(Untitled)

[lost_undercover]

Who: Jesse Pinkman, Billy Costigan; later, John Watson
Where: Costigan's room
When: Backdated to 9/11, after this (because Ang has no memory).
What: Costigan helps Jesse own up to his addiction and calls on Watson for help.
Warnings: Drug references.

Comments

[yeahscience]

Jesse took in the room with the same cagey, hunted look, doing a quick check for the obvious: cameras, bugs, lurking guys with guns, before he stepped inside. He spotted the knife in Costigan's pocket as he turned, maybe what might have been a gun, and for a second his heartrate picked up...

But then he laughed inwardly at himself and shook it off. Who cared if the guy had a gun? What did that matter, now? What was the worst that could happen -- that he'd die for real, no so-called second chances?

He shrugged, sticking the smoke between his lips, shoving his hands in his pockets -- his posture, like his mind, in that weird halfway place between defensive and defeated. "Whatever. I'm dead. It blows. You got a light for this?"

[lost_undercover]

Costigan dug a reasonably nice lighter out of his front pocket and tossed it to Jesse without hesitation. Then he moved deeper into his room, waving a hand loosely to indicate various chairs and his bed for Jesse to sit wherever he wanted. This was all a bit bizarre, but nothing really felt strange anymore on the Barge; not after as long as he had been here.

The former undercover fished his own pack of smokes from his pockets and pulled one between his lips. He closed the pack and tossed it toward Jesse, then moved to his dresser to grab the WWII Zippo he'd gotten from Donowitz to light his own cigarette.

"You can have those. The lighter too." He spoke between tensed lips before breathing the cigarette into life.

[yeahscience]

((I'm tagging this back regardless of what we decide, because I have an hour and a half left here with absolutely nothing to do. >< ))

Jesse was actually sort of moved; the lighter was, if not the nicest thing anyone had done for him so far, certainly the most helpful. He picked a chair at random and slumped down into it, lighting up, filling his lungs gratefully. It wasn't crystal -- it wasn't even close -- but it would do for just this moment. It was enough to dull the edge just that little bit.

"Christ." He sighed out the smoke, closing his eyes. "Thanks, man. I owe you one." He opened them again just in time to see the pack come sailing through the air, and grabbed for it. "Two, I guess." He shoved them into his pocket, next to the crumpled pack of four he had left from Beatty, and sat back, dragging deeply again.