"You better not, I'll hunt your scrawny ass down," is all Jesse offers in return, leaning forward to pick at the crumpled pack of Wilmington's on the table. He plays with the couple of cigarettes inside before he looks over at the sketchbook beside him. After that conversation, what he was working on before just looks so stupidly benign, and he knows he won't even finish the page.

"Just, you know, shootin' the shit." He leans back and decisively pops the cigarette into the corner of his mouth. "Got some, uh." Artist's block? He doesn't even know what to call it. Lack of motivation. He picks up the sketchpad again and just sets it in his lap so they both can see whatever the fuck he was doing, before he turns to Finch and offers up the pack. "Last one," he says, and waggles it at Finch temptingly. Smoke up, kid.