[ Notably, he's more concerned about her than fingerless-guy. He can relate, anyway. Kinda. Dissolving a couple of your childhood 'friends' in acid to tie up loose ends definitely tops his trauma list. But that might be oversharing, so: ]
listen, i know it's not like...the best way to cope, but i got the makings of a stiff drink if you wanna swing by later or somethin after my shift. this week's got me a little on edge, too, ngl.
It's justy This shit doesn't end, you know? this place is so fucking weird *just
[ And she's dreadfully homesick, having left Frank's with her shoulders drooping and a sudden spike of keen longing. For her grandfather; for her old apartment and old job and old life.
As for the offer presented — ]
I don't get off work until 1
[ It's not a no. It's just, you know, she doesn't get off work until one. That's quite late (or early, depending on your point of view). It's his to rescind the offer, if he wants to sleep like a normal person. She won't be offended. ]
haven't checked out rayne's yet, but i could go for some greasy bar food.
don't waste your discounts on me, tho. i'm cool with paying my way.
[ Unless she insists. Jesse doesn’t like to take advantage of freebies if he can afford paying. Accepting the offer from Nashua is somehow different from the occasional five-finger-discounts he gets at the local supermarket. Only when necessary, of course. He's got a rap sheet, but never really did anything illegal to chase an adrenaline rush. ]
[ For a while, all he gets is ✓✓ Read @ 4:52 PM — is she seen-zoning him? A little! But there's a good reason. Her next text comes almost two hours later. ]
found three cockroaches having an orgy in my one pair of jeans burned down the building (j/k) (prolly)
gonna take you up on that drink 1:30 okay?
[ True(ish) to word, she knocks at his door at exactly 1:41 in the morning. She hasn't bothered to take off the makeup from her shift, but she's pulled her hair messily out of her face and thrown a ratty grey hoodie — pilfered, like most of her clothes from Rayne's lost and found — over her more showy work clothes. Faintly, a shadow of half-healed bruising and burst blood vessels around her right eye peek out from behind the layers of foundation and carefully applied mascara. As mentioned, she's had a week. ]
[ Left on read is honestly the story of Jesse's life, so it doesn't entirely faze him. It helps that the shop suddenly picks up pace, some new fluxdrifts having arrived recently. Business seems to pick up around the new arrivals, considering people appear with little to no mechanical knowledge. Honestly, it makes him feel useful in a city where he's otherwise cast off as the least useful type of mechanic. Swappie. Whatever. He hates that word.
By the time he checks his phone next, after a couple of oil and brake pad changes, there's a new message. He grimaces at the thought of roaches in her jeans. (Hopefully she wasn't wearing them at the time???) But the burning down the building comment makes him chuckle to himself. ]
yeah, that works for me.
[ He texts back, casually, like he wasn't bummed out when the texts stopped coming in before. It's different here, having people to hang out with, living a 'normal' life. Sure, it's weird as shit here, but, after the initial shock wore off, it's kind of nice not having to live a double life where he has to pretend the Cartel isn't after him or some rival dealers aren't trying to catch him slipping. Here, everybody's worried about the same weird shit going on. He doesn't have to hide it.
The rest of the work day goes pretty quickly and Jesse gets 'home', gets showered, and gets into a fresh pair of jeans and a baggy t-shirt. At least he managed to score a couple of basics. Could be worse, honestly. He nearly trips over himself getting to the door (also smooth here), fumbling with the lock a little before he finally gets the door open with a grunt. ]
My bad, the, uh, the lock kinda sticks. Haven't gotten around to fixin' it yet.
[ He stands there stupidly for a few seconds too long before realizing himself and getting out of the way. ]
Shit; sorry. Come on in.
[ It's nothing to write home about. Just your average shitty motel room, but it's a place to lay his head at night that isn't the dusty old van he spent his first couple of weeks in. Working his way up slowly, anyway. ]
[ She starts to say, "can I come in," like some sort of courtesy vampire; the sentence doesn't make it past the first few syllables when he invites her in. With a light, amicable laugh she steps across the threshold. Her hands are shoved into the front pocket of her hoodie — one wrapped around her keys, checking for the millionth time they're still there — as she looks around.
It isn't empty, of course. Her gaze sweeps across a hint of something in the curved, muddled reflection across the toaster; briefly, a pair of eyes blink up at her from under the dining table. None of this causes her tired smile to falter as she turns back to Jesse. ]
Thanks for having me over.
[ In the pocket of her stolen hoodie, her hand brushes against something cool and solid, and she remembers — right, she grabbed him something from Rayne's before leaving. ]
Here. Thought you might like the good shit.
[ A bottle of vodka no taller than his palm is tossed his way. The label is colourful, the price tag intimidating. ]
[ Jesse catches the bottle mostly on instinct. It's more of a fumble-catch, with his fingers clinking awkwardly against the glass, but he pulls it off like he meant to do it that way all along. He squints at the label, eyebrows quirking upward in visible, appreciative surprise. He turns the bottle in his hand, angling it toward the nearest lightbulb like that's gonna make him understand any more of what's written on it. He doesn't really need to know anything more than 'vodka', but it feels appropriate to give the gift a once-over at the very least. ]
Jeez. Looks like it costs more than my rent. Which, y'know--granted, not sayin' much.
[ He grins and sets the bottle carefully on the table (after noticing her gaze lingering beneath the tabletop briefly, though he doesn't comment on it). He nudges aside a crumpled takeout napkin to make space like he's rolling out the red carpet. There's something warm and unguarded in his expression as he glances over at Nash again. ]
You sure you don't wanna keep it? I mean, you had the cockroach orgy. Seems like you earned first rights.
[ The place doesn't exactly scream luxury. There's stained wallpaper, a TV with exactly one working button, and a mini fridge that hums louder than it chills, but Jesse makes up for it with a kind of restless energy, the kind that makes even cracked linoleum feel lived in. He moves to grab a couple of mismatched mugs from the shelf (one of which says #1 Dad in peeling letters; it was here when he moved in), setting them down with a flourish like they're tumblers at a real bar, followed by a more appropriately-sized bottle of whiskey for sharing and a bottle of off-brand Cola. It's not exactly ritzy, but it's the thought that counts, right? ]
So, uh...what's the damage this week? You wanna talk about it, or you wanna just get drunk and pretend everything's not on fire?
[ It's said half-jokingly, but not without sincerity. His eyes flick briefly to the fading bruise she didn't quite cover, but he doesn't comment on it directly. He doesn't flinch either. He's had plenty of bruises that were kind of a don't ask, don't tell situation. So he lets it ride. He just lets it be there--real and unspoken--hers to name or not. He takes a seat at the table, his leg straightening to nudge the other chair back with his sneaker so she can sit in it. ]
[ She plops down in a chair as soon as he nudges it out for her. Her sprawl is loose and guyish; she eschews proper posture to slump down, her knees tilted away from each other. For a moment, she tilts her head back over the top of the chair and stares at the ceiling without really seeing it. It's fuzzy, the dismal popcorn yellow greyed by smoke stains and not really giving her a handhold.
Tipping her head back up, she manages a tired smile. It reaches her cheeks, but not her eyes. She takes the Number #1 Dad mug, leans forward to mix the whiskey and cola-like drink. ]
What, you wanna listen to me bitch and complain?
[ It's rhetorical, good-natured and tinged with wry amusement. She drinks down half the mug of her concoction before mixing in a bit more cola. Watching the flatly black cola mix into the shinier brown whiskey is strangely soothing. ]
Thanks. It's fine. It's—
[ The people here are tough, and I'm not.
Nah. It's true, by Nash's perspective, but who wants to listen to that? She swallows it down. ]
You know, getting drunk sounds great. Let's do that.
[ Jesse doesn't push her on it. The edge in her voice--the way that it's fine lands like a bruised peach. It tells him more than enough. He just nods, the motion small and quiet, like he's agreeing to the unspoken rule between them: you don't have to explain shit unless you want to.
He watches her drink, watches the cola swirl into the whiskey, and something in his chest unclenches just a little. Not because he thinks she's fine (he's not an idiot--at least not right now) but because she's here. She's here, sitting in a busted chair, in his busted motel room, drinking his busted liquor, and for the moment, that feels like enough.
When in doubt, get fucked up. Right? Jesse thinks to himself and grabs his own mug. It's one from some beach town gift shop with a chipped handle and featuring a faded cartoon shark that reads Bite Me! Jesse pours a heavy dose of whiskey, then cola, then more whiskey, because balance is for people who aren't held together with duct tape and caffeine. He raises the mug in a lazy half-toast. ]
To cockroaches. May they only orgy in someone else's pants from now on.
[ It earns a flicker of a grin from him, the kind that hides behind his teeth like it's not sure it's allowed out yet. But it's genuine. He leans back in his chair, one foot hooked around the rung, eyes trailing the same smudged ceiling she stared at a moment earlier. Blue eyes drift down from the ceiling to meet hers again. The chair returns to upright, all four legs back on the ground. For now. And he breaks the silence because, if Nash hasn't noticed yet, Jesse shutting up is a pretty rare occurrence. ]
So like...what's your comfort food when everything sucks? You strike me as someone who's got opinions about soup.
[ It's tossed out lightly, like a pebble skipping across the surface of something deeper. Maybe he's entirely full of it, but it's a distraction. He's good at those. ]
[ Jesse toasts, winning a laugh from her, and her mug clinks pleasantly against his.
For a few moments, drinking in silence is quite nice. Nash props one elbow against the table and leans into her hand, fingers curled around the back of her neck. The other hand continues to toy with the mug, watching the mixture slosh haplessly against the inside between sips.
For now, he’s unbothered by whatever cosmic joke crossed her wires incorrectly. There’s dead in the room, yes, but they pre-date him. That’s nice too.
It makes him seem — feel — harmless.
But the legs of his chair collide with the floor with an audible clack, and he takes it as his cue to kill the silence. Nash doesn’t mind. In fact, the question wins another smile from her: close-lipped, highlighting her cheeks and making her a little whimsical with thoughts and memories. ]
Oh, man. Blueberry slump. I think it was a Wampanoag thing. My grandpa made— makes— the best blueberry slump. It was blueberries, obviously, simmered and covered in bits of baked dough. His nasaump was pretty good too. When I was a kid, he’d sprinkle brown sugar on it for me.
[ Even if her idea of comfort food is more about the person making it, and she may never see that person again. It’s not as difficult to talk about as she might have thought. The pricklier underside to this sharing doesn’t have to be spoken of so plainly. Everyone’s already aware of it.
Then, playfully: ]
I’ve never had soup in my life and I don’t intend to start now.
[ Jesse tips his head, letting the words roll around in his mind like loose marbles. Blueberry slump. It sounds like something half-fairy tale, half-diner special, the kind of name that could live just as easy in a recipe book as in a song lyric. He pictures it without meaning to--steam curling up from a deep dish, berries bleeding their violet guts into warm dough, sugar crust catching the light. ]
Damn. [ He says after a beat, low and honest, the kind of word that means he's not just humoring her. ] That...yeah, that sounds like it hits different.
[ He doesn't ask about the makes - present tense, not past. He doesn't press at whatever sharp edges are hiding under that sentence. They're both carrying enough jagged pieces without pointing them out. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on the table, the chipped cartoon shark on his mug grinning like it's in on the joke. ]
And here I was thinkin' you were about to tell me it was, like, mac 'n cheese from a box or somethin'.
[ Then her last line lands and he blinks, eyebrows raising up. ]
Waitwaitwait--hold up. Not even Cup Noodle? I practically lived off that stuff for, like, a month straight once.
[ There's a flicker of disbelief there, but it's softened by the way his mouth tugs into a crooked half-smile. He doesn't notice the faint shift in the air behind him, the subtle weight of another presence leaning lazy against the wall, like an old friend who'd been hanging around for longer than anyone realized. Jesse just takes another drink, unaware that Nashua's gaze might have already found Combo's familiar ghost watching over the scene, silent and steady. One of his childhood friends, gone too soon. He blames himself for putting Combo on that corner. For him getting shot, even if it was out of Jesse's control. It'll be a long time before it stops eating at him, if it ever does. It's part of why he takes another sip so readily. The thoughts creep up on him in the silence between words, and his best coping skills lie at the bottom of a bottle or in the roach of a joint. ]
Huevos Rancheros is mine. My Aunt Ginny taught me how to make 'em. I got pretty good at it, but it never tasted like hers.
[ A shrug, like she isn't about to admit a grave food sin. ]
— but I always drained the broth.
[ You know, that thing normal people do!
It takes a second for the young man to come into focus. Once warm skin now chalk-white, icy lips pierced through with rusted metal, pleasant rotundness shrivelled to something bloodless and hungry. It's been a long day; when Nashua props her chin on her hand and stares at the wall, it's easy to explain away as tired eyes, or a mind needing a break. Her nails leave little half-moons on the back of her neck before she lets Jesse distract her again.
Him talking through it is... nice. She can dip out and tune back in, which she does now. ]
Okay, [ she says, grin sprouting up anew. ] What is huevos rancheros? [ She can't quite get around the syllables as expertly as he can. ] Are you just making up words now?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zvi
no subject
Date: 2025-07-19 05:16 am (UTC)fingers? uh. i got all ten still if that's what you mean...?
you good?
no subject
Date: 2025-07-19 12:55 pm (UTC)they were getting all mannequiny
it sucked
[ And his dead kids freaking out about it made it so much worse; not that she's announcing that part, for a few different reasons. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-07-19 01:20 pm (UTC)[ Notably, he's more concerned about her than fingerless-guy. He can relate, anyway. Kinda. Dissolving a couple of your childhood 'friends' in acid to tie up loose ends definitely tops his trauma list. But that might be oversharing, so: ]
listen, i know it's not like...the best way to cope, but i got the makings of a stiff drink if you wanna swing by later or somethin after my shift. this week's got me a little on edge, too, ngl.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-19 01:29 pm (UTC)I'm fine
It's justy
This shit doesn't end, you know? this place is so fucking weird
*just
[ And she's dreadfully homesick, having left Frank's with her shoulders drooping and a sudden spike of keen longing. For her grandfather; for her old apartment and old job and old life.
As for the offer presented — ]
I don't get off work until 1
[ It's not a no. It's just, you know, she doesn't get off work until one. That's quite late (or early, depending on your point of view). It's his to rescind the offer, if he wants to sleep like a normal person. She won't be offended. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-07-21 07:51 pm (UTC)it's all good. i haven't been good at sleeping since, like, highschool. no pressure, tho.
where do you work?
no subject
Date: 2025-07-21 08:27 pm (UTC)Daphne's Diner in the mornings
[ Small business owners love their alliteration! ]
I'm at Rayne's tonight if you want to come by
I get 50% off two menu items a night
no subject
Date: 2025-07-24 03:20 pm (UTC)don't waste your discounts on me, tho. i'm cool with paying my way.
[ Unless she insists. Jesse doesn’t like to take advantage of freebies if he can afford paying. Accepting the offer from Nashua is somehow different from the occasional five-finger-discounts he gets at the local supermarket. Only when necessary, of course. He's got a rap sheet, but never really did anything illegal to chase an adrenaline rush. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-07-26 02:42 am (UTC)found three cockroaches having an orgy in my one pair of jeans
burned down the building
(j/k) (prolly)
gonna take you up on that drink
1:30 okay?
[ True(ish) to word, she knocks at his door at exactly 1:41 in the morning. She hasn't bothered to take off the makeup from her shift, but she's pulled her hair messily out of her face and thrown a ratty grey hoodie — pilfered, like most of her clothes from Rayne's lost and found — over her more showy work clothes. Faintly, a shadow of half-healed bruising and burst blood vessels around her right eye peek out from behind the layers of foundation and carefully applied mascara. As mentioned, she's had a week. ]
Jesse? It's me— It's Nash. [ Smooth. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-07-26 03:03 am (UTC)By the time he checks his phone next, after a couple of oil and brake pad changes, there's a new message. He grimaces at the thought of roaches in her jeans. (Hopefully she wasn't wearing them at the time???) But the burning down the building comment makes him chuckle to himself. ]
yeah, that works for me.
[ He texts back, casually, like he wasn't bummed out when the texts stopped coming in before. It's different here, having people to hang out with, living a 'normal' life. Sure, it's weird as shit here, but, after the initial shock wore off, it's kind of nice not having to live a double life where he has to pretend the Cartel isn't after him or some rival dealers aren't trying to catch him slipping. Here, everybody's worried about the same weird shit going on. He doesn't have to hide it.
The rest of the work day goes pretty quickly and Jesse gets 'home', gets showered, and gets into a fresh pair of jeans and a baggy t-shirt. At least he managed to score a couple of basics. Could be worse, honestly. He nearly trips over himself getting to the door (also smooth here), fumbling with the lock a little before he finally gets the door open with a grunt. ]
My bad, the, uh, the lock kinda sticks. Haven't gotten around to fixin' it yet.
[ He stands there stupidly for a few seconds too long before realizing himself and getting out of the way. ]
Shit; sorry. Come on in.
[ It's nothing to write home about. Just your average shitty motel room, but it's a place to lay his head at night that isn't the dusty old van he spent his first couple of weeks in. Working his way up slowly, anyway. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-07-26 03:35 am (UTC)It isn't empty, of course. Her gaze sweeps across a hint of something in the curved, muddled reflection across the toaster; briefly, a pair of eyes blink up at her from under the dining table. None of this causes her tired smile to falter as she turns back to Jesse. ]
Thanks for having me over.
[ In the pocket of her stolen hoodie, her hand brushes against something cool and solid, and she remembers — right, she grabbed him something from Rayne's before leaving. ]
Here. Thought you might like the good shit.
[ A bottle of vodka no taller than his palm is tossed his way. The label is colourful, the price tag intimidating. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-07-27 03:53 am (UTC)Jeez. Looks like it costs more than my rent. Which, y'know--granted, not sayin' much.
[ He grins and sets the bottle carefully on the table (after noticing her gaze lingering beneath the tabletop briefly, though he doesn't comment on it). He nudges aside a crumpled takeout napkin to make space like he's rolling out the red carpet. There's something warm and unguarded in his expression as he glances over at Nash again. ]
You sure you don't wanna keep it? I mean, you had the cockroach orgy. Seems like you earned first rights.
[ The place doesn't exactly scream luxury. There's stained wallpaper, a TV with exactly one working button, and a mini fridge that hums louder than it chills, but Jesse makes up for it with a kind of restless energy, the kind that makes even cracked linoleum feel lived in. He moves to grab a couple of mismatched mugs from the shelf (one of which says #1 Dad in peeling letters; it was here when he moved in), setting them down with a flourish like they're tumblers at a real bar, followed by a more appropriately-sized bottle of whiskey for sharing and a bottle of off-brand Cola. It's not exactly ritzy, but it's the thought that counts, right? ]
So, uh...what's the damage this week? You wanna talk about it, or you wanna just get drunk and pretend everything's not on fire?
[ It's said half-jokingly, but not without sincerity. His eyes flick briefly to the fading bruise she didn't quite cover, but he doesn't comment on it directly. He doesn't flinch either. He's had plenty of bruises that were kind of a don't ask, don't tell situation. So he lets it ride. He just lets it be there--real and unspoken--hers to name or not. He takes a seat at the table, his leg straightening to nudge the other chair back with his sneaker so she can sit in it. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-07-27 02:35 pm (UTC)Tipping her head back up, she manages a tired smile. It reaches her cheeks, but not her eyes. She takes the Number #1 Dad mug, leans forward to mix the whiskey and cola-like drink. ]
What, you wanna listen to me bitch and complain?
[ It's rhetorical, good-natured and tinged with wry amusement. She drinks down half the mug of her concoction before mixing in a bit more cola. Watching the flatly black cola mix into the shinier brown whiskey is strangely soothing. ]
Thanks. It's fine. It's—
[ The people here are tough, and I'm not.
Nah. It's true, by Nash's perspective, but who wants to listen to that? She swallows it down. ]
You know, getting drunk sounds great. Let's do that.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-30 03:14 am (UTC)He watches her drink, watches the cola swirl into the whiskey, and something in his chest unclenches just a little. Not because he thinks she's fine (he's not an idiot--at least not right now) but because she's here. She's here, sitting in a busted chair, in his busted motel room, drinking his busted liquor, and for the moment, that feels like enough.
When in doubt, get fucked up. Right? Jesse thinks to himself and grabs his own mug. It's one from some beach town gift shop with a chipped handle and featuring a faded cartoon shark that reads Bite Me! Jesse pours a heavy dose of whiskey, then cola, then more whiskey, because balance is for people who aren't held together with duct tape and caffeine. He raises the mug in a lazy half-toast. ]
To cockroaches. May they only orgy in someone else's pants from now on.
[ It earns a flicker of a grin from him, the kind that hides behind his teeth like it's not sure it's allowed out yet. But it's genuine. He leans back in his chair, one foot hooked around the rung, eyes trailing the same smudged ceiling she stared at a moment earlier. Blue eyes drift down from the ceiling to meet hers again. The chair returns to upright, all four legs back on the ground. For now. And he breaks the silence because, if Nash hasn't noticed yet, Jesse shutting up is a pretty rare occurrence. ]
So like...what's your comfort food when everything sucks? You strike me as someone who's got opinions about soup.
[ It's tossed out lightly, like a pebble skipping across the surface of something deeper. Maybe he's entirely full of it, but it's a distraction. He's good at those. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-07-30 05:34 pm (UTC)For a few moments, drinking in silence is quite nice. Nash props one elbow against the table and leans into her hand, fingers curled around the back of her neck. The other hand continues to toy with the mug, watching the mixture slosh haplessly against the inside between sips.
For now, he’s unbothered by whatever cosmic joke crossed her wires incorrectly. There’s dead in the room, yes, but they pre-date him. That’s nice too.
It makes him seem — feel — harmless.
But the legs of his chair collide with the floor with an audible clack, and he takes it as his cue to kill the silence. Nash doesn’t mind. In fact, the question wins another smile from her: close-lipped, highlighting her cheeks and making her a little whimsical with thoughts and memories. ]
Oh, man. Blueberry slump. I think it was a Wampanoag thing. My grandpa made— makes— the best blueberry slump. It was blueberries, obviously, simmered and covered in bits of baked dough. His nasaump was pretty good too. When I was a kid, he’d sprinkle brown sugar on it for me.
[ Even if her idea of comfort food is more about the person making it, and she may never see that person again. It’s not as difficult to talk about as she might have thought. The pricklier underside to this sharing doesn’t have to be spoken of so plainly. Everyone’s already aware of it.
Then, playfully: ]
I’ve never had soup in my life and I don’t intend to start now.
no subject
Date: 2025-08-11 02:36 am (UTC)Damn. [ He says after a beat, low and honest, the kind of word that means he's not just humoring her. ] That...yeah, that sounds like it hits different.
[ He doesn't ask about the makes - present tense, not past. He doesn't press at whatever sharp edges are hiding under that sentence. They're both carrying enough jagged pieces without pointing them out. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on the table, the chipped cartoon shark on his mug grinning like it's in on the joke. ]
And here I was thinkin' you were about to tell me it was, like, mac 'n cheese from a box or somethin'.
[ Then her last line lands and he blinks, eyebrows raising up. ]
Waitwaitwait--hold up. Not even Cup Noodle? I practically lived off that stuff for, like, a month straight once.
[ There's a flicker of disbelief there, but it's softened by the way his mouth tugs into a crooked half-smile. He doesn't notice the faint shift in the air behind him, the subtle weight of another presence leaning lazy against the wall, like an old friend who'd been hanging around for longer than anyone realized. Jesse just takes another drink, unaware that Nashua's gaze might have already found Combo's familiar ghost watching over the scene, silent and steady. One of his childhood friends, gone too soon. He blames himself for putting Combo on that corner. For him getting shot, even if it was out of Jesse's control. It'll be a long time before it stops eating at him, if it ever does. It's part of why he takes another sip so readily. The thoughts creep up on him in the silence between words, and his best coping skills lie at the bottom of a bottle or in the roach of a joint. ]
Huevos Rancheros is mine. My Aunt Ginny taught me how to make 'em. I got pretty good at it, but it never tasted like hers.
no subject
Date: 2025-08-17 11:03 pm (UTC)[ A shrug, like she isn't about to admit a grave food sin. ]
— but I always drained the broth.
[ You know, that thing normal people do!
It takes a second for the young man to come into focus. Once warm skin now chalk-white, icy lips pierced through with rusted metal, pleasant rotundness shrivelled to something bloodless and hungry. It's been a long day; when Nashua props her chin on her hand and stares at the wall, it's easy to explain away as tired eyes, or a mind needing a break. Her nails leave little half-moons on the back of her neck before she lets Jesse distract her again.
Him talking through it is... nice. She can dip out and tune back in, which she does now. ]
Okay, [ she says, grin sprouting up anew. ] What is huevos rancheros? [ She can't quite get around the syllables as expertly as he can. ] Are you just making up words now?