cape_kore | video

[ And he is raking in the pride for a moment or two, even gives a bit of a laugh when Finch calls him a badass, shrugs his shoulders like 'what can you do?'. ]

[ It doesn't get to last very long, his smile slowly fading off his face when he asks about the noise, and Jesse almost instinctively clutches at the gun again to make sure it's still there, tucked safely back there where the motherfuckers left it, left him - why here? Why leave it with him? Was he going to need it? Or was it just to taunt him for whatever reason? Jesse's a deer in the headlights for a split second before he looks down at the bowl in his hands, with an incredibly unconvincing, ] What? No -

[ Kind of telling when he doesn't even join in on the joke, and Jesse busies himself with packing the foil for a moment, doesn't look up at Finch for those long few seconds until his thumb is pressing down the weed into the makeshift screen and - he sets the bottle and the bag aside, reaches back into his waistline and sets the gun onto the counter without a word. ]

[ His jaw works as he does, but he just picks up the bottle again and starts to light up. He asks in a croak after another beat, a few small tendrils of smoke making their ways out of his mouth, ] You want any?

[ Oh - Jesse doesn't mean to cause that sort of reaction, and he bites at his lip when Pinkman's quiet and edgy about it. Maybe he should've left it alone.

But it's a gun. Pinkman has a gun, and Jesse looks down at it for a moment, just taking it in. Taking it seriously. Alright - alright. One deep breath, inhale and exhale, then he reaches for the bottle of vodka to take the cap off and take a drink. And then he looks up at Pinkman, and settles back down against the counter, raising his eyebrows a little. It's alright. He doesn't mind - it just means that Pinkman has a way to protect himself, and Jesse's glad for that.

He'll also make grabby hands for that bottle. ] Fuck yeah I want some. [ He gets that anxiety problem, Pinkman. ] Don't freak out. I don't give a shit that you got a gun, and I ain't gonna tell anybody. [ So just. Trust him on this one. ]

[ There's an immediate moment of panic that occurs to him between putting the gun down and Finch's actual response to it - fight or flight, like Finch's just going to take off right there - it's a gun, it's a gun, and that means something incredibly heavier to Jesse than it might to a lot of other people, the feeling of something like that in his hand and the weight of the kind of consequences that thing carries and - ]

[ He's overthinking it. He's overthinking it and there's a line in his shoulders that physically and obviously unwinds when Finch speaks up again, a knot that releases. ]

[ Jesse passes the bowl over, his lighter too, and finally spews out a stream of smoke, planting his hands on either side of him on the counter. He doesn't answer right away, just beats his fingers against the edge to some nameless tune before he blurts out, ] Hate 'em. I hate 'em. I fuckin' hate 'em.

[ He gets it, though. He definitely would've run if it had been a knife, he gets it, and when Pinkman gets that out, Finch blows the smoke in his lungs out in front of him. Fuck, that - feels good. It calms him down, eases him up just a little bit. ]

Yeah - yeah. [ Jesse reassures, looking at him solemnly. ] S'alright - s'alright to hate 'em. I don't like knives. [ He wishes he could touch without feeling like he's making Pinkman uncomfortable. The urge is pretty strong and he has to put the bowl and lighter down after a second inhale to shove his hands back in his pockets. How do people comfort other people without touching? Fuck. ]

S'alright, I get it.

[ Knives, yeah, that's a pretty fuckin' understandable one so far as Finch goes - it's not like it's been so long that he's forgotten what happened, even with going home. It's not something that's gonna be leaving him any time soon. ]

[ But he still sighs, goes a little boneless, some kind of relief when Finch tells him it's all right - you can hate them - and it's just such a regular part of the world he used to be in, so understood in a way that he can't wrap his damn mind around. He snatches up the bottle of vodka and shakes his head as he pushes himself up onto the counter, parks himself a seat there and asks hesitantly before he takes a swig: ]

You ever used one?

[ Well, if Pinkman's going to sit, Jesse will too. He pushes himself up onto the counter as well with a sigh, leaning back on his hands. Has he ever used a knife? He has to think about it. ]

Mm. Once. Didn't - actually do anything with it, but. [ Just a pocket knife, and just once. He'd grown accustomed to keeping one on him while living in New York, if only because of the frequent muggings. But he'd never actually stabbed anyone. ] Y'live in New York and work late nights, and y'learn to defend yourself real quick, no matter how much ink you got. [ He sniffs, once, pushing his hoodie sleeves up. He's gonna smell like weed and he knows Galen's gonna know, but he doesn't care right now. It's pretty tame. ] Why?

[ He meant a gun, technically, but he'll take either or - they're both weapons, they're both intended for one very specific and sole purpose. It's the same idea and he takes it as such. Jesse swallows a healthy amount of vodka, holding back a cough and setting the back of his hand against his mouth when he does. It's been a while since he's frequented harder liquor; he's gotten to accustomed to beer. ]

No reason, [ he replies at first, and then, sarcastically, with a smile that's so forcibly smug, ] Conquering all our fears together. [ In the meantime he's going to lean over and pluck that bowl right back, shake his head as he sets the vodka back down and takes himself another long drag of weed. He fully intends on getting motherfucking wasted as fast as he can. ]

Thinkin', [ he finally concludes, almost honestly. ] Just thinkin'.

[ That is definitely a no. Jesse's not even sure he's actually held a gun in his hands before. He actually sort of laughs at that, conquering our fears, and immediately reaches for the vodka when Pinkman puts it down. Yeah, wasted sounds good.

Jesse's in the same boat - he's used to beer, or at least, he had been before Kore. Now he's been almost exclusive with the vodka and whiskey. It burns and it feels good at the back of his throat, and he coughs a little, rubbing at his face. ]

Shouldn't do that. Thinking's shitty. [ Jesse mutters. For Finch, thinking means dwelling. ] Half the time I don't wanna think at all. [ A beat, and then he takes another swig of vodka and points vaguely at Pinkman. ] Don't think about guns. Don't do that t'yourself.

Yeah, no kiddin'.

[ He agrees at first - thinking is pretty shitty, and for Jesse, it's about the same, thinking being a whole downward spiral sort of thing for him as of late. Habits he's gotta start breaking. He scrapes the ash out of the foil and starts to sort out filling it again, shaking his head slowly as he goes along. ]

[ Because it's the latter bit that he doesn't quite agree with, can't bring himself to get to that plane of existence just yet. He'll stop thinking about guns and why he's needed one as of late when he's good and high. Or maybe he won't. His response is passively carefree, if not for the half a hitch in his voice when he starts off. ] Hey, man, why not? Good a thing as any.

[ Oh, come on, Pinkman, not even half an hour into talking and you're making Finch scowl? Jesse looks up at Pinkman and gives him a look. ]

You gonna make me yell at you again, motherfucker? [ He takes another swig of vodka to emphasize that point. Pinkman's not the only one who wants to get wasted as quickly as possible. He will trade Pinkman the vodka for the bowl when he's finished, though. ] Right now? Right this fuckin' moment. You don't gotta worry. Torturing yourself about it is just gonna hurt.

[ He brings his fingers up to his mouth, gnawing at his cuticles. ] You don't gotta answer. But what thoughts you got going on right now?

Yell all ya want, hombre, I ain't gonna make ya quit what ya love. [ He takes another quick pull off it before he hands the bowl over to Finch, ducks his head a little and bangs his fist a couple times against his chest before he speaks in a flurry of smoke. ] You wanna slow your roll there? You're startin' to sound like rehab.

[ It's not even like he means any of it. He just doesn't know what to do with himself anymore, when he's shown concern. He doesn't know the first way to begin to approach it. ]

[ He turns his head to the side when Finch asks his question, a little jerkily before his expression reads too quickly on his face. There's something about guns, something about that feeling in his hands when he holds one, but it's like all he can see is Gale fucking Boetticher's face. He's not bringing that up here. Not with Finch. He's not sure if he just thinks the guy hasn't earned half his stories or if he just doesn't want to tell them, damned if they prove to be too much. ]

Thinkin'- [ He keeps his head turned away, takes a swig off the vodka again before he finishes his thought. He can already feel a buzzing sensation start to creep in from the edges, and it's nice, it's comforting. ] Think I want a dog. I wish I could get a dog.

Yeah, well, fucking rehab ain't the piece of shit y'make it out to be. [ Jesse bitches, but he just takes another swig of vodka and drops it. Fine. Give him that bowl, he's going to angrily take a drag.

Of course, it's hard to stay angry. Jesse breathes out the smoke up at the ceiling, watching Pinkman idly from the side - and don't think he doesn't catch the start of that expression. He doesn't bring it up, because Pinkman's already cagey enough. Maybe he shouldn't pick at this shit. It's not like it gets him anywhere - it's not like the people he's poking at appreciate it. And that just makes him want more to drink, really, because what's one more thing he's awful at?

He takes another deep drag. Better.

Jesse flops back, laying out flat on the counter, legs hanging off the edge. It's uncomfortable as hell. Gonna petition for the couch in a second here. ] You could get a dog. [ Jesse says, staring up at the ceiling. ] What's stoppin' you?

It ain't- [ No, he's not even pressing into that. He just bites down hard on his tongue and swears under his breath, touches a finger to his mouth to make sure he's not bleeding. He is, a little. Whatever. ]

[ He's got bigger concerns here, better start containing himself fast before he really bubbles over and makes a mess of everything. Makes a fool of himself, well, he's done that enough in his life and he ain't about to start a track record with Finch. ] Used to have one when I was younger, Lucy. She got hair all over the couches, the parents kinda up and, [ 'psh' is about the noise he makes, jerks a thumb to the side to mime her getting kicked out. ] Liked her though. I just-

[ He lets the vodka bottle clunk onto the counter before he finally looks ahead, leaning forward a little and heavily onto his hands. ] I forget a lot, ya know? Like bills.

[ And it's here he finally looks at Finch, swallows tightly before he speaks up again. ] Like my aunt, she used to have ta take these meds, every day, every day, [ and he picks up a hand and snaps his fingers with it for emphasis, ] and I'd try to remind her but, every day? Hell no. I'd forget all the time. How do I know I ain't gonna forget to, like, feed a damn dog? Like, every day?

[ He listens, watching quietly from where he's flopped out. He can feel it starting to sink in, the vodka and the weed, and the haze is nice. But he's still attentive. He can still listen, because honestly? He's starting to think Pinkman doesn't ever have anybody to do even just that, the way he talks. ]

You got a dog in your house, you ain't gonna forget t'feed it. [ Jesse tells him, squinting. ] That dog's gonna love you t'death. S'what dogs do. [ He pushes himself up with some effort, and that rush of blood makes him all sorts of dizzy. He grips at the counter almost in irritation, steadying himself, and then gestures in the direction of the living room. ]

C'mon. Couch. [ He slips off the counter clumsily, and pauses to look at Pinkman. ] ... You could do it, man. S'different than pills - how long ago was it with your aunt, huh, that recent, forgetting the meds?

-- You could do it. It don't matter.

[ No, no, no. That's not what he means, he's pretty sure, and he shakes his head minutely as Finch speaks but he doesn't actually have much to say in rebuttal, not yet. ] Few years back, [ he admits instead, about his aunt, slips off the counter right suit - a little more smoothly than Finch; he's not quite that high yet - and grabs for his stuff before he starts to follow through on that idea. ] I was, uh. I was twenty-three? When she died?

[ The point being that it wasn't that long ago, and he knows how he's changed, knows where it's gone for the better and which parts have plummeted so immensely that he can't think about it too hard, gives him tunnel vision. He doesn't know why he's so fixated on the dog thing, not right now. But he doesn't look at Finch as he finishes off the rest of the bowl, shakes out the hand with the lighter as he sucks in all that smoke and tilts his head back. ]

Dogs're- [ His voice croaks a little again around the smoke, and he lets it spew after a moment of holding it in. ] They're, like, quiet sometimes, right? They're tough, it's like takin' care of a kid. Gotta play with 'em, gotta take 'em on walks or they'll shit all over your floor. [ He hesitates another moment before he starts to move past Finch, making good with that couch offer. ] Lotta work. Ain't even sure I could keep like a fuckin' house fern without it kickin' it.

[ Jesse's not even exactly sure what he should say. Because he doesn't believe that, he doesn't think that Pinkman would neglect the dog, or - even that this is important, really, but. It is, obviously. It's important to Pinkman, so Finch is trying to listen and make sense of it. He sniffs, once, watching Pinkman move past, and reaches to take the vodka for another swig. ]

I guess. [ He says dubiously. ] Wouldn't put me in charge of a dog. Or a kid. [ Which - sort of sucks, he thinks, because he doesn't know what Galen thinks about kids. Galen didn't even think Jesse was a fan of marriage. Which he wasn't, really, not before all this - but that's not even the point. The point is that they're in the same position here. Wants a dog, doesn't trust himself with one. Doesn't trust himself with the responsibility. ] But - but if yer this concerned, though, you'd be worried. I mean, you'd wanna fucking take care of the dog.

[ He doesn't know why he's arguing this. ] You take care of things fine. You fuckin' - fed me, when I needed it. [ Following Pinkman to the couch, Jesse flops down on it and drinks again. Probably should slow down, he thinks. Probably not going to happen. ] Y'don't give yourself enough credit, I don't think. [ And he waves his hand. ] Go ahead and brush that shit off like I didn't even say it, though, I know that's what yer gonna do.

[ It's a long while before Jesse speaks up again, he just sinks himself down on the coffee table and starts to draw up another pinch of weed in his fingers, sprinkles is slowly and methodically into the foil - too slowly, too methodically, like he has to really think about it. Like he's concentrating on that and not what Finch is actually saying. ]

[ Because he's right, he's spot on when he says Jesse's going to just brush it off - he does, immediately, he shrugs off the near-compliment with a 'tsk' that's under his breath, without even a second thought - and it burns him a little, makes some kind of hot fire in his gut that turns his expression into a bit of a glower. He did okay with his aunt. He did okay with Brock. But he didn't shoulder any of those alone, and it's a niggling little idea in his head that he can't quite shake. ]

[ He doesn't know. Maybe he's not talking about a dog at all, and it's starting to sound more and more like it. ]

Or maybe I'd just end up killin' it. [ A beat before he shrugs a shoulder and flicks the lighter on, draws deep into the bottle so that he can feel his chest burn, his lungs tight. ]

[ It burns in his chest, and he's not even breathing in smoke. It burns because he's a little more tipsy than he is high, and the amount of alcohol he's had in the last few minutes loosens his tongue enough. Maybe Pinkman's not talking about a dog, maybe he's talking about himself or a kid or another person or even a fucking fern, but it doesn't matter. Finch scowls, and leans to flick Pinkman in the ear. Hard. ]

The fuck is wrong with you, huh? [ He doesn't mean for it to come out that way. but it does. ] You gonna just keep doing that? Huh? Fuckin' naysaying. Everything. Why I gotta get mad at you every time we talk lately?

[ He takes another swig from the bottle. ] Gonna kill the goddamn whatever. S'what you're gonna do. Is that what y'wanna hear? [ Jesse curls even more into the couch, pissily. ] You want a kid? Least you can have one. I mean - a fucking dog. Whatever.

[ His head jerks belatedly away from the flick - he almost coughs, loses the whole of the smoke in his mouth. Saves it though, and blows it out in a quick and harried cloud. Least he could have a kid. Least he could have a kid? ]

Yo, I got methheads and loony psychopaths bangin' on my door on the regular, I gotta keep a goddamn gun in the house just in case'a emergency, I've gotta- I've gotta keep a gun, and you're talkin' about kids? Seriously. A kid. [ He stands, angrily, takes the bowl with him, leans a little over Finch for full effect. ] Just fuckin' adopt some baby from China like everyone else.

[ Not because he means the misdirected anger at all, but because, yeah, no, there's a lot fucking wrong with him and nothing's sitting the right way. He clenches his teeth and grabs at the back of his neck, strains his head either way as his fingers dig in tight and try to massage their way in. He's getting too high too fast and it's settling in as an angry kind of buzzing feeling all in his limbs. ] I don't know what you want me to say- here- man.

Edited 2013-06-06 11:21 (UTC)

[ Ooh. Ouch. Finch holds his bottle closer to his chest and stares angrily back at Pinkman, curling into the couch. He - yelling is not a good thing, yelling makes his chest get all tight, but whatever, he's not going to just take this. Jesse chews at his sleeve and tries not to reply about the baby thing. That hurts. Stings. ]

What the fuck d'you want me to say? [ Jesse snaps, shoulders around his ears. ] What the fuck should I say t'you when all you're gonna do is take like - like I'm insulting you, huh? You brought it up - you keep tellin' me reasons why you can't, so what m'I supposed t'say? [ He grips tightly at the bottle. ] M'not gonna tell you that y'can't. Sit - s-sit down, quit it.

[ You're making him nervous. ]

[ Jesse doesn't heed Finch's request, not yet. He's riled already, and he's still anxious, really fucking anxious from his switch back over here - bright lights and an unfamiliar bed, it's all he's got from that. It's not right. ]

Why the hell won't ya tell me I can't, huh? Why the hell doesn't anybody tell me I can't, just tell me the goddamn truth? Huh? I got no job, all I do is smoke weed all day, I'm barely keepin' food in the house for, like, myself let alone a fuckin' pet, and you're sayin' get a dog! Get a dog? Me? Asshole little junkie on the fine fuckin' road that he is?

[ But he was the one that brought it up. It makes no sense to get angry with Finch. ]

[ How does he do this right? How does he answer when he's tripping on his tongue and trying to push himself down further into the couch? ]

You ain't a junkie, motherfucker, you just said. [ Finch snaps, and now his voice is shaking. ] M'not gonna tell you that y'can't cause - cause you'll take it as a stupid fuckin' confirmation -- how'm I supposed t'fix that? I can't fuckin' - I can't help if you don't want my fucking help!

[ That hurts, too. ] B-but oh, fuckin' -- fuckin' excuse me, I'll just leave you to yer misery while I g-go - adopt a baby from China. Cause that's what f-friends do, y'know? S-- sit down, I mean it.

[ And he does sit down then, he sits down abruptly and hard against the table, lands heavily and unceremoniously drops the water bottle beside him, his hands clapping over his face as he does, even with the lighter still caught between his fingers. He takes in this sharp breath, a shudder to it and all. ]

[ He belatedly realizes how much that comment must have hurt, babies from fucking China, and it twists in his gut as he swears aloud again behind his hands. ] Christ. Oh, Christ. [ His own voice shakes just like Finch's, and it feels like a panic attack in his chest all of a sudden, how tight it's constricting. Or maybe he's just going to cry. ]

I didn't ask for your fuckin' help! [ His hands spread out and away, but he doesn't look at Finch. Doesn't really know how to, not yet, and he's got this hot prickling behind his eyes that he's trying not to call to attention. ] And I'm sorry! While ya got this weird-ass obligation to hang around when nobody fuckin' asked ya to! "Fix." [ And he laughs, a stuttered thing as he rubs under his nose and sniffs. ] "Fix," like I'm your goddamn pet project. Fix.

[ It's the shake in Pinkman's voice that gets him. He goes quiet, holding the bottle tightly, still, while Pinkman yells at him, knuckles white. And when he's finished, when he rubs under his nose, Jesse sits up and scoots across the couch, slow, putting the bottle down on the ground. He keeps his gaze very firmly on Pinkman - he's fucked up, because without the drink? He would've never said fix. ]

People who don't ask for help're usually the people who could use it the most. [ Jesse tells him solemnly. ] I ain't - trying t'fix you. Y'don't need to be fixed, and you ain't my fucking - pet project, whatever th'hell that means. You're my fucking friend, Jesse, and friends help each other, try t'help friends with problems when they need it, fucking - tells 'em that they're being way, way too hard on 'emselves, so I dunno what kinda friends you have if that ain't the case.

[ He doesn't touch, even though he wants to. He lets out a sigh and runs his hand through his hair, leaning back and away. ] If y'don't want me around, that's different. S'fine. Sorry.

What I- What I want's- [ But he aborts the sentence fast, loses the rest of his words in a choked noise in his throat that he can't hold back. He's looking very deliberately to the side when a few hot tears make their ways quickly down his cheeks. ]

[ Badger, Skinny. Even Combo, they were never friends like this, maybe something he really needed. They hung out and he loved 'em to death but it was never like this, they never sat down and talked shit out like a couple of faggots. And maybe that was fine for a time in his life, but it was kind of a time well before he had to endure the stench of a little kid's body being melted in a barrel of fucking acid, before ten people (eleven?) up and died just to save him a little jail time. But he'd always thought he at least had Mr. White to have his back, Mr. White was solid. And now- ]

I don't want you around, okay? I don't want anyone- near me. [ He nearly splutters out, has to work around the tremble in his voice in a way that doesn't really work. He doesn't want Finch to go, not really. He's just emotional, he's got that angry hornet high pressing into the sides of his skull, he's embarrassing himself. Jesse lets out a small noise of defeat, his hands starting to paw at his face to wipe his cheeks clean. ] Wouldja just go?

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