kore_logs | 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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"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?"

I am fine to put your gun to my life

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