensional whiplash, that maybe that’s the weirdest part. How real this guy feels in a world that keeps rewriting itself. Wade's chaos is loud, sure, but it's also honest. There's no mask under the mask. No pretense. Just unfiltered madness, flung like glitter in every direction.
Jesse exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, shakes his head once, then reaches into the pocket of his hoodie to pull out a mostly full pack of Wilmington cigarettes. Wade might recognize them as the made-for-TV version of Parliaments, but let's not go breaking Jesse's brain with the fourth-walling and meta shit just yet. ]
You can have a couple. Not all of 'em. And don’t kill the neighbor. He’s annoying as shit, but like...[ Jesse squints, trying to find the right words. ] I dunno, he’s like, part of the ambiance now. Also I'd rather not live next door to a crime scene, so.
[ He pulls a couple cigarettes out of the pack and tosses them in Wade's general direction, putting another one between his lips and lighting it before he flops back against the mattress, the bed springs squealing under him. ]
Anyway, you want weed, you're gonna have to actually be useful or you can see yourself back out that window, sword and all. So what's in it for me? And no murder.
[ He feels like he has to reiterate that no killing thing. At least not on his behalf. It’s only half a threat, though. Maybe less. Honestly, having this guy around is kind of like keeping a feral raccoon in your house on purpose. Loud, unpredictable, steals snacks. But maybe a little less lonely than the silence? For now. ]