Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven Friday night
It wasn’t the same, but it also wasn’t the reality. Okay, it’d been an honest reaction, yeah, but it’d been yanked out of a place that felt much murkier than honest. It was brackish water that Seven didn’t feel like wading into, because closely examined, he was afraid that he’d just end up pulled down to the deep by his waterlogged ankles. Left with ghosts and his own fucking anger for company, thanks but no thanks. He had a clear image of what his intent had been when he’d offered Jamie the ride, yeah, but it’d spun out into something else when the guy had said he’d come to the hotel.
He managed to look over at Jamie without lifting his head off the back of the couch, just letting it roll to one side and cracking one eye open. “If what I want is to be an asshole?” He asked, flatly. Which, yeah, he deserved that. But then Jamie kept going, and a line appeared between Seven’s eyebrows. Both eyes open now, still slitted narrow. It took him a second or two to get where he’d missed a step in the conversation. “I don’t know if I can in good conscious refer to us fucking as just anything,” he said, starkly honest and with both eyes closing as he turned back towards the ceiling and let the couch swallow him up by a few more inches. He stretched, arms over his head and one hand wrapping around the opposite wrist before both hands dropped to rest against his forehead, elbows out to the sides. “It’d be doing us a disservice.” And then he snorted.
“I don’t want a hand-job, Jamie. And I don’t expect anything from you. Except to occasionally get insulted, you’re real dependable for that.”