[ 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?
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zvi
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?