[ 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
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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?