kore_logs | I am fine to put your gun to my life

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I am fine to put your gun to my life

[WHO:] Jesse and Jesse
[WHERE:] House 13
[WHEN:] Day 80
[WHAT:] After hearing about the showdown between Pinkman and Ghoul? Finch has got a few things to air out.
[NOTES:] idk warning for pinkman in general

Christ, he's down to his last couple of cigarettes. Shit went fast when he didn't watch himself, but he wasn't used to having to whittle it all down like he had to here - there wasn't any damn corner store he could drop by. There should have been.

One of his last few ones is propped into his mouth where he sits on the couch, sprinkling ash on his sketchbook in his lap - he has to keep brushing it off intermittently, mumbling curses around the cigarette. Jesse's clad in his boxers and a way too big t-shirt, but, whatever, it's laundry time and he hasn't picked up this book in too long with his visit back home. Not that anything's coming out besides a page of incredibly concentrated polka dots.

He's bent over the page and nearly burning a hole into it when there's a knock, doesn't even bother to look up from what he's doing. It's not like it's locked. It's not like it can lock. "It's open!" he calls like usual.

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Oh.

Well - well. That's a reason, and Jesse looks surprised, sinking into the couch when Pinkman leans over him. He killed you, that's the reason that Pinkman did this, and it's surprising because he didn't think Pinkman cared that much. But - of course he does. And Jesse sort of just stares at him for a second, huddled into the couch.

"No, I. I remember," Jesse says, a little haltingly. God, does he remember. His voice gets very quiet. "You were gonna kill him 'cause of what he did t'me." And that's - holy shit, Finch doesn't know how to feel about that. Half of him is screaming you should have and the other is yelling it wasn't Ghoul's fault right back, and Jesse is a little pale.

"... Was he - was he gonna let you do it?"

"That's not-" The point? Hell, the guy was practically begging him to do it. He doesn't finish the thought, partially because he's too busy thinking of Ghoul's hand around the barrel of his gun, the look in his eyes when Jesse was going to shoot him and, yeah, it's spooking him a little all over again - he looks up at the ceiling and shakes out his hands, a little violent, a little agitated. "I mean, he was-"

Nope, he aborts that sentence too, and suddenly looks back down at Finch again, gestures to him. "How come- How come nobody did anything? I mean, a guy dies and nothin' happens out of it. How come he gets to walk around like nothin' even-" And Jesse turns away on a heel, one of his hands reaching up and grasping firmly at the back of his neck again.

That worries Jesse because of Ghoul, because he can imagine the reaction that Ghoul had to that. Him and Ghoul are more similar than he'd like to admit, sometimes, and he thinks he knows how this went down. But he pushes that aside for now, and wraps his arms back around himself, just for the sense of security.

"Cause nobody knew," Jesse says, biting his lip. "I mean - my house did. Bruce did, you did. But I ain't. Told anybody else, I don't want to. I don't wanna make it a thing." He wants it to go away, honestly, he wants all of it to just leave him alone. "He weren't in control of himself. Wouldn't have done it if it weren't for the switch."

But his voice wavers, because he's trying his hardest to keep the conflict out of his voice. Doesn't work. He believes that Ghoul wouldn't have if he hadn't been a demon, but he's not so sure he can just forget, as much as he'd like.

Oh, come on. What a cop out. Like people oughta be excused from their actions just because they've got no other choice.

Jesse turns back to Finch, slowly, his arms spread in question. "And that's okay? I mean, is that, like, really okay?" Because he gets keeping it mum, not blowing it into something totally unavoidable and in everyone's faces, he does get that part. He understands that. It's the rest that doesn't sit well with him, that really can't sit well with him.

"Guy strolls up and ganks you. And you know what, I don't care- I don't care what he was, I don't care what was goin' on, the guy made a choice. What, he couldn't'a done anything different?" It's hypocritical. It's also right what he's been agonizing over since he was the same thing. Is he projecting? Hell yeah, he's projecting. But it doesn't change the fact that he's not gonna let this just pass by lying down. "That choice was killin' you and, ya know, I'm sorry, but that don't sit right with me."

Jesse doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to feel, either, with how conflicted he is, and he just stays quiet through Pinkman's rant, trying to figure out what to say. Should he try to defend Ghoul? Should he tell Pinkman he agrees, that Ghoul shouldn't just - get away with it?

"It don't sit right with me neither, alright, trust me." Jesse says sharply, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. Anxious, he should've waited to have this conversation. "There - there weren't a choice. He weren't human, it - choices are easy when you're something that don't have any rules."

He grabs at the couch, pushing himself up a little. "He k-- he killed me but I ain't gonna kill him back. Cause then it'd be a choice, and the wrong one. I just wanna forget, why you two gotta keep bringing it up, huh?"

"I know, I know-" His hands scrub over his face because, yeah, he feels bad bringing this up around Finch again. He feels awful, just shoving it in his face like this, but it's not like it was a conversation he wanted to have. But now it's here, and he's dealing with it.

"He shouldn't-" He starts a sentence and abandons it, his hands dropping back down by his sides as he turns his head away and shakes it. His teeth rake angrily over his bottom lip as he does, and he adjusts the sides of his boxers as he thinks. Finch is just taking this for what it is and it doesn't sit right, it's not something Jesse can just find himself getting over with a snap of his fingers. "He shouldn't- get away with it, he should not just- get away with it."

And he's just running him around in circles.

Edited 2013-06-10 22:23 (UTC)

Running around in circles. That's all Finch has been doing lately, running around in circles. He makes a frustrated noise when Pinkman finishes with what he does and runs his hands through his hair. It's getting too long, unkempt. He should get someone to cut it. He should shave. His head's a basket of scrambled eggs and all he wants is to empty it out.

"Then what?" Jesse asks, near-angrily. "What, you're gonna shoot him? How is that gonna help? No, I mean - really. You shoot him, y'have to be the one who shoots him. D'you wanna be that person?" But he's not done. "And then - and then he dies. He comes back. Goes through the same thing I did. Now y'got two miserable fucks who jump at their own goddamn shadow. What good's that gonna do anybody?"

It doesn't sit right, but there's no answers. "There's nothing. I don't wanna see you kill someone and I don't wanna see him dead. So fucking don't."

"Don't-" He starts to repeat and doesn't make it far, as Jesse laughs a little - almost psychotically - and shakes his head and looks away again. Right now he wants Finch to not be right. No, right now he needs Finch to not be right. He gestures between them quickly and takes a step forward. "Maybe I'm not-" No, because that's not right either, and there are some things that Finch is getting too close to, that he's not letting him in on.

So the fight bleeds out of him fast. Because he's not a killer- well, no. He's killed. But there's a big difference between just killing and thinking about it, really having to think about it before you do it. There's something fucked up in doing that, and he can't imagine having to go through the process again, not without driving himself absolutely fucking crazy.

He looks down at his hands, picks at his nails again as the little smile on his face fades. "So that's that, then." He squints and looks up at Finch. "You just wanna let him go?"

Finch pulls his sleeves over his hands, swallowing hard, looking down at his feet. For a moment he's quiet, wringing at his hands under the sleeves, trying to think how he wants to answer this.

"I have to," He says finally, sinking into the couch. "I gotta. Or I'm never gonna get past this."

Jesse kind of grips anxiously at the sides of his boxers, nods a little as he shuffles forward a few steps. Then he rubs a hand over his face again and nods with more initiative, some acceptance of it, sighs and moves himself to plop right down on the couch next to Finch. "I get it, man," he replies as he taps out a fist on one of his knees. "I get it."

There's a long beat, where his eyes search back and forth and he doesn't look up at Finch, not until he finishes speaking: "So what're you gonna do?"

Pinkman flops down next to him and Jesse flinches, entirely involuntarily - his nerves are stretched like taffy about to break today, and he'd apologize for it, but he doesn't want to call any more attention to it than necessary. Poor Pinkman has enough on his mind - enough to handle, and has seen enough from Jesse. He doesn't need more.

The question, though.

"... Try not t'drown," Jesse answers truthfully, resting his head back against the couch. Just like before. It's becoming a trend. "What're you gonna do?"

It's lucky that Jesse's too preoccupied to catch it. But he'd hate it that Finch was holding shit back from him. Fucking hypocrite, he'd call him.

But the question has him stalling; he lets out a long puff of breath and his fingers tap busily at his legs - that's before it just turns into straight up drumming, his palms patting haphazardly as he thinks. "I'm-" And he rolls his head away for a moment, looks at the wall to his right as his hands finally still. "Look, I ain't- killin' nobody anymore, alright?"

He is, he can't even deny it. Jesse's just glad Pinkman doesn't see it.

There's a look of relief from Jesse, though, when Pinkman says he isn't going to kill anybody. It's just - they're all probably going to die here, they're going to be fucked with further, he's sure. They need to be in this together. And he'd say as much, if he wasn't afraid he'd be made fun of. Normally he wouldn't care, but today, he's wary of it, still twisting at his hands.

"... Okay," Jesse says, looking at Pinkman. "Thanks." For everything - for wanting to stand up for him. "R'you okay? After - the gun." Because you hate them. He listens!

Jesse scratches agitatedly at one of his eyebrows. "Why the hell're you askin' me-" What, when Finch was the one getting all this shit dredged up? No, they've done that dance already, and it just ends up with everybody getting pissed off. "It's just-"

He sighs, and holds up a hand like he might say something else, but he's got enough abandoned sentences already, and he doesn't know how to tell Finch that he cares about him without sounding like an absolute queer, so he just plants a hand on Finch's knee instead. "Whatever, man," he finally says, and glances back at him right suit. "Anytime."

That works. Finch can take the reluctance to answer the question for now - as long as Pinkman knows he's here and open to listening. And Jesse thinks Pinkman does. Either way, the hand on his knee makes him smile, even if it's that same sort of tired thing he's always got, lately. Like the life's been drained out of him.

It's nice, at least, that Pinkman isn't afraid to touch him.

Jesse reaches up to run his fingers through his own hair again, with a small sniff. "M'okay. Not gonna break, you don't gotta worry about that." Not in front of you, anyway. "What were y'doing? Afore I came over here and ruined your afternoon."

"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.

That gets a sniff of amusement out of him. The funny thing is? He doesn't doubt Pinkman would hunt his ass down and make sure he was.

But he does look down at the sketchpad, looking at what Pinkman was attempting to do almost thoughtfully. It looks like it could be something - but he won't fiddle with it, even if his fingers are itching to grab for a pencil. It soothes him, when he's anxious. As do cigarettes, which means when Pinkman offers him one, he half-grins and takes it eagerly, all the while trying not to look so eager.

"Shit, I ain't had one in a while," Jesse says happily. And as for the drawing: "Ay, would - y'mind letting me try?" With the sketchbook in general, really. Maybe he can inspire something.

"Yeah, well," he mumbles around the cigarette, grabbing his lighter and lighting up his own before he hands the thing over. "Enjoy it while it lasts." He knows he's sure as hell going to be kicking himself tomorrow when he doesn't have any left.

But that's a problem for future Jesse, and he looks down at the book in his lap with something almost disdain before he just, "Yeah, man," and hands that over too. "Not like I'm doin' anything useful with it, go 'head. You want the-? Hang on." And he clambers to his feet, staggers a step or two to get around the coffee table and grab the lost pencil off the floor. He drags off the cigarette as he comes back, lets out a stream of smoke as he tosses the pencil into Finch's lap. "Work some magic, yo."

Jesse owes him something, for sure. But for now, he takes a long drag off of the cigarette and sighs, content, closing his eyes. Just to take it in.

And then he's handed the pencil. There's something sort of forming in his mind, and he curls up on the couch, idly sketching at the pad for a few moments, pausing to smoke every few moments. It's not productive for a while, but then he starts to get going, stops drawing birds along the lines and circles Pinkman's drawn and starts on a person.

It's rough, at first, but as he goes, it starts to look more and more like Pinkman. Sharp features, shaved head, but - not his normal clothes. With a mask, and a costume, and oversized hands, like those foam fingers at baseball games.

He watches Finch for the most of it, his doodles and everything, sips at his beer all the while with a half-cocked smile at the corner of his mouth. It's livening up the page at least, better than his mindless circles and nothing that were on it before.

But he gives Finch some of his space when he gets into the real sketching, because he knows he personally gets himself a little self-conscious when people are peeking at his work. He flips through a magazine on the table for about the billionth time, drums some more on the arm of the chair, gets up to get himself a new beer out of the fridge. By the time he comes back from that, it's really starting to look like something - well, something familiar - and he pauses, leans a hand on the back of the couch as his eyes sketch over the drawing. Is that him?

"What're you doin'?"

Jesse doesn't mind Pinkman watching him work, but he appreciates the space, anyway. It lets him get into his zone, into his own head. He's quiet, concentrated, and so when Pinkman wanders in and out of the room, he ignores him. For the most part. When he's asked what he's doing, Jesse pauses, and glances up at Pinkman once, almost nervously.

"Drawing, what's it look like," Finch says, but it's easy and not hostile at all. He shrugs, shoulders staying a little hunched. "Superheroes, y'know? Colonel Facepoker." A beat. "He's got a bird army, apparently."

"Yeah? You remember that?"

Not that he's faulting him or anything. Hell, he drew the same thing once upon a time, he's pretty sure it's in there somewhere. Jesse wets his lips as he folds his arms against the back of the couch, beer dangling between his fingers. He taps a finger against the birds briefly, "My own murder'a crows."

There's a beat, but then the grin he gives is infectious. "You're drawin' me," he says, vaguely pleased as he straightens up and scrubs a hand over his head.

Of course he remembers that, it's the first real time that they'd met. Jesse glances up at Pinkman when he taps his finger on the paper - grins right back, nodding.

"Yeah," Jesse says, a little quiet, grinning down at the paper. "But I didn't tell nobody it's you, y'know? Secret identities and all that." A beat. "I mean, Colonel Facepoker saved my life a few times, so. I figure the best thing I can do is draw him a bird army t'help with fighting crime."

Saved his life. He did that, huh? It makes Jesse's smile kind of dip a little, face a bit more thoughtful than it was before. Those are big words, and it never felt as big as any of that when he was doing - it was just a thing, it was the thing to do. But maybe it should be. Bigger.

He takes a long draw from his beer as he walks around the couch.

"Maybe he oughta be steppin' up some time, huh?" he suggests, eyebrows raising. "Findin' the tigers in the woods or somethin', makin' that shit his own. He could ride 'em, like into battle. How badass would that be?"

It makes him laugh, anyway. Making a face, Finch goes back to drawing, shading the drawing as he replies. "Yeah, yeah. Like Beastman or something, got the power of the Koreanimals on his side t'defeat the evil scientists."

He sniffs, once. "I can hear you doubting Colonel Facepoker's abilities, too. In your head. Quit it. He's a damn superhero, you wouldn't do that t'Superman." Okay, so he can't read Pinkman's mind or anything, but he can definitely predict that anything positive he says is going to not be taken well. "Can't draw with negative energy, anyway. I still gotta do Captain Dreamlord."

"Uh." Beastman. "Sure." He gives a half of a laugh right back, seats himself on the arm of the couch and sips from his beer again. "Shit, I oughta be a comic book."

Yeah, well, he ain't no Superman. "Don't wear no underwear outside my pants like a total f," faggot, he cuts off, changes his mind to, "asshole either." He almost sighs when he scratches at his cheek, thinks it over in his head. "'Sides, last I checked? Colonel Facepoker?" He leans in a little, like it's a secret. "Didn't do too much, uh. Actual. Facepoking." But Colonel Glassgetter just doesn't have the same ring to it.

Not to mention that it can kind of work for an awkward double entendre for him, and he'd rather avoid that.

"What's Captain Dreamlord's powers anyway?"

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I am fine to put your gun to my life

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