[ Jesse doesn’t say anything at first. He just lets the road spool out in front of them like a ribbon unraveling from the center of the world: gray and endless and maybe, for once, not leading straight into a wall. The music hums quietly through the speakers, some classic rock slow-burn track, all bluesy twang and aching chords, like it’s underscoring the parts Jesse can’t say aloud. Jack's words echo, soft but steady, pressing against those walls he spent years putting into place, brick by brick. For once, the words don't bounce off. They settle. They find their way in through the cracks. Your parents were wrong to make you think you had to be perfect.
He swallows hard, jaw tight, eyes still on the road. Something shifts in his chest. It is't quite pain nor grief, but a sad sort of recognition. Like realizing you're not just being looked at, but being seen. Not the version people expect or tolerate or pity, but him. The fuckup. The runaway. The man who made too many bad choices just trying to feel loved and accepted in a world that kept kicking him to the curb. And he still tries. He still shows up, in spite of every experience that should have made him give up.
Jack’s voice is steady and honest. There's no angle to it that Jesse can sort out. It's the kind of compassion that Jesse's been waiting for for so long that now he doesn’t know what to do with it. He glances over quickly - just a flick of his eyes, enough to catch the quiet warmth on Jack’s face and that weird blend of both innocence and gravity. The way someone carries truth when they’ve both broken things and been broken by them. ]
My mom...I didn’t kill her. But, I think I killed the part of her that gave a shit about me.
[ The words slip out before he can catch them, the kind of truth that’s lived for too long without air. He winces a little, like the words sting on the way out, and then he shrugs it off, always trying to make it smaller than it is. Always deflecting. A defense mechanism nearly older than he is. Jesse scrubs a hand over his face, then taps his fingers against the wheel again, softer this time. The kind of rhythm that’s not about escape anymore. A beat to match the hum of the road and the strange, quiet company he’s found. An innate inability to sit still, like the disquiet in his soul bleeds into every part of him. ]
You’re real easy to talk to, y’know that? [ He finally speaks again, a smirk inadvertely tugging at the corner of his mouth, maybe more honest than he should be. ] Like, dangerously easy. You keep that up, I might start spilling all my deep, dark secrets. Could get embarrassing.
[ He laughs under his breath, trying to shed the heaviness in the air with a little levity. The van rolls on and, for once, Jesse doesn’t feel like he’s running. He doesn’t feel like the next moment’s gonna collapse in on itself. It's just wind, road, music, and this strange, kind, half-angel he happened to run into. What a trip. ]
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He swallows hard, jaw tight, eyes still on the road. Something shifts in his chest. It is't quite pain nor grief, but a sad sort of recognition. Like realizing you're not just being looked at, but being seen. Not the version people expect or tolerate or pity, but him. The fuckup. The runaway. The man who made too many bad choices just trying to feel loved and accepted in a world that kept kicking him to the curb. And he still tries. He still shows up, in spite of every experience that should have made him give up.
Jack’s voice is steady and honest. There's no angle to it that Jesse can sort out. It's the kind of compassion that Jesse's been waiting for for so long that now he doesn’t know what to do with it. He glances over quickly - just a flick of his eyes, enough to catch the quiet warmth on Jack’s face and that weird blend of both innocence and gravity. The way someone carries truth when they’ve both broken things and been broken by them. ]
My mom...I didn’t kill her. But, I think I killed the part of her that gave a shit about me.
[ The words slip out before he can catch them, the kind of truth that’s lived for too long without air. He winces a little, like the words sting on the way out, and then he shrugs it off, always trying to make it smaller than it is. Always deflecting. A defense mechanism nearly older than he is. Jesse scrubs a hand over his face, then taps his fingers against the wheel again, softer this time. The kind of rhythm that’s not about escape anymore. A beat to match the hum of the road and the strange, quiet company he’s found. An innate inability to sit still, like the disquiet in his soul bleeds into every part of him. ]
You’re real easy to talk to, y’know that? [ He finally speaks again, a smirk inadvertely tugging at the corner of his mouth, maybe more honest than he should be. ] Like, dangerously easy. You keep that up, I might start spilling all my deep, dark secrets. Could get embarrassing.
[ He laughs under his breath, trying to shed the heaviness in the air with a little levity. The van rolls on and, for once, Jesse doesn’t feel like he’s running. He doesn’t feel like the next moment’s gonna collapse in on itself. It's just wind, road, music, and this strange, kind, half-angel he happened to run into. What a trip. ]