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WELCOME TO THE SALTBURNT NETWORK
USERNAME:
hangman
text ❖ audio ❖ video
WELCOME TO THE SALTBURNT NETWORK
USERNAME:
hangman
text ❖ audio ❖ video
[ The morning before Jake's first shift at the Hex Club, an envelope finds its way to his door. Inside is a gold pin in the shape of a hexagon, as well as a note: ]
Jake,
Welcome to the Hex Club.
I look forward to working with you.
— Silco
* For clarity's sake: The pin is merely a gift, not an expected part of your daily dress.
[ moved from here! ]
[ bet or not, steve isn't going to show up in sweats and joggers. he still keeps to the habit of putting on a good foot forward, and he's not above making seresin wait just a little. not long enough to be rude, but definitely long enough to make clear that it's a choice he's making.
steve gets to the patio between 40 and 45, wearing a pressed shirt and a pair of crisp jeans. god, he even has a belt. ]
Lieutenant. Where are we headed?
[ bet or not, steve isn't going to show up in sweats and joggers. he still keeps to the habit of putting on a good foot forward, and he's not above making seresin wait just a little. not long enough to be rude, but definitely long enough to make clear that it's a choice he's making.
steve gets to the patio between 40 and 45, wearing a pressed shirt and a pair of crisp jeans. god, he even has a belt. ]
Lieutenant. Where are we headed?
Edited 2025-05-20 07:00 (UTC)
[ Steve, Jake thinks, already reminds him a hell of a lot of Rooster.
That aw shucks mentality, the fleeting glimpse of something else behind that, the suggestion of service and loyalty in equal measure. Also, significantly making him wait. Because Steve isn't a cranky bastard with a death wish who'd rather bring the whole squad down than examine his own self-destructive tendencies (probably), Jake doesn't do anything with that information (yet).
In the time honored tradition of the US Armed Forces, Jake, very gamely, decides that there's nothing else to do about that but drink.
Ergo: there they are. By the time Steve gets to the patio, there is — undoubtedly — already a party for one happening. Two Adirondack chairs, either left here by a previous layabout or dragged here specifically for this purpose, harder to tell; two pitchers of something with sections of lime and amber-brown rum set right on the table, effervescent bubbles clinging to the sides of the glass. One of them is already half-empty, along with a small kitchen knife, a cutting board, more limes, and a very clean looking tumbler. ]
What, you get lost?
[ Coming from one of the chairs. Very, very occupied by Jake, wearing shorts and a clean linen shirt, buttons open all the way. It's 5pm and Jake barely looks like he's moved from the chair since that very morning. He barely even moves his head. ]
Typical Army man, Cap. [ He clicks his tongue against his teeth. ] Can't find their way north without the brass barking orders.
[ His hand lifts. Just enough to pull down his sunglasses, even though it's almost getting too dark for it. ]
Take a seat, Rogers. You're four behind.
That aw shucks mentality, the fleeting glimpse of something else behind that, the suggestion of service and loyalty in equal measure. Also, significantly making him wait. Because Steve isn't a cranky bastard with a death wish who'd rather bring the whole squad down than examine his own self-destructive tendencies (probably), Jake doesn't do anything with that information (yet).
In the time honored tradition of the US Armed Forces, Jake, very gamely, decides that there's nothing else to do about that but drink.
Ergo: there they are. By the time Steve gets to the patio, there is — undoubtedly — already a party for one happening. Two Adirondack chairs, either left here by a previous layabout or dragged here specifically for this purpose, harder to tell; two pitchers of something with sections of lime and amber-brown rum set right on the table, effervescent bubbles clinging to the sides of the glass. One of them is already half-empty, along with a small kitchen knife, a cutting board, more limes, and a very clean looking tumbler. ]
What, you get lost?
[ Coming from one of the chairs. Very, very occupied by Jake, wearing shorts and a clean linen shirt, buttons open all the way. It's 5pm and Jake barely looks like he's moved from the chair since that very morning. He barely even moves his head. ]
Typical Army man, Cap. [ He clicks his tongue against his teeth. ] Can't find their way north without the brass barking orders.
[ His hand lifts. Just enough to pull down his sunglasses, even though it's almost getting too dark for it. ]
Take a seat, Rogers. You're four behind.
Pour for four then, Seresin. [ a beat later: ] Por favor.
[ it's a little funny. with jake's shirt, the deck chairs, what he's pretty sure are daiquiris set out between the seats — it's inappropriately fitting.
he doesn't ask about the dress code. doesn't push about the location, though he would've preferred to be drinking somewhere with fewer eyes, fewer sightlines. steve isn't decided on what he thinks about jake seresin just yet. he's certain about the neatness of the man's morals (which is to say it's likely a bit smudged, but aimed dead centre at the parts that matter), but the details that fill out a picture are missing.
sam is exuberant in celebrating his downtime; he lives, and he lives for more than himself in ways steve can only imagine. nat is a coin toss between sticking around and vanishing like the ghosts of her past, reappearing as a different person, but also somehow the very same. and bucky— he doesn't know what bucky's like these days. it's a sore spot somewhere along his ribcage, a bruise he can't feel only when he keeps still.
he hates being still.
it doesn't stop him from sitting down opposite from jake, and the second jake fills up steve's designated tumbler he drains it all in one go. again, and again, until he's all caught up — throwing out a half-grin the way a kid grins with a stolen bar of candy held behind his back.
maybe they could ask someone to bring something to nibble into. he can't get drunk, to his frequent annoyance, but he can still upset his stomach acids.
(he tries not to think too much on why S.H.I.E.L.D. knew how to balance his shit right after he got melted out of the ice. he tries not to think too much in that direction at all.) ]
You like daquiris?
[ it's a little funny. with jake's shirt, the deck chairs, what he's pretty sure are daiquiris set out between the seats — it's inappropriately fitting.
he doesn't ask about the dress code. doesn't push about the location, though he would've preferred to be drinking somewhere with fewer eyes, fewer sightlines. steve isn't decided on what he thinks about jake seresin just yet. he's certain about the neatness of the man's morals (which is to say it's likely a bit smudged, but aimed dead centre at the parts that matter), but the details that fill out a picture are missing.
sam is exuberant in celebrating his downtime; he lives, and he lives for more than himself in ways steve can only imagine. nat is a coin toss between sticking around and vanishing like the ghosts of her past, reappearing as a different person, but also somehow the very same. and bucky— he doesn't know what bucky's like these days. it's a sore spot somewhere along his ribcage, a bruise he can't feel only when he keeps still.
he hates being still.
it doesn't stop him from sitting down opposite from jake, and the second jake fills up steve's designated tumbler he drains it all in one go. again, and again, until he's all caught up — throwing out a half-grin the way a kid grins with a stolen bar of candy held behind his back.
maybe they could ask someone to bring something to nibble into. he can't get drunk, to his frequent annoyance, but he can still upset his stomach acids.
(he tries not to think too much on why S.H.I.E.L.D. knew how to balance his shit right after he got melted out of the ice. he tries not to think too much in that direction at all.) ]
You like daquiris?
[ Jake rolls his eyes. It's an expression that's mean but somehow goodnatured, without any real heat or focus. He doesn't even pull his sunglasses off, just sits up with a significantly easy flex of core strength, and does exactly that.
One, two, three, four. Each one poured out too quick to regarnish with a slice of lime, offered from the top, a broad hand spanning over the lip.
By three, he keeps his composure.
By four, Jake's settled back onto his chair, though he sits perpendicular, elbows on his knees. ]
I'm on vacation, [ he corrects, which is neither fitting nor true. Jake knows that it is neither fitting nor true. But that's the kind of bullshit that he isn't here to sell, the flinty undercurrent of disbelief and danger and what the fuck? that envelops him for just a second when he wakes up every morning, staring at the ugliest ceiling on the planet. Flirts with jumping over the fence again and never does, even though he's done it six, seven, eight times already. ]
More to the point, old timer, I'd say you like daiquiris. [ Pushing his Raybans up, throwing them a little haphazardly onto a little patio table. The metal clatters against the glass. Jake holds his own, many-limed, very-full, tumbler in his palm. The pitchers are more rum than anything else, really — the fruit's a misdirect. Pretty impressive he just shot back four.
Then again, ]
There is no chance in hell you've been around since '43.
[ Nothing like ripping off the bandaid pretty much immediately. There are more things in Heaven and Earth, as the saying goes. ]
One, two, three, four. Each one poured out too quick to regarnish with a slice of lime, offered from the top, a broad hand spanning over the lip.
By three, he keeps his composure.
By four, Jake's settled back onto his chair, though he sits perpendicular, elbows on his knees. ]
I'm on vacation, [ he corrects, which is neither fitting nor true. Jake knows that it is neither fitting nor true. But that's the kind of bullshit that he isn't here to sell, the flinty undercurrent of disbelief and danger and what the fuck? that envelops him for just a second when he wakes up every morning, staring at the ugliest ceiling on the planet. Flirts with jumping over the fence again and never does, even though he's done it six, seven, eight times already. ]
More to the point, old timer, I'd say you like daiquiris. [ Pushing his Raybans up, throwing them a little haphazardly onto a little patio table. The metal clatters against the glass. Jake holds his own, many-limed, very-full, tumbler in his palm. The pitchers are more rum than anything else, really — the fruit's a misdirect. Pretty impressive he just shot back four.
Then again, ]
There is no chance in hell you've been around since '43.
[ Nothing like ripping off the bandaid pretty much immediately. There are more things in Heaven and Earth, as the saying goes. ]
[ this type of conversation should be had in person, which is precisely why he's doing it over text to a man he's talked to exactly once in his life, when he was decidedly not himself. jake seresin, in theory, has no idea who he is. but he's sure he knows of him and his copious crimes against one anora mikheeva. ]
hey. jake? it's embry moore.
we should talk.
or i guess i'm the one who owes you a talk.
i'm sorry. for how things went between me and anora.
i want you to know i'd never do something like that. as me.
and if that happened to my wife
[ abort. he's dreamed of shoving his wife down the stairs in hopes that she'd break her neck. but that was intensely situational and not something he wants to explain right now. ]
i'm just trying to say that you and anora seem really good together, and i'm happy for you two. i'm sorry for the part i played in making things a mess.
i got you guys some monogrammed soap because i thought anora might find it funny. it has both your names on it.
anyway sorry for the long ass text. see you around.
hey. jake? it's embry moore.
we should talk.
or i guess i'm the one who owes you a talk.
i'm sorry. for how things went between me and anora.
i want you to know i'd never do something like that. as me.
and if that happened to my wife
[ abort. he's dreamed of shoving his wife down the stairs in hopes that she'd break her neck. but that was intensely situational and not something he wants to explain right now. ]
i'm just trying to say that you and anora seem really good together, and i'm happy for you two. i'm sorry for the part i played in making things a mess.
i got you guys some monogrammed soap because i thought anora might find it funny. it has both your names on it.
anyway sorry for the long ass text. see you around.
[ Five consecutive days, meaning five consecutive winks in the mornings. It's nice of Shadowheart to time the beginnings of her workouts to when Jake takes off his shirt. ]
Rest days are important for recovery, Shadowheart
Do you
Or does that punching bag still owe you money?
[ He is, very literally, not talking about Saber. ]
Rest days are important for recovery, Shadowheart
Do you
Or does that punching bag still owe you money?
[ He is, very literally, not talking about Saber. ]
Edited 2025-07-15 10:53 (UTC)
[ To be clear: Jake hasn't been sleeping like shit. He's been operating on the bare fucking minimum his body allows, which is fine, obviously — the Navy spent billions of dollars making him drownproof and able to operate on autopilot within two seconds of waking up and scrambling a jet, so it's old hat. Shit happens. He keeps busy. His entire career hinges on the ability to face mistakes and debrief after them, anyway, so when something goes wrong, you replay it. You unpick it. You figure out all the ways it could've gone wrong, and then worse, and what to do to make it right the next time you face it.
It's the kind of thing that's substantially harder to do when it's concerning a) the last month and b) memories of his life. And that's fine. Some things you unpick alone.
Well, it was fine, before— ]
"How things went", huh
[ He has never met Embry Moore. Staring at his name, and his text, all Jake feels is a distant but powerful sense of pity. It's immediately dwarfed by what feels like heightened fucking awareness. The itch in his palms when he hears alarms and altitude. Without so much as addressing all the rest of this shit (monogrammed soap?): ]
You know, where I'm from, people don't apologize by texting and turning tail, Moore.
[ As in: What the fuck are you talking about. ]
It's the kind of thing that's substantially harder to do when it's concerning a) the last month and b) memories of his life. And that's fine. Some things you unpick alone.
Well, it was fine, before— ]
"How things went", huh
[ He has never met Embry Moore. Staring at his name, and his text, all Jake feels is a distant but powerful sense of pity. It's immediately dwarfed by what feels like heightened fucking awareness. The itch in his palms when he hears alarms and altitude. Without so much as addressing all the rest of this shit (monogrammed soap?): ]
You know, where I'm from, people don't apologize by texting and turning tail, Moore.
[ As in: What the fuck are you talking about. ]
[ If she returns the favor by timing her downward dogs for when Jake takes his coconut water breaks, that's none of his business. ]
Sleep tends to be ample recovery, for me.
Are you volunteering to take its place? You could practice bouncing me. [ For work. Obviously. ]
Sleep tends to be ample recovery, for me.
Are you volunteering to take its place? You could practice bouncing me. [ For work. Obviously. ]
[ how things went. okay, so jake's understandably fucking pissed. he would be fucking murderous if he found out some drunk asshole showed up in greer's room and tried to strangle her. among other things. in fact, he was ready to send in black ops for a covert assassination the last time he felt like she was being threatened.
the critique of his methods has him immediately drafting a surly response that he forces himself to retract and delete. jake is correct. but embry has never claimed to be mannerable, which he would know if he knew him. which he doesn't. not really. they're apparently on a last name basis after one (1) text. ]
and where's that? midwest? closer to the south? somewhere where people value face to face communication, surely.
i'm from seattle.
[ where he grew up with horses and boats and his own fucking lake. ]
so
where is anora, anyway?
the critique of his methods has him immediately drafting a surly response that he forces himself to retract and delete. jake is correct. but embry has never claimed to be mannerable, which he would know if he knew him. which he doesn't. not really. they're apparently on a last name basis after one (1) text. ]
and where's that? midwest? closer to the south? somewhere where people value face to face communication, surely.
i'm from seattle.
[ where he grew up with horses and boats and his own fucking lake. ]
so
where is anora, anyway?
[ Jake, in a show of Herculean restraint that the Navy instilled in him while they were consensually drowning him under the guise of survival training, stares at the pixels on his early 2000s fucking phone for longer than a man might strictly have reason to do.
Delayed, but eventually: ]
See here, Seattle
Now is about the time a man might ask why you're asking
Given that you've just confessed to doing something you'd "never do".
I am not her keeper
If she's not answering your texts, that might be what us Texans call a good ol' fashioned clue
[ Where he grew up with horses and no boats or lakes. He neatly leaves out the part where she's also not talking much to Jake, either, among all the other things he neatly leaves out. ]
Delayed, but eventually: ]
See here, Seattle
Now is about the time a man might ask why you're asking
Given that you've just confessed to doing something you'd "never do".
I am not her keeper
If she's not answering your texts, that might be what us Texans call a good ol' fashioned clue
[ Where he grew up with horses and no boats or lakes. He neatly leaves out the part where she's also not talking much to Jake, either, among all the other things he neatly leaves out. ]
[ overcoming his worst impulses is not an exercise he attempts often. he is prone to moodiness and petty insults, his finger heavy on any trigger that gives him an excuse to nuke a relationship before it infects his bloodstream and leaves him terminally ill with it. anora doesn’t want to talk to him? fine. jake hates him? even fucking better.
it would be easy to turn tail as a twenty-one year old freshly minted lieutenant on base who didn’t give a shit about anything except who his next fuck was going to be. hell, it would’ve been easy two days ago, before his memories returned to him like a sledgehammer to the brain, act after act in the tragedy of his thirty-eight years of life. but he made a vow to ash during their last night together, a promise to be better, sealed in blood as he watched his best friend, his closest companion, his lover publicly assassinated in front of millions on a debate stage.
he can hardly blame anora when he’s been keenly avoiding ash, too. except ash didn’t actually wrong him. ]
i owe her. [ not sure what yet. ] i want to make things right.
guess that goes for you too. spousal privilege.
i think she should decide how that looks.
[ you just confessed. embry’s brain snags, slows. there’s a block in the conversation, a hurdle that jake isn’t jumping. anora is reacting to this situation in the exact way that he would — in that she’s chosen not to face it at all. impressive and respectable. embry once put an entire continent of distance between himself and ash because he didn’t want to own up to anything he was feeling. but if anora is like him, that means she also hasn’t told jake what happened.
if she hasn’t told jake what happened… ]
well fuck me
[ how the fuck does he always get himself into these situations? ]
it would be easy to turn tail as a twenty-one year old freshly minted lieutenant on base who didn’t give a shit about anything except who his next fuck was going to be. hell, it would’ve been easy two days ago, before his memories returned to him like a sledgehammer to the brain, act after act in the tragedy of his thirty-eight years of life. but he made a vow to ash during their last night together, a promise to be better, sealed in blood as he watched his best friend, his closest companion, his lover publicly assassinated in front of millions on a debate stage.
he can hardly blame anora when he’s been keenly avoiding ash, too. except ash didn’t actually wrong him. ]
i owe her. [ not sure what yet. ] i want to make things right.
guess that goes for you too. spousal privilege.
i think she should decide how that looks.
[ you just confessed. embry’s brain snags, slows. there’s a block in the conversation, a hurdle that jake isn’t jumping. anora is reacting to this situation in the exact way that he would — in that she’s chosen not to face it at all. impressive and respectable. embry once put an entire continent of distance between himself and ash because he didn’t want to own up to anything he was feeling. but if anora is like him, that means she also hasn’t told jake what happened.
if she hasn’t told jake what happened… ]
well fuck me
[ how the fuck does he always get himself into these situations? ]
[ Yeah, Jake thinks, sort of idly, staring again at those last three pixelly words. Fuck you. ]
Mighty nice and charitable of you, son
[ The mockery of the difference in age, seniority; the kind of respect you have for people in leadership. US Attorney General, in another life. But certainly not this one. ]
Think we should start playing on the same field
1. I am not her husband
2. She did not tell me what happened
3. You are doing a fine job of digging your own grave
[ Macho-bullshit filtered through downhome Texas, turns of phrase he only uses when he's trying to rattle on purpose. Slick when he wants to be cruel. Buried in it, at least, the flinty implication of something: that this is not a conversation Jake is willing to have. That a man worth his salt apologizes head-on. And most of all: that Jake is not, by any measure, the person anyone turns to if they want absolution. ]
If I were you, I'd pick your next moves very carefully
And they certainly wouldn't be for me
Mighty nice and charitable of you, son
[ The mockery of the difference in age, seniority; the kind of respect you have for people in leadership. US Attorney General, in another life. But certainly not this one. ]
Think we should start playing on the same field
1. I am not her husband
2. She did not tell me what happened
3. You are doing a fine job of digging your own grave
[ Macho-bullshit filtered through downhome Texas, turns of phrase he only uses when he's trying to rattle on purpose. Slick when he wants to be cruel. Buried in it, at least, the flinty implication of something: that this is not a conversation Jake is willing to have. That a man worth his salt apologizes head-on. And most of all: that Jake is not, by any measure, the person anyone turns to if they want absolution. ]
If I were you, I'd pick your next moves very carefully
And they certainly wouldn't be for me
[ words scroll across the screen, and he’s fucking surly about it — not being played for a fool because that slides right off his back, but reaching out to do something fucking nice blowing back up in his face makes him want to… what? his guilt still chokes him, and no amount of petty namecalling will vanquish it. what if it was ash? what if it was greer? embry would have leapt through the screen and thrown punches by now. comparatively, jake is showing marvelous restraint. ]
mighty nice and charitable of you to fill me in, jake. [ B ITCH ] i thought you and anora were closer than that, but i’ll go find her myself.
[ he could leave it that, another ragged end sawn off for the convenience of not having to look at it anymore. but he promised ash to do better, and that doesn’t just mean in the oval office — a goddamn mistake, when his selfishness and empty carnality is diametrically opposed to doing better. ]
i want to say it wasn’t me. but i can’t. not with 100% certainty.
people keep saying what happened last month didn’t have anything to do with who we really are, but i don’t know if i believe them.
i’m not reaching out because i’m a good man. if you knew me, you’d definitely know that. if you’re expecting honor and fucking nobility, don’t.
if you want to even the scales, i can tell you exactly what happened. just find me.
mighty nice and charitable of you to fill me in, jake. [ B ITCH ] i thought you and anora were closer than that, but i’ll go find her myself.
[ he could leave it that, another ragged end sawn off for the convenience of not having to look at it anymore. but he promised ash to do better, and that doesn’t just mean in the oval office — a goddamn mistake, when his selfishness and empty carnality is diametrically opposed to doing better. ]
i want to say it wasn’t me. but i can’t. not with 100% certainty.
people keep saying what happened last month didn’t have anything to do with who we really are, but i don’t know if i believe them.
i’m not reaching out because i’m a good man. if you knew me, you’d definitely know that. if you’re expecting honor and fucking nobility, don’t.
if you want to even the scales, i can tell you exactly what happened. just find me.
[ Just find me. Almost benevolent, an offer like that. A man who isn't good, reaching out to make things square, willing to step up and take what's due. The kind of offer that could practically make him good, by anyone's logic.
Naturally, Jake returns the favor by leaving him on read.
It takes a couple days. A week, more or less. Jake's mornings are routine, by now — an early riser who runs, goes to the gym, who drinks smoothies with microgreens and a specific amount of whey isolate rather than eyeball anything strictly on the menu. Doesn't deviate, by any stretch of the imagination. So it's on purpose. The convenient run-in, later. Not so late that there's nobody milling about the dining room; not so early that it's the first flush of call. A perfect middle ground for an audience. The most likely hour to find someone you're not not looking for.
From behind, Jake's broad palm claps, tight, over Embry's shoulder. As chummy as brothers in fucking arms. ]
Morning, Seattle.
[ He grins. The expression stretches across his mouth, each tooth gleaming in their neat, shiny rows. The hairs at the back of his neck are still damp from his shower.
Barely gives a beat before Jake rears back his fist and decks him, square in the face. ]
Naturally, Jake returns the favor by leaving him on read.
It takes a couple days. A week, more or less. Jake's mornings are routine, by now — an early riser who runs, goes to the gym, who drinks smoothies with microgreens and a specific amount of whey isolate rather than eyeball anything strictly on the menu. Doesn't deviate, by any stretch of the imagination. So it's on purpose. The convenient run-in, later. Not so late that there's nobody milling about the dining room; not so early that it's the first flush of call. A perfect middle ground for an audience. The most likely hour to find someone you're not not looking for.
From behind, Jake's broad palm claps, tight, over Embry's shoulder. As chummy as brothers in fucking arms. ]
Morning, Seattle.
[ He grins. The expression stretches across his mouth, each tooth gleaming in their neat, shiny rows. The hairs at the back of his neck are still damp from his shower.
Barely gives a beat before Jake rears back his fist and decks him, square in the face. ]
[ It's kind of hard to figure out which word elicits his eye-shattering skepticism more. Probably not the goblins. Those are... probably metaphorical goblins. ]
Interesting choice of nighttime activity
[ He's definitely thinking they are metaphorical goblins. More importantly: ]
Did we?
Seems a shame to forget
Unless you wanted to refresh my memory, Jenny
Interesting choice of nighttime activity
[ He's definitely thinking they are metaphorical goblins. More importantly: ]
Did we?
Seems a shame to forget
Unless you wanted to refresh my memory, Jenny
[ not hearing from jake for a week makes embry forget about his rash offer, even if he meant it in the moment. he’s more concerned with anora anyway, the person he actually wronged, now that he’s discovered that jake isn’t the husband, nor did anora bother confiding in him about what happened. but — that doesn’t mean there’s nothing between them. how many times has embry hid his most painful wounds from ash, after all?
it happens at breakfast, which embry attends on a regular basis to mingle and swan about. a too-familiar clap on his shoulder has him turning to find jake gleaming and damp, his tell-tale smile chiseled onto his face. a pit opens in his stomach, only because he’s not mentally prepared to participate in brutal honesty today or any other day, and yet he’s the one that told jake to come find him if he wanted the truth, a classic case of his stupidity triumphing over all reasonable thought.
he doesn’t have much longer than that to commiserate over his past self making poor decisions, because when he blinks next jake’s fist slams into his face, embry barely turning in time to keep his nose from being broken (again), his teeth digging into the inside of his cheek from the impact. ]
What the fuck, Jake?
[ he rears back in an instant, blood staining his teeth and trickling from the corner of his mouth as anger ignites like flint against steel. ash is the thinker, the one calm and collected through every force that rips through his life, whether it’s bombs or a broken heart. embry is decidedly the opposite: brash, reckless, always looking for the nearest hail of gunfire to step in front of. today, that happens to be jake seresin, and everything in him itches to hit back.
he doesn’t, anora’s face flashing before his eyes, her bruised throat, his blood strewn over her ruined dress. from the table, he snatches a flute of champagne and downs it in one swallow, zesty bubbles mixing with the taste of blood, then sets it down to grab another, this one held out to jake. ]
You want to talk? [ his eyes glitter, a winter sky caught in crystal. his voice sounds almost eager, an edge of desperation running through his words. ] Or do you want to hit me again?
it happens at breakfast, which embry attends on a regular basis to mingle and swan about. a too-familiar clap on his shoulder has him turning to find jake gleaming and damp, his tell-tale smile chiseled onto his face. a pit opens in his stomach, only because he’s not mentally prepared to participate in brutal honesty today or any other day, and yet he’s the one that told jake to come find him if he wanted the truth, a classic case of his stupidity triumphing over all reasonable thought.
he doesn’t have much longer than that to commiserate over his past self making poor decisions, because when he blinks next jake’s fist slams into his face, embry barely turning in time to keep his nose from being broken (again), his teeth digging into the inside of his cheek from the impact. ]
What the fuck, Jake?
[ he rears back in an instant, blood staining his teeth and trickling from the corner of his mouth as anger ignites like flint against steel. ash is the thinker, the one calm and collected through every force that rips through his life, whether it’s bombs or a broken heart. embry is decidedly the opposite: brash, reckless, always looking for the nearest hail of gunfire to step in front of. today, that happens to be jake seresin, and everything in him itches to hit back.
he doesn’t, anora’s face flashing before his eyes, her bruised throat, his blood strewn over her ruined dress. from the table, he snatches a flute of champagne and downs it in one swallow, zesty bubbles mixing with the taste of blood, then sets it down to grab another, this one held out to jake. ]
You want to talk? [ his eyes glitter, a winter sky caught in crystal. his voice sounds almost eager, an edge of desperation running through his words. ] Or do you want to hit me again?
[and that -- makes him smile, for the first time all day, because jake is still jake.]
You're on bed rest, I'm not exactly scared, Jake.
You're not gone. You aren't going anywhere.
You're going to help us out and we're going to be fine.
Don't make me break YOUR nose.
You're on bed rest, I'm not exactly scared, Jake.
You're not gone. You aren't going anywhere.
You're going to help us out and we're going to be fine.
Don't make me break YOUR nose.
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