[ Jesse hands over the lighter with a reluctant sigh, like it's some prized relic instead of a worn-out Zippo with a chipped skull decal. In the dark, Logan's hand feels steady in a way that makes Jesse's skin buzz. Not from fear (maybe a little) but more like that static of being around someone who doesn't flinch at the dark. Someone who's made a habit of walking into it.
He doesn't answer the question about his eye right away, but he flinches a little when Logan mentions it. It's not dramatic; just the flick of a muscle along his cheek. The kind of instinct that gets carved in deep when too many people ask questions with their fists. The hallway stretches ahead of them like a throat waiting to close, and Jesse stares into it like maybe the answer's out there somewhere, pressed into the motel's rickety old bones. He doesn't stop walking, doesn't slow, but for a second his voice goes tight around the edges, like maybe that single question dug deeper than it should've. He pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head like it'll soften the swelling around his eye. It doesn't. ]
Guess the multiverse don't hand out parachutes. You look like you got the red-carpet treatment, though, huh?
[ From what he could see in the flickering light from the Zippo, anyway. There's humor in his voice, but it's brittle. Like a joke whittled down to keep something sharp from cutting too deep. Jesse's good at that. He's good at talking sideways and turning bruises into punchlines. His hands stay jammed in the pockets of his hoodie, fingers curling and uncurling like they miss the fight they already lost. Because the truth about his eye is that it wasn't the landing that gave him the shiner. It was the kid with too many rings on his fingers and not enough sense to shut up about the dead. One of his best friends is gone. Murdered. And Combo's name had come up like a joke. Like he was nothing. Some comment about being too stupid to know he shouldn't sell on that corner.
Jesse didn't think. He just swung. Didn't win, didn't lose either, not really. He just walked away with bruises and a chest full of fire he couldn't put out. The kind of rage that doesn't come with closure. The kind that just lingers like smoke on everything you wear. But Logan doesn't need to know all that, and Jesse doesn't need to think about it, either. He just packs it all down to deal with later, or never. The motel around them groans like it's remembering something awful, and Jesse tips his head toward Logan without looking all the way at him. He keeps his pace light and easy, letting his words fill the space where the silence might start to feel too real. ]
So, where we headed? Please say it's not, like, Room 1408 or some shit. I don't have the emotional bandwidth for ghosts today.
[ He shifts the duffel on his shoulder again, ribs twinging with the motion, but he doesn't complain. There's something grounding about Logan's presence, even if the guy's built like a walking death-wish in a t-shirt. Jesse's got a thousand more questions, but for now, they can wait. The dark around them feels like it's listening. And Jesse? Well, he's just grateful someone's walking through it with him. ]
so sorry for the delay. sliiightly edited his canon-point to fit the app.
He doesn't answer the question about his eye right away, but he flinches a little when Logan mentions it. It's not dramatic; just the flick of a muscle along his cheek. The kind of instinct that gets carved in deep when too many people ask questions with their fists. The hallway stretches ahead of them like a throat waiting to close, and Jesse stares into it like maybe the answer's out there somewhere, pressed into the motel's rickety old bones. He doesn't stop walking, doesn't slow, but for a second his voice goes tight around the edges, like maybe that single question dug deeper than it should've. He pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head like it'll soften the swelling around his eye. It doesn't. ]
Guess the multiverse don't hand out parachutes. You look like you got the red-carpet treatment, though, huh?
[ From what he could see in the flickering light from the Zippo, anyway. There's humor in his voice, but it's brittle. Like a joke whittled down to keep something sharp from cutting too deep. Jesse's good at that. He's good at talking sideways and turning bruises into punchlines. His hands stay jammed in the pockets of his hoodie, fingers curling and uncurling like they miss the fight they already lost. Because the truth about his eye is that it wasn't the landing that gave him the shiner. It was the kid with too many rings on his fingers and not enough sense to shut up about the dead. One of his best friends is gone. Murdered. And Combo's name had come up like a joke. Like he was nothing. Some comment about being too stupid to know he shouldn't sell on that corner.
Jesse didn't think. He just swung. Didn't win, didn't lose either, not really. He just walked away with bruises and a chest full of fire he couldn't put out. The kind of rage that doesn't come with closure. The kind that just lingers like smoke on everything you wear. But Logan doesn't need to know all that, and Jesse doesn't need to think about it, either. He just packs it all down to deal with later, or never. The motel around them groans like it's remembering something awful, and Jesse tips his head toward Logan without looking all the way at him. He keeps his pace light and easy, letting his words fill the space where the silence might start to feel too real. ]
So, where we headed? Please say it's not, like, Room 1408 or some shit. I don't have the emotional bandwidth for ghosts today.
[ He shifts the duffel on his shoulder again, ribs twinging with the motion, but he doesn't complain. There's something grounding about Logan's presence, even if the guy's built like a walking death-wish in a t-shirt. Jesse's got a thousand more questions, but for now, they can wait. The dark around them feels like it's listening. And Jesse? Well, he's just grateful someone's walking through it with him. ]