quicklog: dylan & jack
Hey, man. [A smile of reassurance, of uncertainty, once Jack made himself known. Dylan took a lean against the front counter and there was plenty of distance between the two of them. Because Jack looked dirty and twitchy and.... yeah, not good. Dylan slid his hand into his pocket and touched his phone, blindly texting Max with an index finger that knew keys like they were a part of his own body. A letter or two might have been missed, but he still knew how to hit send without looking. His hip was against the counter, and with his hand in his pocket, the movement a texting wasn't even visible from the other side where Jack stood looking like a blood-smeared ghost of memory. It wasn't a Jack that Dylan remembered, not even from the Mexico assassination days. But Dylan smiled regardless.]