closed

[heisenbitch]

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. ]

Comments

[nightmarist]

So's being gay and doing drugs, yet here I am.

[Ronan doesn't seem particularly bothered by Jesse's criticism, more amused than anything else. He is a sinful creature, there's no denying that. Actually, his sins are too numerous to count, and there are probably a great many he'll die without confessing. But that's his own business.

Plucking up his beer bottle in one hand and the sack in the other, Ronan follows after Jesse.]

[heisenbitch]

[ Beat Jesse to the punch. That was going to be his next remark. Waiting for Ronan to catch up with him, he falls into step alongside him, flashlight lighting the ground ahead of them. Jesse is silent for a moment, thinking it over. Picking up on Ronan's amusement, though, Jesse goes with it. ]

Yeah, well, you know what they say. Catholics are usually always the wildest buncha bitches under all that repression and guilt.

[nightmarist]

Especially the Irish ones.

[And to prove his point, Ronan tips his head back and guzzles down the rest of his beer in a single gulp, then chucks the bottle at the nearest rock. It shatters in an explosion of glass.]

[heisenbitch]

[ Jesse glances up at Ronan as he chugs the beer down, and the corner of his mouth quirks in thoughtful amusement as Ronan throws the bottle. Jesse takes another drag, then gestures to Ronan and the rock with his cigarette. ]

So, how many Hail Marys is that?

[nightmarist]

[With a careless shrug:]

That's up to the priest.

[heisenbitch]

How does he decide that, yo? Like, does it depend on if he's had a shitty day? Or if he just thinks you're a jerkwad? Be all like, "I'm gonna give this punk ass a hundred Hail Marys 'cause I don't like the sound of his face," while listening to you behind the screen thing.

[nightmarist]

I'll be honest: They usually just ask me to donate money to the church. It's a hell of a lot more useful than Hail Marys.

[heisenbitch]

So, you... pay for forgiveness?

[ There's a whole bunch of hooker-related smartass questions that could be asked about this, but Jesse hasn't forgotten how important faith mattered to Ronan when the timeslip was making him experience death. Not that it's faith itself that Jesse is respecting here so much as he's not about to make too much of a joke of something raw like that.

And actually, he's got a more curious question, anyway. ]

Kinda hypocritical, isn't it? Beating off to guys and putting shit in your body, yet believing in something that says you're gonna go to hell for that.

[ Asked with genuine curiosity, not with smartass attitude. ]

[nightmarist]

I don't beat off.

[Just to be clear.]

And it's not paying for forgiveness. Contrition is a two-step process. You have to feel guilt, and then you have to do something about it. In my case, money's the best thing I can offer the church as an apology for my sins.

I don't see how any of that makes me a hypocrite, though. I never said I wasn't a sinner.

[heisenbitch]

[ There's only one thing Jesse has heard in that whole response.

(Actually, no, he did hear all of it. But.) ]

...You don't beat off?

[nightmarist]

[Ronan smirks at Jesse's reaction.]

That can't possibly be the weirdest thing you've learned about me.

[heisenbitch]

[ Throwing a skeptical "you're just fucking with me" look at Ronan. ]

Yeah, but not beating off? Having blue balls for God? That's pretty fuckin' weird, bro.

[nightmarist]

It's not "for God". I just think it's fucking disrespectful.

[heisenbitch]

Something that's natural is disrespectful? Yet you drink? And you do drugs? ...There's a way cheaper way to be less pissed off all the time, you realise that, right? It's called getting laid.

[nightmarist]

Drinking and getting high doesn't involve anyone else. I'm not involving another person in my pleasure. Let's put it this way: How do you think I feel about the fact that Joseph fucking Kavinsky probably has at least fifty crunchy pairs of socks with my face to thank for it? Not great. I feel not great about it. I kind of want to puke thinking about it. Why would I do that to someone else?

[heisenbitch]

[ Jesse squints questioningly at Ronan, though it instantly turns into a contemplative frown. He can't help suddenly feeling like a bit of an asshole. He slows in his step because his attention is more focused on Ronan instead of guiding the way through the dimness with the flashlight. ]

Dude... It doesn't make you like him if you, y'know, beat off. I mean, what if the person you're thinking about is someone you really into? Or love? Or who loves you? They'd want you to beat off thinking about 'em.

[ He looks ahead of him and takes a drag of his smoke. Only natural Ronan is going to feel sick about Kavinsky thinking of him like that, after the things Ronan has told Jesse he's done. So, changes the direction of the conversation: ]

Fuck that guy. C'mon, let's do another bump, then find something to demolish.

[nightmarist]

[Ronan isn't immediately dismissive of Jesse's position, but he thinks of Adam in all his sublime glory and divine beauty and he thinks of using that image for something as coarse and filthy and lonely as self-pleasure and the entire idea of it is just as ugly as thinking of Kavinsky. Because he loves Adam, he would never use Adam as mere pornography.

The look of disgust on his face probably says enough about that.]

Yeah. Let's.

[heisenbitch]

[ Jesus. He's a kid and he honestly has that much of a hangup about it? Shit, Jesse can't help feeling sorry for him. 'You oughta be enjoying yourself at your age, man' is what the amped up part of him wants to start trying to persuade him. Even with how amped up he is, that disgusted look of Ronan's makes it clear he better not push it.

So, Jesse is silent for a few moments while sniffing and wiping his nose in between a drag of his cigarette. His nose is starting to feel a little numb. He's already itching for another bump. He's probably walking faster than he realises, brimming with energy. And, unable to stand the silence because it's so loud in his coked out head, he finds himself starting to ramble, his words coming out faster than they normally do: ]

No way could I do the whole Catholic thing, man. Y'know, having all that guilt about stuff that ain't even your fault. Wanting things that just come natural to you but feeling like there's always some big, scary guy standing over your shoulder, watchin' your every move. [ Another pinching wipe of his nose, another sniff. ] I mean, how d'you know when it's enough, yo? Y'know, praying for forgiveness and all that? Or doing the whole… contrition thing or whatever it was you said it's called? How do you know when you've done enough to put things right? 'Cause it just seems to me like God's just endlessly pissed off at everything you think or do or say. I don't get the point in that. It's like… [ A pause to take a drag of his smoke. ] Seems to me like it doesn't matter what you do, doesn't matter how much you try to make up for your sins or whatever. It's just never gonna be enough and you're just never gonna be good enough for this God you gotta endlessly please. Don't you don't sick of it? Just being like… endlessly beaten up by this God? Don't it make you feel worthless?

[nightmarist]

[Ronan is content to let Jesse talk to himself for as long as he likes, the cocaine mostly just keeping him in a good mood by making shit not matter quite so much. Jesse insults him about twenty times in the course of that monologue, but Ronan merely listens and waits until he's finished. Then he answers only:]

No. It doesn't make me feel worthless at all.

[He's not sure how Jesse would even come to that conclusion.]

[heisenbitch]

How? I mean, it's like God's made you his bitch, yo.

[ Jesse isn't even remotely aware that he's insulted Ronan through any of his spiel. That much is probably obvious with how genuine he actually sounds despite his coked-up motormouth. ]

[nightmarist]

[What a weird fucking perspective. Ronan looks downright confused by that statement.]

If your mom says, "Don't put your hand on the hot stove," is she saying that because she doesn't care about you, or is it because she's trying to protect you?

[heisenbitch]

If it's my mom? She's sayin' it 'cause she thinks I can't be trusted and I'm too much of a useless asswipe to know any better.

[nightmarist]

Okay, but why would she give enough of a shit to say something? Maybe she thinks you're a useless asswipe, but she still cares enough to try and stop you from burning your useless asswipe hand.

[heisenbitch]

[ A humourless snort. ]

She doesn't care.

Look, if you're tryna get me to understand God or whatever by using my mom as an example, you ain't gonna get anywhere.

[nightmarist]

No, it's the perfect example. You're just an idiot holding onto a grudge.

[And that's about all the hand-holding Ronan intends to do as far as theological discussion goes. He takes a running start before launching a kick at the ground, shooting dirt and rocks high into the air. Amusing!]