⟪ It is no tablet message, but Melisandre had taken a trip to the general store, and on his makeshift bed, Jesse will find the following:
- a new, clean shirt, more suitable to the weather, a little larger than he'd have a need for it, but she thought his choice in 'hoodie' as he calls it, would perhaps suggest he prefers things a little bigger than he is for comfort - a pair of trousers, thought had to guess his size on these - one note, which reads as follows: ⟫
[ Melisandre, man — she's a weird woman. Jesse isn't a fool: The stench of danger clings to her. He knows, in his gut, that she's not a good person. He knows because he built an entire life around shady, dangerous people; he can spot it like an eagle spotting its prey. But who is he to judge good and bad? After everything he's done, there's not an ounce of good left in him. Maybe there was never any good to begin with; maybe he was born evil. Anyway, the clothes he finds on his makeshift bed when he returns to the church — the shirt is the sort Jesse wouldn't have ever been caught dead wearing when he was alive, back in the days when what he wore mattered hugely to his ego. He's wearing it now, though — it hangs off him, deep red, oversized. The trousers, too — grey khaki-like pants that hang off his skinny hips. And because the darkness makes him feel cold, his black hoodie is pulled on over the top.
He's been making his way through the creepy church, moving from room to room in search of the woman. And when he finally sees the glow of her lantern coming from underneath the doorway of one room — Jesse stops outside the door, and raps his knuckle a few times against it, the cool blue glow of his own lantern washing away the darkness around him in the stony cold corridor. ]
⟪ There had been a thought to the odd choice in shirt size – she thought his overcoat (she'd never encountered a hoodie before) was an indicator to a preferred cut.
Right now, though, she's not thinking of it at all, instead, she is up at the bell-tower, in the middle of hanging herbs to dry. She'd fastened string to the walls, and the warm light of her lantern flickers happily as she works. Red as ever, she is, though she is still working on repairing the dress she'd arrived in. What she is wearing now is a dress tailored from a red curtain she'd found in the Invincible, made to look as close to the robes of a priestess as she could make it. Her very presence had heated up the comparatively small space of the tower – that, at least, makes it slightly more comfortable. At any rate, she smiles as she recognises him. ⟫
[ Grasping the thick, heavy door handle, it squeaks as Jesse turns it, and the door protests a low groan as he gingerly pushes it open to peek in. Upon seeing he doesn't appear to be interrupting at a bad time, he pushes the door all the way open and takes a step in. Both hands drop down in front of him, his fingers taking straight to fidgeting together. He's always been the restless fidgeting type. Perhaps even more so when he's nervous and feels like he can let his guard down just a little. ]
Uh... with...? Oh, you mean—? [ A glance down at himself, at his new clothes. Eyes back on her. ] Nah. Not what I'd usually wear, but... Who cares, right? [ His mouth tips up into a thin smile. ] Appreciate it, all the same.
⟪ He reminds her of some of the boys at the Temple. The kind who had never known safety, security, others to rely on – make no mistake, not all tasks within the Temple offered those things, but at least, there was a place to sleep, food to eat. Still, just like Melisandre herself, most had never been cured of those fears, and while she'd gone beyond since then, just by virtue of the powers she can command...
It is still familiar, to her. She smiles one of her cryptic smiles in return. ⟫
I hope they serve you well. ⟪ A tilt of her head. ⟫ Have you become more used to this space?
[ More "used" to this space? A wry snort under his breath, his mouth forming an ironic little smile. ]
Not really? [ That humourless smile fades away, and he looks down. His hands are still fidgeting, thumbnail picking at his fingernail. ] Whatever, though.
[ Yeah. Whatever. It's not like it's a fate he doesn't deserve, being banished here. But, goddamn... One of his hands comes up to tug at the collar of the deep red shirt gifted to him. ] Jesus, it's hot in here.
⟪ His restless hands are hard to ignore – she wonders if having a task to do may soothe him in some way, and she has an idea already. ⟫ Ah, I am sorry. 'tis the Lord's blessing, his fire running high within me.
⟪ She crosses over to where he stands, and picks some dried herbs off the rope closes to him, back into the scarf she'd formed into a bag. ⟫ We can leave, if you'd like. There is something I need to finish, and it would be faster with your assistance.
⟪ There, she fetches her lantern, perhaps dimmer than it should be, though she doesn't appear concerned about it just yet. ⟫
[ Ah. Jesse takes an agreeable step half-step backwards, no arguments about helping her out, but as she's gathering up her lantern, he insists: ]
You don't gotta leave your room on my account, though, yo. I mean, not that I mind giving you a hand with — whatever it is you need a hand with. I'm just sayin'. [ But as she's approaching him, his expression takes on a pondering look, and he can't help questioning: ] Wh... What does that mean, exactly? 'His fire runnin' within you'?
7/21 — after wanda has taken vanitas away from the church, she returns
[ she still feels the dark, clumsy, midnight weight of a broken boy in her arms, heavy and half-spilt like an inkpot tipped over. to come back twice, as a replica, as an echo of all the fears and hurts (big and small) collected in a lifetime... no one should have been prepared for this, no should deserve it — something in his ragged, blurred scream told her not to stray too far.
wanda had helped him fit the broken stained glass back together, unversed crowding everywhere in a font of anxiety, and there was no admonishment, no argument. only letting him pour into her like a sieve, folding him in, whispering moonlight secrets, and taking him eventually away to his room.
it's only when she reaches her own that she realizes she's left something behind— she returns to the scene of the crime, the church that should be so comforting, yet haunts her every time she takes a step inside (what is faith when you have failed love at every turn?). her shawl is in the same pew, and she bends to retrieve it.
stops. notices a figure who has emerged, sitting down before the candles (lives lost, aren't they?). he wasn't there before.
jesse. she hasn't seen him since— since she died, as him. he'd died as her.
to wanda, he seems in that moment as reticent, elusive, and forlorn as the holy spirit itself. ]
Who lights these, do you think?
[ her question is soft, careful, but the curiosity is sincere as she draws up to his side where he perches in the front pew to the side, holding his cigarette. the ash gathers too far; he hasn't stopped looking long enough to tap it off. ]
[ The comings and goings for all kinds of people in this church — through the main doors; through the trapdoor — means Jesse has stopped paying a lot of attention to who comes and goes. Notices people, sure, and watches people, absolutely — but doesn't react, not like when he first wound up in this place. When he was first here, he was jumping at every shadow hidden in shadows, every noise interrupting the darkness. Now, he's apathetic to everything. Even more so now, in light of the last few days. Shock-induced apathy. His head is a numb swarm of surreal, shapeless dismay at all the death his mind has been dragged through. All those intimately private, harrowing last moments he had no right to witness.
Setting his lantern down at his feet as he slumps down on the pew closest to the rows of candles, some alight and some extinguished, and he fishes into his pocket for his cigarettes. Pulls them out, looks down, digs a finger into the crumpled pack to pull one out — and glances across to the voice addressing him. It's a hollow up and down look Jesse gives the chick, pale and apathetically grim, and he turns his attention back to the candles at her question about them. ]
Yeah.
[ That's it: Yeah, they were lit when he came here. He brings the cigarette up to his lips, and leans down to fetch his lantern, which he pulls up onto his lap, throwing eerie cool blue light against him. He leans forward, head cocked, to angle the end of his smoke into the blue flame. The cigarette sparks red, smoke curling up at the first igniting drag. He sits back and places the lantern back on the floor. He breathes out a long exhale of smoke, and then, finally, points at the candles with the cigarette pinched between his fore- and middle finger. ]
[ wanda slowly seats herself next to him, contemplating the faded blur around him — the hollowness around the eyes that accompanies recession as well as reflection — as well as the streamlined, mechanical blue of his lantern. how it's juxtaposed against the eclectic, enigmatic red of hers. the lanterns would fool you, nine times out of ten.
jesse is, surprisingly, a much harder read than wanda. she doesn't try. his death— she doesn't want anymore than what he would give, despite her suspicions of everyone here.
she glances back at the candles, then, absorbing his meaning. ]
They are us.
[ wanda sits back, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. ]
[ Matter-of-factually stated, his tone matching his dead-eyed stare fixed on the candles. He brings the cigarette back up to his lips for another drag. But then, casting a sidelong glance at her, he extends the cigarette to her. He's not in the habit of sharing these preciously rare cigarettes, least of all with strangers he doesn't know, but... He recognises this chick. Doesn't know her. But recognises her. He saw her final moments; a bizarre and otherworldly death that he still can't wrap his head around. ]
[ wanda's never been a habitual smoker. she used to do it socially, back in sokovia, something of a symbiotic energy with the young political, threadbare crowd they associated with. something like a handshake, something like one of us.
she and pietro never needed to prove anything to anyone. but blending in never hurt. belonging, almost, didn't either.
she remembers pietro now, she remembers those back alleys and the plans they made now, and it's not about the cigarette — it's the gesture. don't spit on my friendship, an older girl had told her once when she was thirteen, and wanda had rounded forward with a fist, but the girl had only laughed. wanda smoked her first joint that day. the girl's name was jasna, became a good friend, as much as wanda could tolerate friends outside of her axis rotation around pietro.
jasna was dead now. so is wanda.
she takes the cigarette, travels back in time on the drag she pulls, exhales countless ghosts. ]
It is worse than the graves.
[ wanda doesn't remove her eyes from the candles. flickering. mocking. ]
There aren't enough candles left in my world for all the people who died there.
[ she inhales again, her face inscrutable after tapping away the ash over her the edge of her knee. handing the cigarette back to jesse, she clarifies, ]
The thing you saw. The one who played god. He murdered half the universe.
[ Jesse remains watching her for a moment as her gaze stays fixed on the candles. He's not going to pretend he understands anything of what he saw in her last few moments. He'd known in that moment, because he had been her — his heart had been her heart tearing in half while watching that crimson-coloured man on his knees, and her fury had been his at the huge stone-like thing she'd been holding back with powers he can't begin to comprehend. And his skin and flesh and bone had been hers as he'd felt everything within him separate and swirl into dust. Into nothingness. But in the aftermath, of course, he understands none of it other than death.
He looks back to the candles. His hands idle while she smokes, they fidget on his lap, fingernails picking at fingernails. It's a nervous habit of his. He can never sit completely still, even at the best of times, let alone the worst. He doesn't know this chick at all, but if she needs to talk, well, it's not like he's got anywhere to be, and it's not like he blames her for needing to talk. So, he just sits in silence, letting her say what she needs to say, only glancing back over to her again when the cigarette is extended back to him. He takes it back. ]
Shit. I'm sorry. [ His words are still matter-of-fact, but subdued, poignant. He has so many questions, of course he does, but it feels wrong to pry into something that had been devastating heartbreak. ] Don't feel like you gotta explain, though. Like, I mean. For my benefit, or anything. [ He pauses to bring the cigarette up to his lips for another drag, but then he's offering it back to her as he exhales. ] Totally okay if you need to talk about it, too, though.
[ she echoes, muses, as she takes the cigarette back, takes her turn back with the book of life and the choice whether to turn another page — she's wondering just how often this man turns down things that are for his benefit. her intuition tells her the number could fill a riverbed, and he's run dry a long time. but he makes room for her, just the same: in the pew, with the cigarette, with a story she might need to tell.
he makes room for her, even after—
—the ultimate, acrid, shattering feeling of betrayal.
"i watched jane die," the man says, eyes hard and glinting like marbles behind his glasses, down at her, at jesse. "i watched her overdose, and choke to death. i could have done something," he lingers on it, twisting the knife into jesse's gut as though he'd earned this torment, this slow torture, "but i didn't."
he thinks about jane, about them all — every single soul he'd dragged down into the pit just to stay afloat for his own sake. even when he'd thought he was doing good for someone, wasn't it ultimately selfish? to show himself, or someone else, or fucking god almighty, that he still could if he really put his mind to it?
he has earned this. shaking on his knees, he sees the twin eagles cross his vision, come to carry him away. his eyes close.
the gun cocks—
even after all that... he makes room for someone else. wanda realizes something: there's still room inside him. he hasn't come here to die and stay dead. wanda decides something: she likes the room she's found.
the lines around her mouth soften as she watches him. the blur has dissipated, she notices. ]
I don't know what I need, precisely,
[ she says finally, and inhales slowly from the end of the shared smoke, thoughtful. on her exhale, she confesses, ]
Sitting here feels good. Glaring at the candles. Sharing this,
[ and she hands the cigarette back, seeing how low it's getting, grateful that he'd split something so rare around here. ]
[ That thin little smile of hers, tired but grateful around the edges — Jesse offers her back the same: A thin smile, one that doesn't reach his eyes, but bears no ill will. He reaches out to take the cigarette back. Shit, he's going to have to really watch how fast he burns through these. They're the only things he has to calm his nerves right now. As he ashes the cigarette, a tiny snort that's as ironic as it is ruminating escapes him under his breath at her question. What does he need? ]
Ah... Man, I dunno. We're not talkin' about me, anyway. We're talkin' about you. [ A pause, bringing the cigarette back up to his lips for a final drag. He drops the butt on the floor and looks down, crushing it under his shoe. ] Though, yeah, gotta agree. Sittin' here, sharing a smoke in a church, like a coupla sacrilegious assholes, does feel good.
[ A sidelong glance thrown at her, this time with a hint of a scheming grin colouring his exhausted expression. ]
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no subject
- a new, clean shirt, more suitable to the weather, a little larger than he'd have a need for it, but she thought his choice in 'hoodie' as he calls it, would perhaps suggest he prefers things a little bigger than he is for comfort
- a pair of trousers, thought had to guess his size on these
- one note, which reads as follows: ⟫
𝔍𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔢,
ℑ 𝔱𝔬𝔬𝔨 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔡𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔬 𝔤𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔬𝔡𝔰 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔢. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔟𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔬𝔪 𝔡𝔯𝔞𝔴𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔯, 𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔩 𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔭 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣 𝔱𝔬 𝔞𝔰 𝔪𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔞𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔫𝔢𝔢𝔡.
𝔐𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔯𝔢
no subject
He's been making his way through the creepy church, moving from room to room in search of the woman. And when he finally sees the glow of her lantern coming from underneath the doorway of one room — Jesse stops outside the door, and raps his knuckle a few times against it, the cool blue glow of his own lantern washing away the darkness around him in the stony cold corridor. ]
no subject
⟪ There had been a thought to the odd choice in shirt size – she thought his overcoat (she'd never encountered a hoodie before) was an indicator to a preferred cut.
Right now, though, she's not thinking of it at all, instead, she is up at the bell-tower, in the middle of hanging herbs to dry. She'd fastened string to the walls, and the warm light of her lantern flickers happily as she works. Red as ever, she is, though she is still working on repairing the dress she'd arrived in. What she is wearing now is a dress tailored from a red curtain she'd found in the Invincible, made to look as close to the robes of a priestess as she could make it. Her very presence had heated up the comparatively small space of the tower – that, at least, makes it slightly more comfortable. At any rate, she smiles as she recognises him. ⟫
I hope I did not overstep my bounds.
no subject
Uh... with...? Oh, you mean—? [ A glance down at himself, at his new clothes. Eyes back on her. ] Nah. Not what I'd usually wear, but... Who cares, right? [ His mouth tips up into a thin smile. ] Appreciate it, all the same.
no subject
It is still familiar, to her. She smiles one of her cryptic smiles in return. ⟫
I hope they serve you well. ⟪ A tilt of her head. ⟫ Have you become more used to this space?
no subject
Not really? [ That humourless smile fades away, and he looks down. His hands are still fidgeting, thumbnail picking at his fingernail. ] Whatever, though.
[ Yeah. Whatever. It's not like it's a fate he doesn't deserve, being banished here. But, goddamn... One of his hands comes up to tug at the collar of the deep red shirt gifted to him. ] Jesus, it's hot in here.
no subject
⟪ She crosses over to where he stands, and picks some dried herbs off the rope closes to him, back into the scarf she'd formed into a bag. ⟫ We can leave, if you'd like. There is something I need to finish, and it would be faster with your assistance.
⟪ There, she fetches her lantern, perhaps dimmer than it should be, though she doesn't appear concerned about it just yet. ⟫
finally.... tagging... djdfgjdgf
You don't gotta leave your room on my account, though, yo. I mean, not that I mind giving you a hand with — whatever it is you need a hand with. I'm just sayin'. [ But as she's approaching him, his expression takes on a pondering look, and he can't help questioning: ] Wh... What does that mean, exactly? 'His fire runnin' within you'?
7/21 — after wanda has taken vanitas away from the church, she returns
wanda had helped him fit the broken stained glass back together, unversed crowding everywhere in a font of anxiety, and there was no admonishment, no argument. only letting him pour into her like a sieve, folding him in, whispering moonlight secrets, and taking him eventually away to his room.
it's only when she reaches her own that she realizes she's left something behind— she returns to the scene of the crime, the church that should be so comforting, yet haunts her every time she takes a step inside (what is faith when you have failed love at every turn?). her shawl is in the same pew, and she bends to retrieve it.
stops. notices a figure who has emerged, sitting down before the candles (lives lost, aren't they?).
he wasn't there before.
jesse. she hasn't seen him since— since she died, as him. he'd died as her.
to wanda, he seems in that moment as reticent, elusive, and forlorn as the holy spirit itself. ]
Who lights these, do you think?
[ her question is soft, careful, but the curiosity is sincere as she draws up to his side where he perches in the front pew to the side, holding his cigarette. the ash gathers too far; he hasn't stopped looking long enough to tap it off. ]
Were they lit when you came here?
no subject
Setting his lantern down at his feet as he slumps down on the pew closest to the rows of candles, some alight and some extinguished, and he fishes into his pocket for his cigarettes. Pulls them out, looks down, digs a finger into the crumpled pack to pull one out — and glances across to the voice addressing him. It's a hollow up and down look Jesse gives the chick, pale and apathetically grim, and he turns his attention back to the candles at her question about them. ]
Yeah.
[ That's it: Yeah, they were lit when he came here. He brings the cigarette up to his lips, and leans down to fetch his lantern, which he pulls up onto his lap, throwing eerie cool blue light against him. He leans forward, head cocked, to angle the end of his smoke into the blue flame. The cigarette sparks red, smoke curling up at the first igniting drag. He sits back and places the lantern back on the floor. He breathes out a long exhale of smoke, and then, finally, points at the candles with the cigarette pinched between his fore- and middle finger. ]
We light 'em.
no subject
jesse is, surprisingly, a much harder read than wanda.
she doesn't try. his death— she doesn't want anymore than what he would give, despite her suspicions of everyone here.
she glances back at the candles, then, absorbing his meaning. ]
They are us.
[ wanda sits back, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. ]
That's a cruel game.
no subject
[ Matter-of-factually stated, his tone matching his dead-eyed stare fixed on the candles. He brings the cigarette back up to his lips for another drag. But then, casting a sidelong glance at her, he extends the cigarette to her. He's not in the habit of sharing these preciously rare cigarettes, least of all with strangers he doesn't know, but... He recognises this chick. Doesn't know her. But recognises her. He saw her final moments; a bizarre and otherworldly death that he still can't wrap his head around. ]
no subject
she and pietro never needed to prove anything to anyone.
but blending in never hurt. belonging, almost, didn't either.
she remembers pietro now, she remembers those back alleys and the plans they made now, and it's not about the cigarette — it's the gesture. don't spit on my friendship, an older girl had told her once when she was thirteen, and wanda had rounded forward with a fist, but the girl had only laughed. wanda smoked her first joint that day. the girl's name was jasna, became a good friend, as much as wanda could tolerate friends outside of her axis rotation around pietro.
jasna was dead now.
so is wanda.
she takes the cigarette, travels back in time on the drag she pulls, exhales countless ghosts. ]
It is worse than the graves.
[ wanda doesn't remove her eyes from the candles. flickering. mocking. ]
There aren't enough candles left in my world for all the people who died there.
[ she inhales again, her face inscrutable after tapping away the ash over her the edge of her knee. handing the cigarette back to jesse, she clarifies, ]
The thing you saw. The one who played god. He murdered half the universe.
no subject
He looks back to the candles. His hands idle while she smokes, they fidget on his lap, fingernails picking at fingernails. It's a nervous habit of his. He can never sit completely still, even at the best of times, let alone the worst. He doesn't know this chick at all, but if she needs to talk, well, it's not like he's got anywhere to be, and it's not like he blames her for needing to talk. So, he just sits in silence, letting her say what she needs to say, only glancing back over to her again when the cigarette is extended back to him. He takes it back. ]
Shit. I'm sorry. [ His words are still matter-of-fact, but subdued, poignant. He has so many questions, of course he does, but it feels wrong to pry into something that had been devastating heartbreak. ] Don't feel like you gotta explain, though. Like, I mean. For my benefit, or anything. [ He pauses to bring the cigarette up to his lips for another drag, but then he's offering it back to her as he exhales. ] Totally okay if you need to talk about it, too, though.
no subject
[ she echoes, muses, as she takes the cigarette back, takes her turn back with the book of life and the choice whether to turn another page — she's wondering just how often this man turns down things that are for his benefit. her intuition tells her the number could fill a riverbed, and he's run dry a long time. but he makes room for her, just the same: in the pew, with the cigarette, with a story she might need to tell.
he makes room for her, even after—
—the ultimate, acrid, shattering feeling of betrayal.
"i watched jane die," the man says, eyes hard and glinting like marbles behind his glasses, down at her, at jesse. "i watched her overdose, and choke to death. i could have done something," he lingers on it, twisting the knife into jesse's gut as though he'd earned this torment, this slow torture, "but i didn't."
he thinks about jane, about them all — every single soul he'd dragged down into the pit just to stay afloat for his own sake. even when he'd thought he was doing good for someone, wasn't it ultimately selfish? to show himself, or someone else, or fucking god almighty, that he still could if he really put his mind to it?
he has earned this.
shaking on his knees, he sees the twin eagles cross his vision, come to carry him away. his eyes close.
the gun cocks—
even after all that... he makes room for someone else.
wanda realizes something: there's still room inside him. he hasn't come here to die and stay dead.
wanda decides something: she likes the room she's found.
the lines around her mouth soften as she watches him. the blur has dissipated, she notices. ]
I don't know what I need, precisely,
[ she says finally, and inhales slowly from the end of the shared smoke, thoughtful. on her exhale, she confesses, ]
Sitting here feels good. Glaring at the candles. Sharing this,
[ and she hands the cigarette back, seeing how low it's getting, grateful that he'd split something so rare around here. ]
What about you? Jesse, yes? What do you need.
no subject
Ah... Man, I dunno. We're not talkin' about me, anyway. We're talkin' about you. [ A pause, bringing the cigarette back up to his lips for a final drag. He drops the butt on the floor and looks down, crushing it under his shoe. ] Though, yeah, gotta agree. Sittin' here, sharing a smoke in a church, like a coupla sacrilegious assholes, does feel good.
[ A sidelong glance thrown at her, this time with a hint of a scheming grin colouring his exhausted expression. ]