Six Word Stories

[snakesocks]

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.

Comments

[corvidly]

The crackle of billiard balls and the crystalline chime of glasses pop in between Jimmy's words, but Morgan hears him loud and clear. He laughs over the rim of his pint glass at the man's joke, surprised at the humor, and what he takes as pure neutral suggestiveness. "Oh shit, I'm already buyin' you dinner..." Raised brows, but eyes down into his beer.

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?"

[jimmydarling]

Jimmy's laughter is a spluttering thing, because holy cow, not many people make those kinds of jokes where he's from. Not between two guys, not if you don't wanna get hit, but Jimmy's more than secure enough in his masculinity to let it slide. Besides, maybe Morgan doesn't even mean it that way.

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.

[corvidly]

Ooh, this is rocky territory to be stepping into -- that much is apparent right on Jimmy's face. Morgan doesn't press it while he waits for the man to consider whatever it is that's got him bothered about talking. But that's when Nancy returns with their food, deposits it, and accepts a thank you, all without a word.

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?"

[jimmydarling]

Jimmy can't help the way his face screws up at the first guess, annoyed and pained and a little self-pitying all at once. Because yeah, he did piss someone off, and a great big shitty chain reaction meant...well. Being in jail for forty-eight hours had been long enough to go ahead and wonder if he was being framed. There's no way he killed those ladies. He can't even remember going to their house - how could he have hurt anyone when he could barely stand up?

'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."

[corvidly]

Morgan might as well have asked 'who died?' It stops him mid-sip from his beer, a grinding halt that originates in Jimmy. Morgan doesn't know it, but 'who died' is what he just asked, whether he meant to or not. His expression drops when he hears it. Shit, that's heavy -- and it's almost too devastating for Morgan to notice something crucial that Jimmy lets slip.

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?

[jimmydarling]

Jimmy actually feels a sob bunch in the back of his throat, winding everything up so tight that he's pretty sure he'd have no voice if he tried to talk. He looks at Morgan for only a few heavy seconds when the man offers up a condolence. Jesus, it's been a while since someone looked at him like he was a meaningful human being, and this guy's just fucking met him.

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.

[corvidly]

To be fair, it's not as if Morgan made this decision without expecting this kind of reaction. There are three main reactions to anticipate when Morgan pulls some divination out of nowhere: skepticism, astonishment, and alarm. Often, there is a mixture of up to all three, more often the latter two, but it looks like Jimmy's jumped past alarm and is headed straight for anger.

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."

[jimmydarling]

Is that a threat? That Morgan's gonna pretend he's an innocent getting yelled at by a crazy homeless freak, and Jimmy's gonna get kicked out or worse? Jimmy grabs the wrist of the hand on his arm, grip tight enough to bruise even through the mitten, but...he stops there. He's breathing like he's just sprinted across a football field and his pupils are dilated with fearful adrenaline, but he...he'd liked this guy. And even his terror and frustration at being stranded here isn't quite enough to have him beat the shit out of this guy without trying to figure out what's going on.

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?

[corvidly]

Well, okay, the guy knows how to calm down a bit. That's good news.

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?"

[jimmydarling]

Divining sticks. So that's the story this guy is sticking with? The muscles in Jimmy's neck stand out with the force of the yell he's keeping back. He's never really bought psychics, not all the way, and he's still not sure if he really thinks Maggie's the real deal or if she's just pretty enough that he goes along with it. It's...hard to tell with girls sometimes.

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."

[corvidly]

It looks like Morgan just hit a bullseye without aiming. Jimmy sits in silent awe, and it has the oracle feeling a little self-conscious. It more often leaves him feeling a bit guilty rather than satisfied -- hell, he never even feels that strongly positive about his 'gifts.' It's like stumbling into a room and catching two people in the midst of intimacy. It makes Morgan squirm a little.

So it's a relief that Jimmy's telling it himself. It's not an answer that Morgan can read out of sticks, but he's not going to complain about finally getting some honest to goodness answers out of this guy. He hates that he had to pull a low blow like what he did. Not all of his questions are being answered, but this is a start, and it's a foundation firm enough for Morgan to lay some weight of trust on.

Jimmy was going to give up one of his hands. Morgan stares, attentive, brow crinkling together just slightly as he absorbs the details. He must have been a performer in this 'freak show' he mentioned, and not just some carnie stage hand. Morgan's eyes rest on the leather mittens and he is absolutely wondering what sort of hands are worth amputating and selling to a museum, especially in this day and age. Medical anomaly museums are pretty well stocked up on specimens, many decades old...and bodies are being donated to science in droves. What kind of establishment is buying black market body parts? Morgan doesn't doubt the possibility, only wonders at who's interested in such things. Are they desperate, or just greedy?

But none of that seems to reign in Morgan's full attention until Jimmy says something about cops again. C'mon, this guy looks like he gets followed home by abandoned puppies. What kind of trouble could be have gotten himself into? Morgan tilts his head consideringly, idly dragging the side of his index finger under his bottom lip. He believes Jimmy, because of course he would. This whole thing checks out, and Morgan is determined to help the guy out, if not just to figure out what the heck his reading is all about. If there is something supernatural going on that's causing a huge disruption, then that's Morgan's business.

"Look, I gotta know for my sake: what were you gettin' caught up in the law for? I mean, I'm not here t' judge." And so help him, Jimmy, don't pull a smart ass remark about 'looking at the sticks for the answer.' He angles his face down, tilting his forehead and rising brows right at Jimmy. "I'd much rather you be straight with me, 'cause I'd really hate to have to do another reading right infronna you." It's not a threat. Honest.

[jimmydarling]

If Jimmy didn't know any better, he'd say that last part sounds a bit like a threat. But when the threat is 'finding out facts about you via whatever countable objects are on hand', it's...hard to get angry about it, even as hair-trigger as his own frustration is. Instead, Jimmy just looks a little confused, eyebrows meeting and him leaning back in his stool a little more. Cautious, but not afraid. "Hey, I'd love to tell someone what's been going on with me, believe me. But maybe you could'a just said you believe in supernatural shit before you read my past with restaurant toothpicks." He's sounded a little vexed while talking, but the actual content of what he's just had to say is enough to make Jimmy give a syllable of laughter, a smile cracking across his face.

Although it dies down significantly when he faces that question. It's more than fair to ask why he was getting held by the cops - it's gotta sound awfully suspicious, maybe even dangerous - and this guy doesn't even looked spooked. Morgan deserves the explanation he's asking for. So Jimmy sighs, looks left and right, and leans forward a bit, voice lowered. "The cops'd taken me from our camp a few days ago. They said that I--" He pauses to look around in paranoia again. "--that I killed some ladies."

Jimmy looks horrified, and it's not just because he was in jail. He knew those women, after all, and any thoughts about mourning them have been interrupted by the fact that he's been framed for their murders. "But look, I didn't hurt anyone. I was...I was drunk the day they said I did it, and I don't really remember much, but I know I didn't kill anybody. I was at the house though, I know that, and the cops said they found somethin' of mine. The women were having one of those tupperware parties. You know, where one woman tries to sell shit to all her friends to make some extra cash? It's an excuse to all see each other without their husbands and boyfriends. Look, I knew those ladies, I'd never hurt any of them! But the cops, they came in and cuffed me and dragged me off into a cell. And I-- I can't afford no lawyer, so that's a public defender for me, and that means I'm going to the chair for sure. That's..."

He finally sits back a bit, the momentum of his explanation dying down some. He gestures his left hand between them, stares at it like he's seeing it for the first time. "That's where the surgery was gonna come in." His face crumples into a self-conscious laugh. "I'm a goddamn idiot."

[corvidly]

Could Morgan have forewarned Jimmy before spilling a cup of toothpicks to read precious details about his past? Yeah, he could have, but outing yourself is risky sometimes, and it doesn't always end in Morgan's favor.

It's nothing short of a relief to see that Morgan has still somehow won over Jimmy's trust. His face is openly, but intensely flat when he hear's the explanation; arrested on the suspicion of murder, and multiple victims, apparently. That...is some deep shit, and it has Morgan fiddling slowly at his lower lip in lieu of smoking a cigarette. People don't get wrongfully accused every day...

So it makes sense when Jimmy admits that he knew them, these 'ladies.' Morgan nods thoughtfully, eyes dulled with a daze, though he's listening intently. It sounds like these cops had a distaste for Jimmy and his friends, and it wouldn't surprise him any to think they just went for the first easy undesirable they could think of, especially since he had been present on the day of the crime.

Okay, Morgan thinks he can both trust this guy, and take it with a grain of salt... Until he can possibly look into the matter himself. Easy to do, really: Morgan isn't a walking lie detector, but he can look into a life where lies and confusion can't penetrate to muddy the pool.

But if there is any gift he has been given that he values the most: it's his gut instinct. Right now, it senses how genuine Jimmy is, his emotion and his energy. At the very worst, if he did go and kill some people, Morgan thinks he had to have been under some strong influence.

"I don't think you could kill a person 'less you had a good reason for it," Morgan finally says after sitting quiet for so long. The air around them feels real heavy now, and he is determined to help Jimmy out, but this shit's got Morgan itching for another smoke. He's telling himself that's what it is, and not just the distraught look on the other man's face. Morgan could go for a mood change. He forces a small smile that melts into something truly amused once he says, "And I dunno, I picture you as a much diff'rent kind of 'lady killer.'"

[jimmydarling]

A good reason. Morgan's hit it on the head, and he says it like a sentencing. Jimmy can't argue with him, when he's being at once trusting and realistic - just gapes at him. Hopefully his visible shocked gratitude just looks like he's surprised someone believes him at face value, and doesn't look like he's just had a reminder of his actual killing. It's been weeks, and he was so angry and protective at the time, but Jimmy's still felt guilty in those intervening days - and not just on Meep's account. What the hell would Ma have thought, if she'd known he'd done that? Regardless of how it had earned him some of Elsa's esteem, he hadn't been thinking right when he did it.

On the other hand, he'd probably do it again, if given the chance. Because the alternative is that it would've been Bette and Dot instead, rotting away in a jail cell because of some prejudiced cops trying to pin a murder on an innocent outsider.

Jimmy doesn't like to think of himself as a killer. But he'd have more trouble living with himself if he were a coward that couldn't protect one of his own.

So Jimmy just nods, gratitude in the bend of his eyebrows and the thin, still-wary line of his mouth. And then Morgan drops an unexpected joke, and Jimmy huffs with laughter. Some of the tension between them seems to dissolve, and it's a little easier to breathe. "You don't know how right you are," he says. For just a few seconds, a genuinely playful bend comes to his mouth. "And hey, you're not so hard on the eyes yourself." It's only polite to return a compliment, right? He doesn't actually add on a no homo, bro, but the sensuality is gone from Jimmy's smirk, and he taps Morgan's shoulder with his mitten-covered knuckles, a clear enough indicator that he's very much joking, not flirting, please and thank you.

It's enough of a build-up of trust - and a desperation for answers - that Jimmy grows serious again. He leans forward, although this time there's no furtive glances to the sides, looking for eavesdroppers. He just wants all of Morgan's attention. "Look, so... If you're into this supernatural stuff, can I... You're still probably gonna think I've lost my mind. I'm not too sure I haven't." Jimmy scoffs down at the bar, then just watches Morgan from under his lashes, face still down turned. "But I got a question to ask you."

[corvidly]

That seems to have done the trick: Jimmy laughs, and Morgan finds it easy to do so as well. What a goddamn relief. He's reaching over for his nearly-finished beer and there is no hesitation before he's sinking the last of it down into the back of his throat.

It's good that he's swallowing down his beer just as Jimmy continues, because by the time he gets his remark out, Morgan can't choke on his drink. He scoffs in surprise, which blends into a laugh. If he expected a response at all, a returned compliment was not going to be on that list. There's no immediate jump of concern from Morgan though, especially not after his shoulder sustains a friendly jab. "I guess I can thank my parents for that."

But all too quickly, Jimmy is leaning into the gap of air between them, face fallen into something firm again. Now a flicker of concern wavers behind Morgan's eyes, and he angles his body toward the other man as well. His words begin like a request for a favor, and Morgan is all too familiar with the tentative approach that people have when reconciling the existence of the supernatural for the real first time in their lives. Morgan gently radiates a calm sympathy, face softening with it, nodding to show his understanding. "Well, shoot, then."

[jimmydarling]

'Parents' elicits both pain and relief - even still drowning in self-centered pain about Ma's death, Jimmy is comforted, just a little bit, to think that maybe Morgan's got both of his. Or just the one, whichever. Jimmy was fine, all told, with just one, but he'd been a scrappy little thing that had always wondered what life with a dad might've been like. He tends to default to two-parent ideas of Family when it's brought up about other people.

Especially normal, pretty-faced people like Morgan. Except Morgan must wear his weirdness on the inside, and Ma had talked about how that was sometimes even harder than having it outside. Because then no one could see to confront you, but no one could make you confront it either. And if you never had to admit it, even to yourself, then it could rot you out from the inside.

Has that ever happened to Morgan?

Jimmy grimaces for a moment, teeth bared apologetically. "What do you think about...time travel?"

[corvidly]

Time travel? Morgan doesn't scoff so much as he just breathes, expression bending with a little amusement, but still maintaining an attentive thoughtfulness. Time travel. Well, that's interesting, but Morgan doesn't get the feeling that Jimmy here is asking about L. Ron Hubbard novels.

"A lotta people think it must be possible; I can tell you that time isn't just a way to quantify existence, or to make sure you show up for work on time. It's one of the many dimensions that we exist within, and there are beings can pass through these dimensions easily. I s'ppose anything is possible to an entity that's capable of it."

Morgan's eyes are on the bar top, chin nestled in a relaxed hand that strokes at his jaw. It's pretty apparent by now that while it's a wild subject to be talking theories on, it's not outside the realm of speculating for Morgan. "There's even some magic users that claim to have the power to manipulate time; whether that means they can pass through it, or affect it in general, it's hard t' say."

If he were given a few more moments to think at length, Morgan could suspect what Jimmy seems about ready to admit. Instead, he's focused on the man in front of him, who can answer his questions better than he can make guesses...but Morgan does see the apprehension on Jimmy's face, and it gives him a brief flash of hesitation. "Why d'you ask?"

[jimmydarling]

Morgan's taking this further than Jimmy had really anticipated him going, and his face is raptly attentive. Surprise bleeds out into a low, impressed whistle as Morgan wraps up what he's saying. "Sounds like you know a lot more about this than I do, theories or not." Jimmy doesn't know too much about dimensions or theories surrounding time, not beyond a few horror scifi novels that he'd been aware of but hadn't read. But he can fit the pieces of what Morgan's saying together well enough that he doesn't feel entirely lost.

It's still clear that he's in over his head, though. But Morgan's reply was esoteric enough that now, Jimmy's feeling confident enough to lean forward towards him once again. Voice low, eyes on Morgan's. "Because... Look." He breaks eye contact for a moment, embarrassed and at the edge of that cliff he'd been dancing towards since Morgan reached out to him in the alley out back. "The day I was getting carted off for that surgery, before I woke up here. It was July 15th, 1952."

Jimmy's gaze had shied away, but now he's staring at Morgan's face, looking for any sense of disbelief or anger or maybe even - if he's lucky - trust. He's still not positive this is going to end well. "Now, when I first woke up, I was too sick to really care what was going on. But my-- my money's worth barely anything, not that I had a hell of a lot on me anyway. Cars are different, people are different, hell I haven't seen a single 'coloreds only' water fountain or restroom since I got here. Which is great, I guess, 'cause that separate but equal talk was a load of bullshit. I got a look at a calendar up on a gas station wall. I know it's-- supposedly it's 2016."

Eyes still on Morgan, Jimmy's mouth hangs open long enough for him to give a breathless chuckle. "I'm...still not sure I really believe it. But it's the only explanation for how different everything is. I'm not important enough to waste this kind of money and time on for a...a prank, or a trick. No one's gonna get anything from me if I believe I got dragged sixty years into the future, so I figure... Maybe it's gotta be true."

[corvidly]

Nineteen fifty two. Morgan's face appears to abandon any muscle movements in favor of helping his brain process what he's just heard. That definitely sheds some light on the mystery as to why Jimmy was asking about time travel, then. If Morgan was a little lax on exercising some natural amount of caution about Jimmy when he admitted to being arrested for murder, he's making up for some of that dubiousness now.

But he's keeping his face nice and devoid of any major expressions while Jimmy continues. He's already wondering what a guy could gain from telling a lie like this, but his attention on that suspicion soon starts to slip the more Jimmy says... Details that Morgan honestly doesn't think the average person would think of. Not unless they did a sufficient google search first.

Oh, but come on, Morgan: it explains the toothpick spread. Dark eyes flick away, downward, as it occurs to him. He bends back just enough to settle an eye on the pile of toothpicks. He can't just see what era Jimmy is contemporary to, not from a simple read like this, but it does just drop off suddenly. Morgan hums a thoughtful sound.

The nail in the coffin of believability is Jimmy's apprehension, openly declaring that even he doesn't entirely believe that what he's saying must have happened, actually occurred. If the concepts and theories are too incredible to believe, Jim's doubt is unmistakable.

"Okay, well," Morgan starts, one hand fiddling into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. "Time ain't my jurisdiction. I'm an oracle, not Doctor Who." Let Morgan just casually drop that reference there, see if Jimmy reacts to that or not. If he's really from whence he says he came, that should fly right over his head.

Morgan is moving off of his bar stool, jerking his head for Jimmy to follow him back outside. "But I got someone I keep as counsel, they might have an idea 'bout what's going on. You still got that lighter, man?" Because Morgan really needs this next cigarette.

[jimmydarling]

"...Doctor who?" Okay, not understanding that part, but Jimmy just keeps on going to the more pressing: "So you are an oracle?" Does he look and sound a little apprehensive, a little starstruck, and yet still questioning, all at once? Jimmy's not really sure how he's pulling it off either. It's a bit of a leap of reasoning, but Jimmy saw Mordrake that night, and he also just got potentially carted several decades into the future. At this rate, it's relieving to think he might be staring down some sort of mystic.

A mystic that believes him enough to be offering him some help. Jimmy is getting up and hastily wrapping up the remaining half of his burger with the napkins to the side of it, because he's not leaving without the rest of that food but he's also not the sort of person to just lift a plate from a nice pub. "Really? There's someone that might know something about this?" His voice lifts a bit with hope.

At his core, honestly, Jimmy's always been a hopeful kind of guy. Ma once called him 'the most aggressive optimist I ever met', and he thinks that's a pretty fair description. He wants good things to happen to good people, truly believes that's fair, and he's willing to get his hands dirty to ensure that.

So seeing that laying his soul bare a bit to Morgan prompted him to shoo them both out of this pub on the double, ostensibly to help him, is like the universe finally proving that it's been set to right. "Yeah, of course." Morgan wants another light for helping him out? Hell, he can have the whole damn lighter. He can have all three gifted cigarettes Jimmy has to his name at the moment.

The air's a little cooler when they hit the alley again, but it's not like Orleans gets chilly at night during mid-July. Jimmy gets the lighter out of his pocket without too much hassle, but he can't flick-and-press with the mittens on. The pressure on his hands from the leather already has him reflexively thinking he has to pass it to Morgan to let him do it himself.

But Jimmy pauses. There's...been a lot of trust happening tonight. Morgan's gone out on a lot of limbs to follow this story through to where he has, and while it's been nerve-wracking for Jimmy, at least he knows why he's trying so hard to get someone to believe him. There's no reason for Morgan to do this.

Jimmy grabs the finger-end of his right mitten with his left hand and tugs it off in one smooth motion. His hands don't shake. He doesn't apologize. He doesn't even stare Morgan down as he reveals his right hand.

But he does look back up at him, a question in that stare, when he offers out the flame-tipped lighter.

[corvidly]

The cool air is a surprising relief, but it's still heavy with the evaporation of swamp water. While its refreshing in its difference from the warm air inside made heavy with its woody scent, it makes Morgan's lungs eager for some hot smoke.

He's slipping a cigarette out of the box when Jimmy pulls out the lighter. He taps the open end on the closed cardboard, and it's just enough time for Jimmy to pause and decide to take his glove off -- something that isn't occurring in Morgan's awareness until he turns around. Cigarette between his lips, he sees a bare hand holding the flaming lighter to his face, illuminating the space between them and, of course, his hand.

Morgan can't help but stare for a moment at the fused forms, a hand with a thumb and two large digits. A natural deformity, he assumes, something genetic. Well, there's no scarring to indicate this was some sort of injury, or a result of surgery.

But he isn't repelled, and doesn't shy away at all. Morgan leans in to introduce the end of his cigarette to the flame before it burns Jimmy, cheeks hallow as he sucks air through the packed tobacco, and from this close, the oracle doesn't bother to keep staring at the hand.

When he pulls back, his eyes are only on Jimmy's. The 'freak show,' he called it. Back in the fifties? Morgan can't imagine what bizarre things people would be saying about a guy with a deformity like that. Hell, writing with your left hand was probably still frowned upon back then.

"I was startin' t' think those gloves were permanently attached," he jests calmly past his cigarette, but brings it away from his lips with a small smile. Jimmy is clearly shy about bringing them out; Morgan doesn't care what he does about his hands, but he certainly isn't going to make this harder for him to commit to. Yeah, his hands are...odd, but only because anything else would be 'odd,' and that doesn't necessitate a crime or anything.

They should be normalized, and Morgan's preferred method of not making something feel foreign is to act like it isn't. What does Morgan do around normal hands? Nothing. He doesn't address them.

So he'll take another long drag from his cigarette and do just that. "Dunno if you know this, but tobacco was considered sacred to the native people of this chunk of land. They would smoke it in special ceremonies and always had a ritual to it. And they would offer it to the spirits of the land that they revered."

Morgan isn't directly Native American, he doesn't smoke cigarettes to summon nature spirits, and he isn't claiming that tobacco was smoked only rarely for grand events. Native people would smoke it almost as regularly as people nowadays do -- but that's still the truth to it, and it's a hell of a good segue.

Another inhale off his cigarette. "You're 'bout to meet one of those spirits."

[jimmydarling]

This reveal is one that Jimmy has waited out so many, many times in his life. At the show, it's part of the act. It's the entire point, really. He's heard so many gasps, sometimes screams from the dramatic in the audience, that you'd think he'd be deaf to it by now. He's used to the way housewives sometimes shrink from it, the way they can giggle with nerves and distance themselves from what they're doing - cheating on their husbands - by knowing that they're sleeping with a guy who's not really part of normal society. His hand is probably the reason he's one of the few successful straight male prostitutes he's ever met. Jimmy knows all of this. It's old by now.

He also knows that some of those housewives don't seem to actually care. Jimmy's had every one of his extended freak family hold his hand at some point, to shake it or to offer support, and all of them were able to look him in the eye and not flinch. He knows exactly what acceptance feels like and how rare it is.

And he sees it, when Morgan is done noticing his hand and just bends forward to light the cigarette hanging from his mouth. Acceptance. Like this is normal.

Jimmy's had that a bare handful of times in his life from 'normal' people. The first time, he'd been seven and in a candy store, and his ma had been insisting, as usual, that he couldn't hand over the money. Like any self-respecting seven year old, Jimmy had been whining for the independence to pay himself, and the woman behind the counter - bless her - had just reached down and plucked the money from his hand. Ma, who had been trying to grab it back from him at the time to hand over herself, had frozen in place, stunned.

Jimmy, who had been insisting with a child's importance but who knew how strangers tended to react to his hands, had blinked up at the old woman. She looked like how Jimmy imagined grandmas did, and she'd smiled at him. And then, when she gave him the change, she'd tucked it into his palm and closed his fingers over it with a smile, and Jimmy had embarrassed himself by crying. He's pretty sure Ma did too, after they left. They hadn't talked about it again.

Christ, talk about memory lane. Jimmy stops pressing on the lighter a few seconds too late, shoves it back in his pocket. He considers his gloves, but a glance up and down the alley tells him they're safe for now.

He presses his bottom lip with his teeth, briefly, and then takes off the other glove. Both go into his back pocket. "Only permanently attached when I'm in questionable company." He answers, and he isn't joking at all. He sounds awed, which he is. Jimmy's gloves are always on in public, unless he's trying to make a point. They're never off because he's comfortable. That's never been a step in this dance.

So let's make this clear: this is a huge endorsement for you, Morgan. Jimmy isn't gonna forget the way you just breezed right on past his hands.

But he also isn't going to linger too long. He picks up, gratefully, on Morgan's willingness to keep the conversation moving. "Listen, I've known some dedicated smokers before, but no one's ever tried to convince me that Marlboro was tryin' to create a spiritual experience." Jimmy chuckles, mouth opening around a smile. "Are you gonna sing to summon it? Should I get a drum beat going?"

[corvidly]

Morgan could be irritated by the humor, perhaps on a bad day, but that natural defensiveness doesn't strike tonight. The jab about cigarettes is kind of too good to let ruin his mood. "Can't a guy make an entrance for a supernatural entity?" He asks, chuckling around the filter of his cigarette.

Circling overhead, the Raven remains mostly unseen in this post-twilight sky. A quietude seems to descend on the streets surrounding the block, perhaps a lull in the lively bustle and traffic that is typical for this area. It makes the rustling of feathers and the scratchy squawk from above much more audible in the alley.

The bird, a black silhouette in the contrast to the fluorescent lamps erected at each side of the block, glides up the length of the alley with wings fully extended. Its call is almost purring, a mechanically rhythmic sound. The creature kicks out its talons and grasps onto the shoulder of Morgan's denim jacket; a keen eye might have observed what could have been perceived as stylistic distressing there on the sleeve and shoulder, but might more truly be an indication of a frequent roosting spot for the bird.

This bird, that appears to be quite simply a normal corvid, pauses and ticks its head to the side, opposite of Morgan, to level a seemingly intentful eye at Jimmy. It coos roughly and flaps its wings awkwardly against Morgan, as if insisting something.

"I'll be a moment," Morgan assures Jimmy as the turns away. He puts a few paces between him and the other guy as he approaches a lidded dumpster, to lean his shoulder toward it for his aviary friend. It hops onto the plastic surface, claws scratching and tapping as it steps across it, before turning to face Morgan directly.

Morgan doesn't often have to speak to the Raven; more typically they communicate in abstract thoughts from their mind to the other. Concepts, intentions, flashes of insight, like twins joined at the brain.

But Morgan needs something clear and quick, and the Raven already seems disrupted by Jimmy's presence.

'A displacement of a life line, across time, misplaced...A mischievous force.'

"So I've noticed," Morgan murmurs, holding his cigarette idly in his fingers. "He found me, lucky that."

The Raven tilts its head, dazed. It doesn't still understand the concept of 'luck.' 'It must be kept safe.' The bird caws once again, as if to emphasize the urgency. 'Must return. Life in its absence is unbalancing.' The bird means Jimmy; the Raven doesn't deal in gendered pronouns, isn't aware of such concepts of material form and flesh and reproductive properties.

"Yeah, you got any bright ideas?" Morgan scoffs and drags on his cigarette.

The Raven sits quiet for a moment, considering.

"Yeah, me either. What caused this t' happen?"

'Mysterious. Dark. Unseen. In its nature. Not a practitioner of the spirits... Unknown.'

"Some cousin of yours?" Morgan asks flippantly, because he's not liking what he's hearing. His brow wrinkles in the middle, and suddenly this cigarette is no longer helping, and it's tasting stale in his mouth.

'This one...Jimmy...must be kept. I will seek the disruption to its source.'

"So'll I. Can I look into his life line, or will that like, cause some sort of rift in reality?" He's still being flippant, but his question is serious.

'You cannot tell that one its fate.' Morgan rolls his eyes; yeah, he knows that. 'Its life is diverted. There will be no longterm forthcoming. But you may use your gifts as you see fit.'

The Raven focuses an eye on Morgan, standing eerily still. 'Your spirit is restless.'

Morgan nearly glares at the bird, lips slack against the filter of his cigarette that is too perched between two fingers. It's a delayed reaction before the ashy end of the stick glows to life with red and orange. "Tell me when you find something good."

The bird simply sits, for a few more long seconds, and flaps its wings preemptively. Morgan turns away and chucks the cigarette to the wet pavement, the sighing of wings from above filling his ears as the creature departs.

[jimmydarling]

"I'm not gonna stop you." Is said innocently enough. Jimmy's curious about what's happening, but he's always had a knee jerk response to shady spirit stories - he tends to poke light fun at them, keep the weight of it from dragging down the troupe too much. Some superstitions are mostly like the more benign Bible verse - harmless enough, nice guidelines for keeping on the good and righteous in your life. But sometimes they're like...well, more like the ways that the Bible can be used to back up violence or prejudice - they do more harm than good.

He isn't expecting a normal-looking raven to swoop down the alley way, but then, Mordrake had looked pretty regular. Aside from the dead-guy clothes and that sickly green glow to everything around him, of course.

Maybe it's instinct, but Jimmy feels a pull to follow the lead of the ambient traffic and chatter of the streets in that moment - he falls silent. The raven looks at him, and the stare carries the weight of a human's gaze. When Morgan tells him he's gonna be a minute - presumably, to do some kind of esoteric ritual with this bird - Jimmy's eyes stay wide but he just nods, like this is something he gives permission to cut off conversations for all the time.

Morgan had said he was going to check for more information about this, right? Does he mean just fact-checking Jimmy in general? Because Jimmy wouldn't blame him if it's still a bit much to request that a complete stranger believe that you, an uninteresting man from the '50s, just got hauled through to the future and are currently broke and in need of financial and spiritual assistance. It sounds more than a little suspicious.

So Jimmy will happily leave him to it. In fact, Jimmy will go ahead and take another bite of that burger he's been hanging onto since they stepped out of the bar. The razor edge of his hunger is dulled, but he still feels almost nauseously ravenous, which is why Jimmy has a mouthful of food when a foreign voice is suddenly in his head.

He doesn't spit it out - god, he'd probably let himself choke to death on a tomato slice before he purposefully lost any of this food to the ground - but Jimmy freezes mid-chew. He has no frame of reference for this, except the sound of thoughts in his own head. And unless he's reading a paper to himself, it really doesn't seem so structured most of the time, anyway. Like most people, Jimmy's thoughts are just a mass of intentions and half-formed words and questions and observations. This feels like someone took his own internal voice and pressed it into their own megaphone. It doesn't sound like a different voice, but it doesn't really sound like his own, either. It's...startling.

But not quite frightening. Still, Jimmy mechanically chews through the rest of that bite and then just stands there, eyes wide, staring at the bird clearly not speaking while Morgan manages to answer everything that Jimmy hears in his own head. It must be...the raven. The 'supernatural entity', as Morgan had called it.

Jimmy takes a halting, jerky step forward when the raven takes off. "Was-- was it-- did he-- is it a-- a he or a she? Was that-- it was in my head." Jimmy's pulling up even with Morgan, staring first at him and then back up, to where the raven has disappeared against the darkening sky. "Is it just leaving?" Has Jimmy missed something? He feels like he's missed something.

[corvidly]

Morgan anticipates a couple of things when he introduces someone to his familiar: confusion, alarm, even suspicion. Those first two are quite prevalent in Jimmy when he approaches him, but for a person he expects comes without any experience in the supernatural, it's no news to him.

Until Jimmy is stammering just a little more urgently than would be expected, and follows that up with 'it was in my head'. It's enough to give Morgan a significant pause, eyes narrowing inquisitively at the other man. "You mean you heard it communicating with me?"

It's the assumption, since it had no direct contact with Jimmy during the discussion. Jimmy has demonstrated that the strangest thing about him aside from the accidental time travel is his hands... But only those who have been touched by an agent of the otherworldly can hear the Raven. Morgan's brows are about to knit together in suspicion until he realizes that it must make perfect sense. Jimmy was touched, even in some inadvertent way, by some entity: whatever it was that sent him sixty years in the future.

And Morgan's face immediately spreads into calmly neutral. "Good, then I don't have t' get you caught up." He then eyes the mostly-rated hamburger in Jimmy's hands and can't resist a smile that leaks across his face.

"So, you're gonna have t' stick 'round me for your safety. For all I know, someone's got some weird hit on you, but more likely, you're just an innocent bystander that got caught up in somethin' you had no business in."

Morgan scratches at the back of his neck with dull fingertips, considering, even though the true solution is very clear to him. "Since you ain't got a place, you can crash on my couch 'til we get this shit sorted out. I can't promise how long that'll take, but if it really bums you out, I can throw a couple more'a those burgers into the offer." His smile is a little firmer, and even a bit warmer.