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bakerstreet2016-07-16 02:20 pm
snakesocks) wrote in bakerstreet2016-07-16 02:20 pm
Six Word Stories
SIX WORD STORIES
Just like back in the LJ days.
- Write a story in six words.
- Based off the sixwordstories/smuttysixwordstories comms that were created based on this story from wired in which they asked authors of all genres to write six word stories.
- Each comment should be in it's entirety, exactly six words.
- Your comment can contain more than one story. Just number or letter them like tfln.
d - of sorts - closed to corvidly
It had taken him the entirety of that first day to register that he hadn't been rescued from that cop car, or dumped in a nearby city as a prank from the boys in blue. It hadn't been until nightfall that the oddity of the cars and the streetlights and the music and the clothes had really hit him. He'd been aware, but it was background noise until then. Once he'd been sober enough to get up and walk, he'd just shuffled around quietly, ignoring the stares that a tank top-plus-leather-mittens earns you when it's 80 degrees outside.
Something had been wrong. He'd tried to make a call on a payphone and realized two things: the twenty cents he'd happened to be carrying when the cops got him wasn't good for a phone call here, and that he was several states over. Louisiana, huh? He hadn't been to New Orleans in a while. That was where the big acts went. Elsa's freaks had dragged through, and been spit right back out again. It hadn't been too pretty.
And it hadn't been 2016, either. Jimmy's not dumb, despite appearances, and he's never been too religious either, but something unholy and wrong has happened here. He'd screamed at a few people in the street, and then gone off and hid by a swampy underpass, as that anger was eaten up by fear. Nightfall swallowed everything except cold dread and confusion.
So he's had better weeks, is what he's getting at.
*
Eight days of being trapped in the future has left him with a few impressions. One: he's fucking hungry and exhausted, because he's broke and he's never been good at stealing, and it's hard to grab sleep on benches without getting chased off by the cops. Since when did they start caring enough about homeless people to make sure they die of exhaustion, but not enough to fix them up with jobs?
Two: people are both more and less friendly now. He gets stares about the mittens, and he's had other people who look as dirty as he does yell at him asking about it, but none of the actual society of people, the upper crust that's above the street-dwellers, has said a word to him about them. They'll stare, but they don't ask, like suddenly it's a faux pas to shove your nose in everyone's business if you don't know them. Maybe the past could learn a bit from that.
But they're also way less likely to talk to him if he tries to start up a conversation, and it's really slowed down his ability to learn about what's going on in this version of reality. Everyone, especially women, just looks at him like he's gonna spit on them or jump them for their pussy or their purse, and they can't even see his hands. He's gotten maybe like three nice reactions to his usual smirking and winking, which has resulted in: four cigarettes, a lighter, three sticks of gum, and a pen he was allowed to keep after borrowing it. He tried to offer himself up for some services to get some actual cash, but that attempt had ended so poorly that he hasn't tried again. Instead, he's collected change off the ground like a fucking loony, but it's better than nothing. (He never thought he'd get sick of apples, but those and bananas have then the easiest thing to lift from grocery stores. He got chased out the one time he grabbed a whole loaf of bread, but it had been completely worth it when he actually got away.)
Jimmy isn't expecting anyone to join him in his current alley, but he just looks up with mild caution at the sound of footsteps. So far, it's been mostly normal people wandering through, or people on cigarette breaks. Despite not smoking himself, he's collected some from friendly women as a way to try and earn trust - not that it ever worked - and Jimmy feels the weight of that lighter in his pocket as he watches this guy.
'Cause this guy is failing, hard, at lighting his own cigarette. At the sound of a muttered swear, Jimmy feels himself walking over. If he's at the mercy of this weird new time, then he's gonna have to keep trying the 'harmless and friendly' routine until it pays up for him.
Jimmy smiles from about two feet away. He was plenty loud enough to be noticed while approaching. "Need a light?" Jimmy's got one hand in the pocket of his jeans, the other encased in a clumsy leather mitten and holding the tiny pink lighter.
i love these two already
There's the shuffling of shoes on the damp concrete. Morgan, bent in over his zippo as he reassembles it, turns at the waist in the direction of the sound for only a second; it's more a reflex than anything else.
But then the person speaks, clearly intended for Morgan's ears, offering a light. Cigarette still wedged between his lips, he looks full on at the man.
Hell yeah he needs a light -- a phrase meant to be said, but Morgan's immediately distracted by the black mitten that's extending a lighter that looks even tinier and daintier in such a large, leather fist. Two fingers float up to his mouth to grab the cigarette before his amused grin and half-laugh lose it to the ground.
"Sure, man," he finally says, trying not to actually laugh. Oh, he doesn't want to make a remark right out of the gate, but Morgan has at least two kind-hearted jabs taking position right behind his teeth.
Well, three now, because now he's wondering how this guy intends to light his cigarette with his hands like that.
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'Cause he still says sure, and that's better than about half the interactions Jimmy's had in this century so far.
As it happens though, this guy's not far off in his internal guessing game. Jimmy can't easily flick that wheel while holding down the lever, not with a thumb and then a large flat expanse of mushed-together fingers to work with. So when this guy says sure, Jimmy just holds out his hand further. "Go right ahead, sir."
You're gonna have to take it and do it yourself, stranger. Because Jimmy might have given a glance up and down the alley during that initial pause, but even the two of them being alone isn't enough for him to shake the glove off and do it himself.
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Burn injury? It's his immediate assumption, because why else hide your hands in the dead of July's hottest week? He's also assuming this guy's probably homeless -- heck, unless he has some unfortunate emotional/psychological attachment to those mittens, then Morgan can wager that this guy has what's on him and nothing else, and doesn't have the luxury of being picky, either.
That...or...he's just being really creative and is using those mittens like a hamster uses its cheek pouches?
Hey, here's a crazy idea: address it? An eyebrow lifts up as eyes flick down at the pink lighter in his hand, but he still looks only casually amused. "Thanks, you're a life saver."
Flick, and flame. Morgan sucks on the cigarette as dried tobacco ignites and glows under the cocktail of fire and oxygen. As soon as the lighter is out, he's handing it back to...whoever this is.
"If this is what you consider cold, man? Then I'd hate to live where you come from." It's said with a smile, a slight bend of his brows when his eyes return to the glove, before he takes another drag.
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Maybe don't think about food. Salivating on this stranger's arm is probably not going to win anyone any favors.
"No problem." It's the first genuine smile Jimmy's conjured up in three days, since the last eventually-aborted conversation he managed to wheedle out of somebody.
The address of his gloves pulls him up short a bit, but his face still doesn't fall all the way. Again, he's really used to this being something he's asked about, and not everyone's so politely joking about pointing it out. Jimmy shrugs and shoves the lighter back in his pocket. Both leathered thumbs are now hooked in his belt loops. "My last stop was Florida. I wish I could just brag and say it's way hotter, but honestly I think it's about the same."
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But this man avoids the topic. No matter. If it becomes dire information that Morgan needs to know about, he's certain this guy will talk.
"So you're not from around here, then," he verbally supposes; it's a question without the inflection, but he quickly adds on: "I'm Morgan." He's also extending a hand to shake, and swear on the gods, it's a habit born of manners. He genuinely doesn't think he's going to learn any interesting details by feeling up this guy's hidden hands.
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Asking a personal question? Shit, there's been zero of that around here. Jimmy stares at him like this guy just did something a lot more than just ask him about where he comes from, because after a week of being a ghost in some sort of nonsense, future hell where he can't afford to feed himself, this is almost surreal.
Keep it together, idiot. Jimmy clears his throat against his fist, not too self-conscious about the mittens now that it's been addressed. They're there specifically to cover his hands, after all, which means he's safe with them on. "No. Not really from anywhere, though. I've been traveling my whole life." He hesitates and then adds, honestly, "Just got here a week ago."
A name? He gets his name? Jimmy's smile twitches up one side at a time, and it ends up showing teeth. "I'm Jimmy." And just like shaking hands is autopilot for everyone else, for Jimmy it's a quick reflex of checking himself. This is, unfortunately, always a potential moment-of-truth. His fingers aren't just fused and uneven, bunchy and blocky with the deformity - they're too large, they're easily noticed when the mitten isn't creating the optical illusion of a regularly-sized hand. His hesitation is clear - smile frozen, eyes on Morgan's outstretched hand, his own arms not budging an inch to return the gesture.
But this guy's being so damn polite. More than anyone else so far. Jimmy catches his bottom lip between his teeth, has time to worry at it a moment before it melts away into another, smaller, smile. He'll do it. "It's really nice to meet you." Which honestly is an understatement, and it's said with a bit more feeling than that sentence usually gets.
Jimmy's handshake is firm and steady.
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'This guy,' as it turns out, is called Jimmy -- and Jimmy seems to come to a complete stop when Morgan is offering a hand to shake. He hadn't thought about it before, but he immediately puts those dots together when he looks down at his own empty hand.
Shit. Morgan is just about to retract his hand with an apology when Jimmy speaks before him -- and grabs his hand before he can drop it.
Yeah, shaking a leather mitten is kind of weird. It feels bulky and Morgan isn't able to tell what's glove, and what's hand. But really, does it matter? Jimmy actually seems okay with all this, though. Morgan smirks and pulls another breath through his cigarette.
Once their hands separate, Morgan's slides into his own pocket. He's considering the likelihood that this guy's last week in New Orleans has spent sleeping on park benches, weighs his interest in the man. There's a...strange essence about him. Like smelling a very old fashioned cologne in an antique store. He wonders what this guy's all about. His raven hasn't buzzed the tower, so to speak, but there's something curious about him.
Shame he's losing these cigarette ashes to the wet pavement. Otherwise he could divine something out of them while they're talking. Hmm.
"Hey uh, around here, sharing a light's worth at least a beer," Morgan offers, dropping the filter to the ground before crushing it under his shoe. They are next to a bar, of course.
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There's no helping it - Jimmy looks up at him, and for a few heartbeats his expression is too open. Almost painfully touched, hopeful to the point of it hurting, at least until caution and social norms can start hedging it all back down. He swallows and nods, and then laughs to brush it off. "I mean I wasn't planning on using your empty lighter for blackmail, but I'm not gonna argue." And while he'd rather food than drink, calories are calories at this point. He'd do a lot more than just lend out his gifted lighter, if it meant his stomach didn't feel like it was turning inside out and shrinking back up against his spine.
"Lead the way." And he gestures with a hand, already more casual with it now that they've established the mittens can a) stay on and b) probably avoid more questions for the near future.
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Lead the way he does, back up the side of the building where a subtle door can be found. Not many often venture into unmarked side-exits, but Morgan knows this place pretty well. His casual approach to opening it and stepping inside is more appropriate for a person coming into the house they grew up in.
That's practically the case for Morgan here at the Half Moon. The smell of food hits above the low notes of cheap beer, and there's that unmistakable musk of good old creole spices.
The music is honky tonk and also probably as old as he is, blaring out of a jukebox that is at least updated enough that it doesn't rely on vinyl records. Don't want to risk that in this kind of heat, anyway. Morgan seems to know exactly where he's going when he leads Jimmy right to the bar, and a mature-aged bleach-blonde lady seems to take note of their presence more intently than most would.
Morgan's pulling out a few bills when she finally makes it down to this less-inhabited side of the bar.
"Hey Morg, usual?" She greets, nonplussed. He nods.
"Yeah, and uh, how about some wings?" Morgan smiles at her calmly, sliding some denomination of currency to her, then glances at Jimmy. "And whatever my friend's having."
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Oh god oh no no it smells like food in here. Dammit. It hurts - like actually, really hurts - how hungry he is. Which makes Jimmy feel a bit like a baby, because he's only been here eight days and he's had maybe the equivalent of seven meals, which means he's lost enough weight to notice it in his belt but he's not gonna starve to death at any moment. But jesus christ is it still shittier than he ever would have thought it would be.
Honestly? He's barely re-entered earth by the time Morgan is looking at him. The calm expectation reads clearly as waiting for a question to be answered, and Jimmy replays what he thinks he just heard last. "Oh!" Dumbass. "I, uh." He can barely even imagine a world where he asks a stranger he just met to buy him a meal, in exchange for lending him his lighter, a transaction excuse that is looking weaker by the second, and yet here he is. Does this guy mean he's cleared to get actual food along with the beer he was offered? With the bartender watching them patiently, now's not really the time to hash it out with him.
Swallowing his pride (zero calories, unfortunately), Jimmy shifts uncomfortably in his seat, eyes on Morgan the entire time even though he's clearly pretending he's talking to the barkeep. "I don't need any beer. You got burgers here?" Now's your chance to tell him to cut this shit out if that's too much money, Morgan. Jimmy's eyeing you like you're about to tell him whether or not he gets shot tonight, which is sort of how it feels to be so close to food without any guarantee that he gets to eat it.
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Morgan actively twists half of his body to look at Jimmy, but he's already looking amused at him. Objectively, it looks kind of gold-diggy, doesn't it? But that's a pretty strange approach for what seems like a pretty normal person. What makes a guy reject a beer and go straight for a burger, and on someone else's tab?
Morgan thinks he knows. "Only the best this side'a town." He looks back at the woman, forehead wrinkled under high brows, smiling. "Get 'im one of those half pounders, with the works." His confirmation seems to placate some sort of naturally defensive nature in the woman, and she nods at the two of them. "Beer, wings, half pounder, got it."
She leaves with a firm direction and pace into the kitchen behind the bar. Morgan slides his denim jacket off and drops it, sloppily half-folded, onto the bar.
"You'll love this burger, man. It could feed a family of four for the night." Morgan hooks the heel of his shoe on a connecting bar between the legs of his bar stool and rests his hand on his bent knee, elbow angled out like a flamingo's leg. "Figured you could use the calories. I'm just judging from what clues I can get, but something's telling me you ain't had a decent meal since you got here." He means since you arrived to Louisiana, clearly, and his patient stare is heavy with knowing, like a parent that knows their kid's been skipping school to catch a movie.
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He can't exactly offer that to this Morgan fellow, now can he?
Jimmy probably looks less ecstatic and more horrified at the acceptance, up until the bartender's gone off and Morgan continues to address the issue. His elbows both rest on the bartop and he actually buries his face in the too-hot leather on his hands for a few seconds at the question. He turns his head to the side to look at Morgan once he's collected himself, but his face stays leaning up against his hands. "Yeah. It's-- This isn't the freshest I've ever looked. I bet I'm obvious as hell. But you're the--"
Jimmy shuffles his hands back down onto the countertop. He goes ahead and leans in a bit, as if anyone could hear them over the music and general hum of conversation anyway. This is their own segment of bar. "You're the first person to be okay with that. Everyone else just - and look, I get it, I'm not a big fan of people livin' on the streets like they don't need to sing for their supper, you know?" He wasn't planning on saying all this, but now Morgan's been a reasonable enough person to address it - and use that suspicion to pay for his meal, without even asking any questions yet. Jimmy's been practically silent for the past eight days; now it all tumbles out.
"It's not like that, though. Look, I can pay you back. I really-- jesus christ, man, I really appreciate this. I'm-- good with my hands. I don't know if you've got anything you need worked on or something, but I'll do anything you need. Small engine repair, farming shit, hell I don't know. I'm not trying to get free shit off of you, I'm just--" How to explain the time travel? How about he just doesn't.
Jimmy finally settles back an inch of two with an apologetic sigh. "I've had better weeks."
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"Woah woah woah," Morgan chuckles, palms up, one hand reaching out to grab Jimmy's shoulder. "Look, I don't gotta be psychic--" ha, "--to know when shit's going south for someone. It's fine, man."
The bartender arrives with a pint of beer and a glass of water, and deposits them accordingly. Morgan didn't order the water, but she figures this kid's going to need it, if he looked that desperate for a burger. Morgan thanks her and waits for her to leave again before continuing on, taking a sip of his beer in the quiet pause before her disappearance.
"Believe me, I know rough patches when I see 'em." And Jimmy here is a fish out of water, for sure. Besides, Morgan's had to sleep in his car in the dessert many a time. He knows what 'roughing it' is like, understands completely. Morgan side-eyes a cup of plastic skewers for fruit slices, knows he has a fairly good chance at diving something about this man, but -- that seems awfully invasive. Also it would just look weird. He's gotten enough stares at truck stop diners for his lifetime.
Instead, lets learn about Jimmy the good, old fashioned way: "What brings you to Orleans?"
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Jimmy does his best not to suck down the water at a shameful pace while listening to Morgan talk. He laughs at the statement of understanding - has Morgan been given free food from a stranger too, then? He looks pretty damn normal, physically, but then if he was part of some sort of cult Jimmy would be none the wiser - everyone's clothes and hair look weird in this time period. Maybe this guy's brand of weird just isn't so visible, or maybe he's one of the normal people who still sits on the fringe of society too.
"Listen, if this is what you do for a free light, I'm almost glad I didn't catch you with a flat and offer to change your tire or something, who knows what you'd be buying me then." He'd missed this, being able to smile and crack a small joke with someone who didn't stare at him like he was scum. This whole 'homeless and alone in the future' thing has sucked even more than the 'band of freaks from the present' one he had going for him back home, that's for sure. At least back home, he had friends.
The question sobers him right back up, though. Jimmy watches Morgan's beer instead of his face. The urge to tell someone is high, but so is the urge to stay out of the loony bin. He sighs immediately and forcefully, a half-smile twisting his mouth around. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you, Morgan. But let's just say I got dumped off here without any warning. Didn't exactly cash out my stocks and pack my bags for the next exotic place to live. I'm just...trying to figure out how to get by, right now."
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He's used to this, himself. Not from many of the agents of the supernatural, but from regular Joes whose lives aren't burdened with the politics of the mysteries of the mortal coil and beyond. Man, can that be a mood killer.
This is what keeps Morgan on the streets, rubbing elbows with strangers in bars or accepting a light for his cigarette. Rarely are they people he will talk to past the initial night's meeting, but Morgan doesn't need the Raven to tell him when he comes across someone a little more significant than usual. He was imbued with this gift, too. Not to mention, Jimmy kind of looks like he just played an extra in a production of Grease. (It's the hair, mostly.)
A worrisome answer to his question. Morgan's brows lift and resettle with casual concern, masking a sharper sense of curiosity underneath. Dropped off suddenly? Was he drugged by the mob, or abducted by aliens? "Sounds pretty ominous... But you underestimate me. I have stories I could recount that you'd never believe."
Morgan looks back up the bar. It's only a Thursday night, so the bar isn't packed. There's about a half dozen stools vacant between them and what looks like a small crowd of engine mechanics parked here to catch a sports game on television. No one's paying Morgan and Jimmy any mind. "What were you doing before you showed up here?"
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Yeah, Morgan's already looking more suspicious. Jimmy downs the rest of his water so that he has something to do while waiting out the verdict. He slows down, though, and really looks at Morgan again when he says he's got stories Jimmy wouldn't believe, either. Jimmy thinks of that stupid carnie lore and how it had come true - Edward Mordrake and his green clouds and abrupt forest confessionals. His Ma had been right about that for sure, and even spending his life up til that point being a non-believer hadn't made Jimmy deny it once it happened.
There's something else in this world. Maybe it's what took him away. Maybe this Morgan fellow's seen some shit, too. How does Jimmy ask without looking insane and scaring him off? He'd take the chance if the circumstances were different. But right now, he's too hungry and desperate for information to risk Morgan thinking he's fit for an asylum.
So, Jimmy looks visibly hesitant when Morgan asks. The weight of wanting to tell someone crushes in on his chest, and he just stares at him, stricken, the whites showing a bit at the edges of his eyes.
Which is when the bartender comes back, mascara and all, to drop off the wings and the burger. Jimmy huddles over his like it's a campfire and he's been freezing all winter while Morgan, presumably, takes care of thanking the woman who's brought them the food.
That first bite? Jimmy thinks he could die, right then and there, and he'd be pretty happy. Of course, it doesn't actually reach his stomach right away, so the screaming background of that ache stays, but his mouth is salivating so much he's lucky he isn't actually drooling. "Actually." He's got the good graces to wipe his mouth off with the napkin, rather than spraying burger-juice all over Morgan. "I was on my way to the hospital. For a surgery." Waking up with hands intact had been the only pleasant part of finding himself here. "It's a...it's a long story." And he looks a little queasy to be thinking about it, which isn't far from the truth. That hadn't been the best decision he'd ever been forced to make.
Does that make this some sort of divine intervention? He's meant to keep both freaky hands forever? Jimmy stares at the mitten-covered things where they grip his burger and feels strangely detached from them. In the end, though...life's gonna be easier with both hands.
If nothing else, this terrible vacation has given him a possible change of heart, even if he doesn't want to rot in prison.
"I was drugged, but it didn't put me out. I think I passed out on my own in the ambulance, I was throwing up like you wouldn't believe. Ipecac, is that it? I was still sick for half the day when I showed up here." Which, honestly, should probably make this burger less appealing, but he's too hungry to care.
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So...Jimmy was going in for some kind of operation, was knocked out, and woke up here in New Orleans. Oh, you bet there are some holes in this story that Morgan is seeing right through.
He's kind enough to stay quiet while Jimmy both eats and talks, calmly pulling the seasoned meat off of the bone of a chicken wing. Yeah, it was pretty clear that Jimmy's not had a real meal in days. Despite his cool demeanor, Morgan has to fight his brow from bending under the weight of his suspicions. "So my first guess is you prob'ly pissed someone off, real good." Again, or it was aliens.
"But what about family? Isn't someone back home lookin' for you?" Morgan drops a cleaned bone in the basket and wipes his hands with a napkin. "Where is home for you, anyhow?"
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'Isn't someone back home lookin' for you?' Jimmy didn't think anything was going to make him slow down eating, but that does it. He sets the burger - already half-gone - back down and stares at it. Morgan doesn't know. He's not trying to taunt him. Jimmy's eyes slide closed and he turns away, breathing irregular.
Alright, alright, get it the fuck together. Jimmy sits up straighter and rests his hands on his thighs for a few seconds, forcing himself to look back over at Morgan. "My Ma just died. It'd been three days when I got taken. Eleven days ago now." The honesty just comes out. Jimmy can't imagine lying about this, it's too important to him. "There were others, but trust me, they're not... They can't come help me." They're probably all dead, or senile in a home somewhere. Jimmy stares up at the lights above the bar while he blinks away the glossiness in his eyes.
"Like I said, I'm from Florida most recently. Jupiter, Florida." He sighs, but he gets back to eating, because feeling sullen or not he's still hungry and grateful as hell for this meal. But he can't tell Morgan the full truth. He can't make himself do it, not even with it burning at his throat and eyes. "No one can come for me. Just... Just trust me."
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But he's reluctant to play entrapment; Jimmy looks like he's fighting back tears. Morgan sighs quietly under the music and a wave of laughter down near the billiard tables, eyes flicking down to rest on the bar top. His arm, resting on the surface, bends at the elbow in a straight angle, hand slack except for fingertips idly performing a tick while he thinks.
"Jesus, man...I'm sorry." He means it, and he sounds it too. Morgan will pretty much be ruined the day his mother passes away, so that sympathy runs almost painfully deep, enough to make him not want to think about it very long. So, not only deposited in unfamiliar territory, but effectively abandoned as well.
Jimmy's up a shit creek with no paddle, that's for sure -- but he's awfully reluctant to tell Morgan anything. Something's up... The oracle's free hand bends over to his face, thumb distractedly grazing his bottom lip while he thinks. He would really hate to invade someone's privacy, especially Jim's here, but he is just giving him nothing to work with, and Morgan swears there is something bigger at play here -- not just with Jimmy, but...something else.
Morgan lets his free hand come back down to his pint glass, one eye on Jimmy to ensure he isn't following his movements. With the back of his hand, he swipes at a small cylindrical cup full of toothpicks some inches away, with a quick but unnatural arc toward and to the outer side of him, away from Jimmy. The small sticks spill out, but almost silently under the wall of sound surrounding them.
He almost had a delayed reaction to his 'accident,' and uses it as an excuse to glance at the pale wooden slivers on the counter. Suspiciously fluid, his movements are slow as he regards the pile, clearly in no rush to clean them up. In fact, he isn't scooping them up at all.
A different bartender, younger and dark, approaches Jimmy with a fresh glass of water, simultaneously taking the empty cup, and seems mildly concerned about Morgan. Before she can even try, he regards her and holds a hand up. "My bad, I got it."
She seems nonplussed, but amused as she glances at Jimmy.
"Reproducción de sus trucos de magia de nuevo?" She asks softly, smiling, and walks away.
Morgan looks the closest to unbalanced that he's been all night, and even then, it looks more like mildly hassled than fully upset. He looks over at Jimmy, gaze heavy with intent, and leans in a few degrees. "You said something about explanations I wouldn't believe?" He begins, pausing for another gulp of beer.
He looks at the sticks again, craning his neck to see them. "You're a performer? Entertainment, live, on a stage." Watching the surprise fill a person's face for the first time is like a sunset in the desert; Morgan never actually delights in it, but it's still nice to see sometimes, and he thinks Jimmy's going to have a more significant reaction than some. "You've travelled a lot, with a large group, often changing. But you see them all as family, but they're not by blood." He sees their lives in the patterns, lines much too divided to be of blood relation, but many spiral in together despite originating in many different directions.
Wanna talk about the unbelievable now, Jimmy?
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Jimmy's just about got himself composed by the time a different bartender is shuffling his empty glass out for a fresh water. He thumbs away the lone, silent tear, just in time to avoid this woman needing to look at him with concern. "Thanks, man."
But yeah, what's Morgan up to? Jimmy watches him with surprise but no suspicion, because he's seen enough weird rituals and habits and superstitions to write a few books. It's probably harmless, whatever it is. Maybe he's gotta count the sticks before putting 'em back, who knows.
"Magia, huh?" Jimmy looks amused but continues feeling surprised. Listen, he's not some sort of gifted polyglot - or even bilingual, for that matter - but when you're scraping the bottom of America's social barrel, you end up sharing a lot of spaces with people who don't speak a lot of English. What's this gal going on about 'his' magic tricks for, then?
--Oh. That.
Jimmy just stares at Morgan for a few seconds. He slowly turns in his seat to watch him up and down as he nails his profession with the vague-but-accurate guesses of some sort of stage psychic, and then his found family.
That feeling of violation is too much, too soon, on top of too many other reasons to be suspicious of people suddenly knowing about him. Jimmy is off his stool before he's made the conscious decision. "What the hell is going on here?" He doesn't trust this, not one bit, because the only way this guy would know all that about him is: "Did you do this to me? Who're you even working for? What the hell do you people want from me?"
Jimmy is in Morgan's face in an instant, looming over him while the other man's still seated. "I don't have money, not even if you hadn't dragged me across the country, or didn't you get that part from your 'sticks'? Why are you doing this?" There's clear aggression in his voice, but there's sparks of fear in his eyes. He doesn't understand what's going on, why he was kidnapped, what the point could possibly be to trick him into making him think he's sixty years in the future - is it all a trick? Is that what this means?
His breathing is irregular, and he looks hesitant to actually throw a punch, but there's no denying that Jimmy is mad as hell. "Is it that cop? Is it him? Did he put you up to this?"
Behind the bar top, the new bartender is facing them and frozen, drinks forgotten in her hands. Evidently, this isn't a bar that sees a lot of fights. Jimmy doesn't notice, too focused on Morgan's face.
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Morgan can't blame him, especially since it's awfully invasive for someone who didn't give him the go-ahead. He stiffens slightly the moment Jimmy's mood flips, but he doesn't look scared. He watches him, waiting to see what he does -- specifically, leave or start a fight. Neither seems due to occur, not while Jimmy is busy rambling very typical phrases for someone who is extremely paranoid.
But he's drawing attention to them, and that just won't do. He grabs Jimmy's arm, firm but only just that, no push of violence behind his force, and he doesn't need to lean in much more to tell him under his breath, "Sit down, or else you're goin' back out on the street, and that'll make it hard for me t' finish this beer and talk to you." He nods over to the bartender, who holds an uncensored glare aimed right for them.
"Look, man, you want answers? I ain't got 'em, not for your questions, anyway." Morgan relinquishes the man's arm and turns back to his basket of chicken wings. "But I can tell you how I know what I know. You might not like my answers, but it's up to you whether you're gonna listen to me or not."
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Jimmy swallows audibly and obediently turns to look at the bartender. He looks back at Morgan and, as Morgan lets go...so does Jimmy. His fingers feel stiff after squeezing so hard, and he feels oddly like he wants to hit something - he's so goddamn angry, even if he can tell that half of it is just adrenaline making him jittery and mean - but he takes a few steps backwards. When a stool hits the back of his thighs, he sits back down, hands splaying on his legs as he continues to fully face Morgan.
If the bartender wanted to interrupt before, they must have decided it's over now, because no one comes to bother them. "There's only one way you could know, and that's if someone told you." Jimmy's voice doesn't sound so sure, though, and the whites at the corners of his eyes suggest he's not just angry, either.
Because what if it's something else? Edward Mordrake was impossible. Time travel was impossible. What if... No. That's dumb. What, is this guy some real-deal fortune teller or someth--
Jimmy's now watching Morgan with mounting suspicion, something that looks almost cautious on his face. You can nearly hear the gears grinding in his head. "Are you gonna tell me you're some kinda psychic? 'Cause, yeah." Jimmy scoffs. "Like you said, I work in...let's call it entertainment. Like you don't know it's a freak show." He's so convinced that foul play is involved, that Jimmy just throws it out there, assumes it's already on the field. "So I've seen a lot of bullshitters. I know what cold reading is, Morgan, I'm not some idiot. You knew all that already."
He's just...not quite so sure anymore, with the way everything else in his life isn't really lining up. Jimmy's expression wavers again, grows uncertain. "Right?" He's surprised to realize that he's hoping he's wrong, and that Morgan is his own brand of weird.
But what are the chances of that happening, right?
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Morgan maintains a nonchalant look across the bar when a couple of patrons aim some side-glances their way, chewing meat off the bone of another wing. He could have presented this way better, but seriously. Jimmy's holding back, and it's ominous as hell. Either Morgan had to start snooping, or prove to the other guy that he's capable of hearing things too outstanding for reality.
He's looking at Jimmy again as soon as he's talking again. "More than one way t' skin a cat, my friend," he murmurs over another cleaned bone. There's never just one way for anything, especially when the supernatural is involved.
But Morgan can afford to put his full attention back on Jimmy, and he turns to face the other man just as well. 'Kinda psychic'? Morgan's lips grow thinner at the suggestion. He really hates that question, so he momentarily dodges it completely. "Oh, I don't know too many details, not from divining sticks, anyway," Morgan clarifies, almost chuckling. So no, he didn't know about the 'freak show' thing. Really, though? That's actually pretty interesting.
And, he can't help that it has his eyes flicking toward those black leather mittens again, even if for just a fleeting moment.
"I'm not working with nobody. Remember, you approached me tonight. Trust me, if I could brainwash a person, this conversation would be goin' quite differently, don't you think? I ain't a cold reader, Jimmy, and I'm an even worse liar."
He turns away from Jimmy, but only to look at the sticks again -- and it has him stopping. He blinks, brow crinkling together, and he leans into the pile as if to inspect something incredibly minute in their wood grain.
Jimmy's life seems to just suddenly stop. Morgan can often see a vague direction or two for the incoming future, significant events or choices to make, but here, there's...nothing. It's as if he, well...up and died or something.
Well that doesn't make any sense. Morgan forces his brows back up his forehead, as if trying to wash the concern out of his face. What's the last significant event in his line?
"...You were gonna give up something really important to you." He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Something you're proud of. Something you're really attached to, something in...your bloodline--?"
Morgan's sitting up suddenly, and he's looking at Jimmy. Something that's a part of him. His eyes aren't even on Jimmy's hands, because he doesn't know about those still. Divining sticks are just a quick but crude look into a life, or interpreting the future. "...That was the operation you mentioned, isn't it?" It's spoken more like a realization than question, and the surprise on Morgan's face is nothing short of genuine. "What were you gonna give up?"
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But Morgan's got a good point. It'd be a hell of a chance to think he'd have come over and helped him with his cigarette, even if he'd faked needing a light. Jimmy calms down a bit at that, right leg starting to bounce with antsy consideration. He looks less like he's moments away from jumping out of his stool, and more like he's just had a really long fucking week and isn't really sure who to trust.
'...an even worse liar.' A lie or not, it brings an uneven flash of a smile across Jimmy's face. This guy's got the calm, collected charm act going well, if nothing else. Jimmy would like to believe him. It's just that it's gonna take a little bit more explaining, or a little bit more impressive of a supernatural announcement, for anything like that to happen--
Well, goddamn. Jimmy's jaw is already going slack at the really important, but he feels like someone took a knife to his chest instead of his hands when Morgan says 'something you're proud of'. Something Jimmy is proud of.
Those asshole cops would never think that he'd be proud of his hands. He's just a freak to them, and a mouthy one at that. If Morgan doesn't even know still, but he knows that underneath the resentment for his deformity that Jimmy is proud of who he is, because if he and his family don't support themselves then nobody will, and Jimmy refuses to just wallow in self-pity because of a little genetic hiccup--
Jimmy's staring at Morgan, wild-eyed, like Morgan's just offered him a lot more than just that burger. The amount of dignity in saying he'd be proud of his hands, that it'd be hard to give up, for even more reasons than just the whole 'hard to go around opening jars with only one hand' fiasco--
He sits back a bit. He leans an elbow on the bar, and he looks like he needs it. He feels a bit unsteady with these revelations. Mouth still hanging open, Jimmy takes in Morgan's question with a newfound raw honesty. The anger's burnt itself out. "My hands." He says simply. He looks at them, still in their shameful mittens, and he just laughs softly to himself, a few hushed syllables. "I was gonna let them take my left hand. Sell it to some kinda museum for money. I guess our bodies are worth a lot for rich 'normal' people to gawk at, even if we're not using them. They're the only thing I've got that's worth anything."
Jimmy's staring down at his hands, both cradled in his lap now, and the old frustration of having to wear the mittens is tangling with this new pain of loss. And he hadn't actually given that hand up, not really, not yet. His face screws up, angry and hurt. "I'm glad I got taken away before the hospital. I don't--" He rubs his hands over his face, clearly unfazed by the rough leather. He wears these damn things an awful lot. "I was desperate. I don't think I could make that choice again."
His hands wring together, pulled close to his chest. Jimmy's eyes flick between them and Morgan. This is heavy shit, but he feels strangely alright with airing it in front of Morgan. This guy is asking the sort of questions that mean he must actually be interested, for whatever long game he's playing, and Jimmy has always had a habit of bursting out with confessional-worthy revelations once shit's built up too high to process internally anymore. "I'd rather take my chances with those crooked fucking cops than lose my hand. Not that it...matters now. I dunno if I'm ever getting a chance to go back home."
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