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Who: Jesse Pinkman & Ronan Lynch; Jesse Pinkman & Joseph Kavinsky; Jesse Pinkman & Noah Czerny; Jesse Pinkman & Andyr Prince. (Will set up more starters if anyone wants one!)
When: Post-Moira crash into the Midway Hub
Where: Around the camp set up
What: #justpostwhatthefuckthings
Note: Warnings for swearing and other stuff I'll edit in if necessary. If anyone wants to do post-crash things with Jesse, shoot me a PM and I'll toss up a starter for you!

☲ closed to ronan

[ One of the things Jesse managed to salvage of his own belongings from the Moira was the tent he'd received upon being promoted to Tiruncula rank a month or so ago. It's pitched shoddily among other crew members' tents pitched nearby, a slipshod effort on Jesse's part with how little he really knows about camping. Not that it matters, not that Jesse even cares. Hours have blurred on by since the ship went down, and Jesse has steadily descended from blind adrenalised terror into a state of shock-induced apathy; all the horrific things he's seen has anesthesised him into an eerily indifferent calmness.

Sitting crosslegged just outside his tent, there's a cigarette dangling between his lips, smoke drifting up from the lit end, while he's washing his hands in a dented camping saucepan of water that he'd managed to acquire. Barefoot and dressed in just his filthy jeans, his equally filthy blood-caked t-shirt is lying in a heap beside him. The water is cold, shocking against his skin; goosebumps rise across his arms and chest as he scrubs water up along his forearm, washing away dirt and dried blood as best he can with what little water he has available to him. He focuses on the task like he hasn't got a care in the world, like nothing horrific or traumatising has taken place.

Realising someone is approaching him, slowing down in front of him, Jesse glances up with a puff on his cigarette. It's Ronan. Smoke billows from around the cigarette pursed between his lips as Jesse peers up at Ronan with a look that's full of acknowledgement, yet unreactive; that same eerily indifferent calmness. Turning his attention back down to what he's doing, he remarks around his cigarette with a curt casualness that's entirely out of place with the whole situation: ]

'Sup?

☲ closed to kavinsky

[ On the very outskirts of the makeshift camp set up by all the crew, away from the bustle of crew members and the grim reminders of everything that led up to the ship crashing, Jesse loiters in near darkness, smoking one of his last cigarettes. The only light thrown on him comes from the camp itself, dim and indistinct; the tip of his cigarette glows red and bright in the murky shadows with each drag.

That shock-induced apathy hasn't really lifted. As he stands on the edge of the camp, he watches the camp from this safe distance with an impassive casualness. Disconnected from it all, like a spectator to a situation that he's watching on a screen rather than a part of. That's not to say there isn't an endless hum of trembling anxiety trapped beneath the surface, waiting to tear through his bubble of indifference; that's not to say that his hands aren't constantly sweaty, or that his heart isn't constantly racing. But he seems disconnected even from that.

He stands slouched on the spot, hand shoved in his pocket, other hand bringing his cigarette up for a drag and then dropping away to his side with a flick of ash. It's like he's standing on a street corner and not on the edge of a camp that's stranded on a planet on the edge of the universe. However, a noise nearby has Jesse snapping his head towards it, eyes suddenly alert and sharp. He exhales a plume of smoke, shoulders tensing up while he peers into the darkness. Another noise, like a twig snapping under someone's shoe. ]

...Hey, who the fuck's there, yo?

☲ closed to andyr

[ A few days have passed since the crash, in whatever way that "days" can be defined on this alien planet. Where Jesse, during the first couple of days, had been eerily apathetic in the face of so much trauma and terror, that shock has been slowly subsiding, giving way to a benumbed yet anxious helplessness rotting away inside of him. The only thing for it has been to keep busy, and god knows there's plenty to do. Not that Jesse is skilled in any of the areas needed most, but if Mr. White taught him anything outside of manufacturing meth and applying himself, it's taking inventory.

So, that's what he's been doing: throwing himself into the task when and where he's needed. Taking stock of the supplies salvaged by noting each item down on a clipboard, and moving said supplies to designated inventory areas. He's an exhausted wreck, having barely slept, barely eaten, but keeping busy keeps the churning storm of helpless panic all knotted up inside him contained.

It's when the stocktaking hits a lull in productivity, while those in charge work out how to inventory new supplies recovered from the Moira, that Jesse, bitten with a desperate nicotine craving, heads through the makeshift camp to find a secluded spot. He hovers near the edge of a cluster of tents, cigarette pursed between his lips and lighter igniting the tip, and it's when he draws in a deep, grateful hit of cigarette smoke that his eyes land on a familiar face. Andyr, sitting alone. A face Jesse hasn't been able to forget. Unspeakable horrors he hasn't been able to forget. Jesse hangs back, loitering in the dim shadows, wondering if he ought to approach the guy at all. And then, eventually, he hesitantly starts towards Andyr. ]

Hey, man.

[ An equally hesitant greeting as he comes to a stop at a respectful distance from Andyr. ]

☲ closed to j

[ It's late, dark. Half the camp is asleep, or at least trying to sleep, in their cramped little tents and makeshift shelter fashioned out of salvageable materials from the Moira. Jesse isn't asleep, though. Sitting outside his tent, he's chewing on his fingernails anxiously in between taking drags of his cigarette, looking this way and that. Seeming to be looking out for someone. That someone being Daisy. He hasn't seen her and he doesn't know where she is, and he can't seem to contact her over the MID. He's worried. She knows where his tent is, though, having camped with him in it the first night of the crash. It's why he's sitting here waiting for her, looking out for her: maybe she'll show up.

As he takes another edgy drag of his almost-finished smoke, everything about him seeming restless and fidgety even though he's sitting still, he throws a glance the other way and spots J up ahead. Heading towards him, it would seem. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Ronan seating himself down next to him isn't what Jesse expects, and he definitely doesn't expect Ronan to be ladened with gifts. Jesse peers at him, incredulous, a wet hand coming up slowly to take the cigarette from between his lips while Ronan reveals what's within the confines of the blanket. His eyes drift down to the goods now spread out in front of them like a wordless offering of presents, then lift back up to Ronan.

Just like that, through the haze of his shock-induced indifference, a weak and fragile and dying Ronan, death and nightmares leaking out of him like rot, belatedly erupts in Jesse's mind. He quickly looks down at the saucepan of dirtying water, returning the cigarette to his lips. ]

We're all gonna be bathing our own piss at this rate. [ Commented with the smoke dangling from his lips, water splashing while he rubs and washes his hand up along his other forearm. Unless Ronan can dream up things like showers, which Jesse does fleetingly wonder.

But then, he's casting a sidelong glance at Ronan. Just eyeing him with curious uncertainty. ]

Edited 2016-11-28 06:58 (UTC)

Not me.

[Which should probably settle Jesse's doubts about that. Ronan's staring back at Jesse in his intense, unbroken way. If he's fragile in any sense, it's totally obscured in this moment.]

Not you, either. You also won't starve. Or run out of smokes. I thought you should know, in case you were pissing yourself over it.

[ Such an intense stare that Jesse sees a different side to after what he'd watched Ronan go through. Why is Ronan doing this, though? As some kind of repayment? Jesse doesn't want repayment. It's not like he deserves it.

He pauses in washing his arms to reach back up to his cigarette. He takes a deep drag before pulling it from his lips. Still with the utterly numb indifference deadening everything inside him, his response is dismissive: ]

There're other crew members who need those sorta things way more than I do.

Edited 2016-11-29 02:10 (UTC)

[Ronan lifts his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug.]

I don't care about them and they'd put me in a cage if they knew my secret. If you don't want any more shit, then I won't bother you, but don't expect me to be giving it to anyone else. I'd prefer to live my life without some desperate mob trying to harvest my brain.

[ Another drag of his cigarette and he turns his head to look at Ronan. Jesse studies him for a moment. ]

It ain't like I can repay you. I don't got shit to trade with.

[Ronan watches Jesse in return, dispassionate.]

I don't want anything from you.

[ Why? It's not like Jesse has done anything to earn it. It's not like Ronan even likes him, either. Jesse looks away, takes a final drag of his cigarette and crushes the butt into the ground before tossing it away. Maybe, however, it has everything to do with Jesse trying to help. Maybe this is Ronan's way of trying to thank him. Which makes Jesse feel like even more of an asshole for having walked away from him, even if Ronan had been the one to order him to do it.

God. He can't stand to think about it. Any of it. Not just what he'd watched Ronan suffer through, but those awful, gut-wrenching visions of Mr. White that had morphed in and out of his thoughts, almost driving him insane. Face turned away from Ronan, Jesse bites his lip, then runs his tongue along it tensely. Then he's looking back to Ronan.

Without a word, he reaches hesitantly for the unopened beer. ]

[Satisfied, Ronan relaxes his posture a bit and takes a swig of his own beer. He figures neither of them wants to talk about what happened, and reassurance is - as usual - beyond his ability. Taking care of Jesse's basic needs is really the least he could do.

And to that end, there's one more thing: He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and draws out an 8 ball of pure cocaine. He offers this more discreetly, cupped in the palm of his hand for only Jesse to see.]

You look sick.

[ Jesse looks down at Ronan's hand, then back up at him with a questioning, surprised raise of his brow. The 8 ball is like a magnet that his eyes are drawn to; they stray back down to it, and he chews his lip, an almost hungry look starting to shadow across his face. He knows he shouldn't, yet the temptation of getting high is an escapism that he can't possibly refuse. He doesn't question this, like he had the beer and the smokes and Ronan's offer to make sure he doesn't go without food; he slowly, just as discreetly takes it from Ronan, and lifts his eyes back up to him. ]

Shit, man. [ Said in a tone like he's earnestly saying "thank you". He throws a glance around him, quick and chary, and back to Ronan. ] ...Wanna bump?

Sure.

[Cocaine isn't Ronan's drug of choice the way it is for Kavinsky, but he knows it sucks to get fucked-up by yourself. And anyway, it might even him out a little from the dragging grogginess of the alcohol and pills he's already ingested.]

[ ...That was thankfully extremely easy. Getting fucked up on his own does suck. Talking a kid into getting fucked up with him would have made him feel like even more of an asshole. At least Ronan made that part easy for him.

He glances back to his drooping tent. Maybe if Ronan wasn't so damn tall, they'd both only just fit in there for the sake of getting high privately. Pushing himself to his feet, unopened bottle of beer in one hand, 8 ball in the other, he motions for Ronan to come with him with a jerk of his head. Ronan might as well bring the blanket of goods with him. ]

[Ronan doesn't need to be told. As soon as Jesse climbs to his feet, he recollects the stash and follows suit with the sack slung over his shoulder. He, too, is quietly pleased. He's gotten quite tired of being treated like a helpless child.]

[ Jesse pockets the 8 ball and stoops down quickly to swipe up his flashlight. Leaving behind the saucepan of water he'd been washing in and his filthy t-shirt, Jesse leads the way through the makeshift camp, weaving around other crew members' tents and homemade set-ups. As they clear the camping area and venture away from the glow of campfires, Jesse flicks the flashlight on to guide the way. They reach a deserted area, the chatter and hubbub of people now quieter, almost distant.

Jesse stops behind a large rock jutting out of the ground. Setting the flashlight down on a smaller rock, he pulls the 8 ball back out of his pocket and holds it up to inspect it. ]

You pulled this outta your dreams?

[ Of course Ronan probably did. It's more a remark of mystified amazement than a question, though. ]

No.

[Actually.]

I stole it from K.

[ Jesse looks at him, brows raised, and then furrowing. ]

K? Kavinsky? That shithead who did that whole... [ A wave of his hand, trying to think how the hell to possibly even begin to describe the way Kavinsky got them off the ship. ] Dick-stroking Johnny Storm thing?

[ Still trying to wrap his fucking brain around that. He's had fucking nightmares about it, man. ]

Edited 2016-11-29 15:15 (UTC)

[Ronan smiles in a hazy sort of way. He likes that description of Kavinsky.]

Yeah, that guy.

[ Yeah. That guy. The guy who saved them. Jesse hasn't forgotten that. He's grateful for it, too, even in spite of the pants-shitting memories that dredges up along with it. Still. He also hasn't forgotten Kavinsky is a psychotic shithead, from the things Ronan has told him - none of those things which Jesse wants to bring up. So, he looks at the 8 ball, twirling the baggy between his thumb and finger, and looks back to Ronan. A small, sly smile starts creeping onto his face. ]

Guess we better bump a few hits before he comes lookin' for it.

Edited (half asleep dkjggd) 2016-11-29 16:05 (UTC)

[Ronan gestures with a playfully exaggerated flourish in Jesse's direction.]

Ladies first.

[ 'You're the faggot', Jesse would playfully shoot back, but he remembers how that went down last time he said that word. So, after stooping down to set his beer down, he stands back up and gives Ronan a look that's amused, mock offended. 'Ladies first'? He grabs his crotch in an obnoxious, obscene gesture. Joking around from the sudden excitement and anticipation of getting high. ]

Bump this. Dick.

[ Immediately, his attention turns to opening the baggy. ]

[Ronan's smile grows considerably more wicked. It so happens that a gay dude isn't particularly bothered by another dude groping himself obscenely. Ronan takes up a perch on the nearby boulder, hugging his knees while he waits for Jesse to indulge.]

[ Jesse doesn't doubt that. He doesn't care, either, not right now. He's got the baggy open now, and he's veeeery carefully dabbing a bump onto the crook between his thumb and forefinger. Eager and focused and craving that high. He blocks one nostril and snorts it up hard.

The rush is instant. A rush of euphoria, of energy igniting inside him. His head tips back as he sniffs hard, eyes shut in grateful bliss. Since blowing through the last of his meth, it seems like ages since he last got high in a way that he longs to get high.

He's quickly portioning out another bump onto his hand, which he snorts greedily, savouring that second exploding rush. All his problems just melting into the background for the moment. Like a weight off his shoulders. As he sniffs and wipes his nose, he holds the baggy out to Ronan. ]

That's good shit, yo.

Only the best for K.

[Not that it's particularly difficult for a dreamer with any amount of control to create a substance that suits his exact needs. Ronan, if he weren't infected and if he felt so inclined, might be able to create an even better drug. Maybe he will, once Kavinsky's finished working on him.

For now, he'll make do with stolen goods. Drawing a knife out of his jacket pocket, Ronan scoops a decent pile of coke onto its sharp tip and brings it to his nostril, inhaling with perfectly dangerous grace. His eyelashes flutter pleasurably as he lowers the knife, his body coming to life after heavy sedation.]

[ Meanwhile, the rush is well and surely kicking in. There's a ceaselessly trembling anxiety trapped underneath it all, but the rush of dopamine firing through his synapses is overriding that. Jesse feels amped. It feels good, so fucking good; it feels amazing to feel good for once in his whole miserable existence since the Ingress pulled him in. So, while Ronan is taking a bump, Jesse is punching his fists into the air as if in victory, in a burst of energy that just has to be expelled, and declaring in a shout at nobody and nothing in particular: ]

Yeah, bitch!

Edited 2016-11-30 00:07 (UTC)

[Ronan's high is subtler than Jesse's. He remains perched on that rock, a devious smile playing on his lips as electricity surges through his nerves. The knife returns to his nose for a second hit before Ronan sets the bag down beside him. He's been holding onto a lot of things very tightly for several weeks now, and all of those concerns dissolve in an instant. This is how it is to be Kavinsky, only Kavinsky's permanently in this state, and Ronan's only visiting.

Knife blade resting with the broad side against his thigh, Ronan turns his eyes skyward. There is a part of him that feels like he could leap up and take flight like Chainsaw. This is very unlike the part of him that feels as if it's been seeping into the soil since he left his world.]

[ Both Jesse's hands come up to push through his hair, head falling back with his eyes shut like he's basking in the high. ]

Ah, shit, man. This shit is the bomb, yo. Feels like I'm just gonna... Take off or something. Shoot out into space. Become a space pirate. Fight some space ninjas or something. Forget about all this shit. Fuck this place, man. Fuck the ship. Fuck everything.

[ He doesn't need to say what "everything" is. The timeslip. The monsters that are now congealed in his nightmares probably for months to come. How scared he is. Fuck all of it. He's still riding the initial rush of those first two bumps; everything that babbles out of his mouth is stated with conviction. Relieved, elated conviction even despite everything, because the coke has made him feel like the weight of it all has lifted off his shoulders. Maybe he could just keep getting high, and higher, and higher, and never return. He wants to hold onto this feeling forever.

Jesse drops his hands from his hair and faces Ronan, hungry for another bump. Just one more, he tells himself, and then maybe just one more after that. That's the thing with cocaine: you feel like a new guy when you snort a line of blow. Except that new guy wants to snort a line, too. ]

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