d-eadeye

[d-eadeye]

sparse activity here until the evening!

[d-eadeye]

i fear ol' boy even dresses like a bronco buster

[d-eadeye]

[d-eadeye]

“More fun that way,” professes Jesse, pleased with himself, “I like t’see what they come up with in the heat of th’moment. I reckon the creativity would impress ya.’”

“You know somethin’, honey? Yer an odd bird. Put a bullet t’my head and I couldn’t get a read on you t’save my life.” The chair flattens, punctuatively. Boot soles take even to the bloodred carpet, elbows gracelessly implanting ahead of him; his back hunched forward and his shoulders quickly followed-suit. Callused fingers bridge beneath his furred upper lip, eyes half-lidded with early-morning insouciance — hawk’s eye gold shifting to a dim and lustreless brass. “Bad form to take the first sip of another man’s drink. Belongs to you by vaquero’s right.”

The same way you did, she puts forth, and Jesse isn’t convinced. You ain’t travel the same way I do, he thought, rolling his neck, not if God were good and karma were real and the world were spinnin’ right.

Dove hung her skeletons one careful body at a time: endless swathes of sequins, silk, satin. She studied them like old photographs, bitten by nostalgia— like distant memories she could not see but could feel.

“Driver..?” Perked Jesse, amused as much as he was perplexed. A hiss extolled through the gap in his teeth, neck craning until the tip of his toothpick speared her somber silhouette floating by the closet doors. “The hell’re you needin’ a driver for, girl? You th’daughter of some big augur ‘round here or somethin’? Witness protection?”

The pale wisp of her profile illuminated like a half-moon against a night-sky and Jesse watched her painted lips mouth each consequential word, the gentle lashings of a velvet tongue kissing each plump, contemptuous syllable. The dove emits them tenderly between the oblique lights.

Jesse chuckles. It’s low and coarse with a natural southern timbre, dragged up through his tar-blackened throat and across his tongue. It is neither menacing nor assuring but somewhere strange in-between. “Now.. Yer seein’ things, girl. I’m ‘bout as transparent as that window there what you see is what yer gon’ get.” There were mornings that he did not recognize the rugged face in the mirror. “What would I git out of lyin’ to you? Huh? If givin’ you my name meant I’d be lovin’ on you now, well.. I’da given the damn thing to you yesterday.”

She’d tugged on his shroud. Jesse was only readjusting it.

The whole of him preemptively relaxed; his boot began to hastily strike the carpet in idle cadence while the rest of him, once more balancing on the hind legs of his chair, sank into the backrest. The toothpick stilled; he passively fingered the metal skeleton of the aviators hung by his neckline.

A single glass was set upon that shared table, a burst of violent thunder to herald its prophetic arrival. Jesse’s eye chased hers through the dim lighting. She made no motion to join him tableside, but remained standing. “That how it is? Here I thought we were gon’ be thick-as-thieves, burnin’ the midnight oil over a smooth drink,” bemoaned the cowboy, not yet abandoning his coyote smile. No, he had far too much nerve for that and far too little shame. "Thought I’d get shitfaced with you an’ talk about our woes. Talk 'bout how the hell you wound up here.”

[d-eadeye]

The pale wisp of her profile illuminated like a half-moon against a night-sky and Jesse watched her painted lips mouth each consequential word, the gentle lashings of a velvet tongue kissing each plump, contemptuous syllable. The dove emits them tenderly between the oblique lights.

Jesse chuckles. It’s low and coarse with a natural southern timbre, dragged up through his tar-blackened throat and across his tongue. It is neither menacing nor assuring but somewhere strange in-between. “Now.. Yer seein’ things, girl. I’m ‘bout as transparent as that window there what you see is what yer gon’ get.” There were mornings that he did not recognize the rugged face in the mirror. “What would I git out of lyin’ to you? Huh? If givin’ you my name meant I’d be lovin’ on you now, well.. I’da given the damn thing to you yesterday.”

She’d tugged on his shroud. Jesse was only readjusting it.

The whole of him preemptively relaxed; his boot began to hastily strike the carpet in idle cadence while the rest of him, once more balancing on the hind legs of his chair, sank into the backrest. The toothpick stilled; he passively fingered the metal skeleton of the aviators hung by his neckline.

A single glass was set upon that shared table, a burst of violent thunder to herald its prophetic arrival. Jesse’s eye chased hers through the dim lighting. She made no motion to join him tableside, but remained standing. “That how it is? Here I thought we were gon’ be thick-as-thieves, burnin’ the midnight oil over a smooth drink,” bemoaned the cowboy, not yet abandoning his coyote smile. No, he had far too much nerve for that and far too little shame. "Thought I’d get shitfaced with you an’ talk about our woes. Talk 'bout how the hell you wound up here.”

Call it southern hospitality or an inconvenient spell of wishful thinking. Either way, Jesse sat perched at that paltry, water-stained table like it were she imposing on him, a lopsided smirk flourishing beneath the velvet shadow of his hat.

“Dire circumstance, you said?” replied the cowboy, balancing precariously on the hind legs of his chair, arm slung over its pitiful back while his legs sprawled like tree trunks on either side. Dove scurried to the bar cart whilst her imposing guest observed. “Now I done seen my fair-share of dire, honey, but I can’t imagine what dire means to a woman like you. What, you lost an earring? Broke a nail? Overpaid for a shitty motel suite in God-knows-where..?”

Thunder generously filled the uncomfortable silence for him.

Jesse settled his chair on the ground. Grinning like a boy who’d just been caught thieving, he relented — physically — to her cursory accusation, hands posted by his sides in the air. She was more astute than he’d realized, thought the surly brute, more amused than he was ashamed; perhaps he’d not given her enough credit. “This ol’ thing..? 'S all for looks. World ain't kind and I ain't either.” His flimsy explanation, elaborated on like they were merely discussing the weather. “Future belongs to them that prepare for it t'day. Ain’t that how it goes?”

Hand felt for the leather of his holster, fingers embracing its familiar contours with intimate understanding. But that was all. Jesse refrained from drawing anymore attention to its metal bulk, ambiguous though menacing all the same from within its sheath.

Bad-luck to show off yer iron to a woman.

“You bringin’ glasses? I’m keen to just drink from the tap.”

[d-eadeye]

Call it southern hospitality or an inconvenient spell of wishful thinking. Either way, Jesse sat perched at that paltry, water-stained table like it were she imposing on him, a lopsided smirk flourishing beneath the velvet shadow of his hat.

“Dire circumstance, you said?” replied the cowboy, balancing precariously on the hind legs of his chair, arm slung over its pitiful back while his legs sprawled like tree trunks on either side. Dove scurried to the bar cart whilst her imposing guest observed. “Now I done seen my fair-share of dire, honey, but I can’t imagine what dire means to a woman like you. What, you lost an earring? Broke a nail? Overpaid for a shitty motel suite in God-knows-where..?”

Thunder generously filled the uncomfortable silence for him.

Jesse settled his chair on the ground. Grinning like a boy who’d just been caught thieving, he relented — physically — to her cursory accusation, hands posted by his sides in the air. She was more astute than he’d realized, thought the surly brute, more amused than he was ashamed; perhaps he’d not given her enough credit. “This ol’ thing..? 'S all for looks. World ain't kind and I ain't either.” His flimsy explanation, elaborated on like they were merely discussing the weather. “Future belongs to them that prepare for it t'day. Ain’t that how it goes?”

Hand felt for the leather of his holster, fingers embracing its familiar contours with intimate understanding. But that was all. Jesse refrained from drawing anymore attention to its metal bulk, ambiguous though menacing all the same from within its sheath.

Bad-luck to show off yer iron to a woman.

“You bringin’ glasses? I’m keen to just drink from the tap.”

Somethin’ awful, she murmured in cashmere, taking his golden eye down with her to the dense and tawdry carpet. Jesse smiles — or at least he thinks he does. The ribald amusement never quite escapes the confines of his mind and is instead manifested as a famished leer; like a coyote watching a rabbit through the desert brush of principle.

A brief sliver of him is thankful for the abrupt distraction — the rest of him silently steams. The air grows thick with fragrance and longing. “Ain’t no sir,” bemoans Jesse for the second time that evening, “not unless yer wantin’ to take it ‘tween the sheets.”

The rest was idle standing. Jesse loomed with uncharacteristic quietude, oversized arms crossed above an oversized chest. At her padded knees, Dove sang a silent prayer for every empty body she withdrew from her trunk; dress after dress was retrieved from its insatiable mouth and Jesse wondered, silently, if there’d ever be any end. She busied herself with matters of shift and hosiery until at last emerging from its gullet with a prize for her fine-tailored persistence: something that occupied an elongated bundle of silk.

The ocular implant buzzed diligently at his temple, pupil rapidly contracting in an effort to surveil its vague contents. Preempted by an unconcerned sigh, the cowboy blinked away a sprawling web of interface with rubies of urgent concern caught within. Gettin’ pierced by a pretty woman’s bullet didn't seem like such a bad way to kick the can. There were worse ways to go.

“Would've settled fer a kiss,” jeered the brute with a smile, “but whisky’ll do just fine.” It was a tall and distinguished bottle, ornately engraved with a trove of nectar winking from within; the dim light rendered it incandescent which only encouraged his impalpable need to taste it.

The floor tremored with his lumbering gait, his insouciant compulsion to steal a seat. When he finally did, thunder roared and the whole of that turpid eden shook. Elbows — one mechanical, one organic — took boorishly to the tabletop. Jesse amused himself by watching her palms tenderly embrace the bottle’s neck. “You normally take a drink ‘round with you, honey?”

[d-eadeye]

Somethin’ awful, she murmured in cashmere, taking his golden eye down with her to the dense and tawdry carpet. Jesse smiles — or at least he thinks he does. The ribald amusement never quite escapes the confines of his mind and is instead manifested as a famished leer; like a coyote watching a rabbit through the desert brush of principle.

A brief sliver of him is thankful for the abrupt distraction — the rest of him silently steams. The air grows thick with fragrance and longing. “Ain’t no sir,” bemoans Jesse for the second time that evening, “not unless yer wantin’ to take it ‘tween the sheets.”

The rest was idle standing. Jesse loomed with uncharacteristic quietude, oversized arms crossed above an oversized chest. At her padded knees, Dove sang a silent prayer for every empty body she withdrew from her trunk; dress after dress was retrieved from its insatiable mouth and Jesse wondered, silently, if there’d ever be any end. She busied herself with matters of shift and hosiery until at last emerging from its gullet with a prize for her fine-tailored persistence: something that occupied an elongated bundle of silk.

The ocular implant buzzed diligently at his temple, pupil rapidly contracting in an effort to surveil its vague contents. Preempted by an unconcerned sigh, the cowboy blinked away a sprawling web of interface with rubies of urgent concern caught within. Gettin’ pierced by a pretty woman’s bullet didn't seem like such a bad way to kick the can. There were worse ways to go.

“Would've settled fer a kiss,” jeered the brute with a smile, “but whisky’ll do just fine.” It was a tall and distinguished bottle, ornately engraved with a trove of nectar winking from within; the dim light rendered it incandescent which only encouraged his impalpable need to taste it.

The floor tremored with his lumbering gait, his insouciant compulsion to steal a seat. When he finally did, thunder roared and the whole of that turpid eden shook. Elbows — one mechanical, one organic — took boorishly to the tabletop. Jesse amused himself by watching her palms tenderly embrace the bottle’s neck. “You normally take a drink ‘round with you, honey?”

The clever retort he’d conceived turned to dust when a burst of thunder shook the sky and everything that was hopelessly sprawled beneath it; the sleazy skeleton of the motel rattled with the fervor of its fragile bones. They departed at the crack of the devil’s whip, a flash of lightning illuminating both that infernal red corridor and the uncertain future ahead.

The bags collided with little raucous against the carpet. A light switch summoned a mechanical impression of candlelight through a stained, opaque shade by the bed. Jesse determined — in the short time that it’d taken them to traverse that gaudy hall — that he'd lifted heavier for much less. The room itself was a near-perfect replication of the room she'd abandoned only minutes prior: garish florals bloomed from floor to ceiling while doleful, fringed lamps watched with crooked necks; the curtains were thick and velvet and overwhelmed what little windows the room did possess. The smell of cheap perfume and lavender air-freshener inundated his nostrils forcefully.

The brute returned to his standing posture, hands cursorily at his denim hips. The sincerity of her gratitude was unbearable — he preferred her manicured chagrin. Jesse shook his head, waving away the sentiment like it was a pesky mosquito instead. “Yeah? How bad?” It’d given him something to occupy himself with.

There weren't much else to do in this weather.

A furious rain pelted the nearby window. The blonde gingerly closed the open door at her rear. Jesse turned on his bootheel to face her scintillating silhouette, mortal hand scratching at his hirsute jaw while his eyes narrowed like a hawk’s. The soft lighting and shared ambiance of gentle rain suited her.

“This all you needed moved? You ain't gon’ come flyin’ down that elevator in an hour askin' fer th'porter, are you?”

[d-eadeye]

The clever retort he’d conceived turned to dust when a burst of thunder shook the sky and everything that was hopelessly sprawled beneath it; the sleazy skeleton of the motel rattled with the fervor of its fragile bones. They departed at the crack of the devil’s whip, a flash of lightning illuminating both that infernal red corridor and the uncertain future ahead.

The bags collided with little raucous against the carpet. A light switch summoned a mechanical impression of candlelight through a stained, opaque shade by the bed. Jesse determined — in the short time that it’d taken them to traverse that gaudy hall — that he'd lifted heavier for much less. The room itself was a near-perfect replication of the room she'd abandoned only minutes prior: garish florals bloomed from floor to ceiling while doleful, fringed lamps watched with crooked necks; the curtains were thick and velvet and overwhelmed what little windows the room did possess. The smell of cheap perfume and lavender air-freshener inundated his nostrils forcefully.

The brute returned to his standing posture, hands cursorily at his denim hips. The sincerity of her gratitude was unbearable — he preferred her manicured chagrin. Jesse shook his head, waving away the sentiment like it was a pesky mosquito instead. “Yeah? How bad?” It’d given him something to occupy himself with.

There weren't much else to do in this weather.

A furious rain pelted the nearby window. The blonde gingerly closed the open door at her rear. Jesse turned on his bootheel to face her scintillating silhouette, mortal hand scratching at his hirsute jaw while his eyes narrowed like a hawk’s. The soft lighting and shared ambiance of gentle rain suited her.

“This all you needed moved? You ain't gon’ come flyin’ down that elevator in an hour askin' fer th'porter, are you?”

Baby, soothes the dove — in a tone woven of sugared silk and saccharine — you wouldn’t believe how far it can get you.

The door to her room was distant yet grand, wrapped by an obvious mahogany veneer and shoddily fashioned with antique brass. It loomed in esteemed reticence from its place at the end of the carpeted corridor as if patiently waiting, lusterless placard nigh illegible from the dim angle in which it was positioned. The whole of his implant whirred with brief consideration and where organic discernment failed him, artificial intelligence exceeded expectations: the second floor — all was calm among her well-paced heartbeat, still singing like a bird from her porcelain ribcage.

“Alrighty-then, miss ma’am.” It is purposefully prolonged.

After some few metal eructations, the door compelled itself to open; the neglected hinges whined and they were both abruptly serenaded by its begrudged melancholy. Dove had been the first to traverse its archway, the exposed skin of her back pressing modestly into the panel; she lifted her white chin, chest postured high, and once again embraced his russet enormity with the practiced calm of those rain-water eyes.

The cowboy took his time to follow-suit. He passed without caution for the door or Dove, inserting himself in the thin sliver of air that she’d purposefully implemented between herself and the doorway. The movement was slowed by way of crude intention, naturally; white-cottoned abdomen swiping slowly, nonchalantly, past her protruding bust while his gristled jawline loomed overhead a bevy of platinum ringlets. Jesse paused midway through, lips wrought with a wry coyote grin and a devilry that needed beatin.’ They briefly met eyes. Pungent tobacco on the tail of a warm breath extolled from above like a summertime cyclone: “You ain’t gotta worry about me none, baby.”

It appeared as though she’d never settled. The room itself was ostensibly undisturbed. A range of prim luggage waited faithfully by the entrance while the ghost of her figure, materialized in the form of a lavish coat, moped from the armchair.

They were lighter than he’d expected, at least. Jesse held a trunk in one lifted arm and a pair of them in the other. The mechanical joints of his cybernetic arm murmured with strain, steel digits occupied with the weight of a bag all the while.

Toothpick flicked upwards in churlish acknowledgement. “A tip's soundin' real nice.”

[d-eadeye]

[d-eadeye]

Charles Baudelaire, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of Charles Baudelaire

[d-eadeye]

Baby, soothes the dove — in a tone woven of sugared silk and saccharine — you wouldn’t believe how far it can get you.

The door to her room was distant yet grand, wrapped by an obvious mahogany veneer and shoddily fashioned with antique brass. It loomed in esteemed reticence from its place at the end of the carpeted corridor as if patiently waiting, lusterless placard nigh illegible from the dim angle in which it was positioned. The whole of his implant whirred with brief consideration and where organic discernment failed him, artificial intelligence exceeded expectations: the second floor — all was calm among her well-paced heartbeat, still singing like a bird from her porcelain ribcage.

“Alrighty-then, miss ma’am.” It is purposefully prolonged.

After some few metal eructations, the door compelled itself to open; the neglected hinges whined and they were both abruptly serenaded by its begrudged melancholy. Dove had been the first to traverse its archway, the exposed skin of her back pressing modestly into the panel; she lifted her white chin, chest postured high, and once again embraced his russet enormity with the practiced calm of those rain-water eyes.

The cowboy took his time to follow-suit. He passed without caution for the door or Dove, inserting himself in the thin sliver of air that she’d purposefully implemented between herself and the doorway. The movement was slowed by way of crude intention, naturally; white-cottoned abdomen swiping slowly, nonchalantly, past her protruding bust while his gristled jawline loomed overhead a bevy of platinum ringlets. Jesse paused midway through, lips wrought with a wry coyote grin and a devilry that needed beatin.’ They briefly met eyes. Pungent tobacco on the tail of a warm breath extolled from above like a summertime cyclone: “You ain’t gotta worry about me none, baby.”

It appeared as though she’d never settled. The room itself was ostensibly undisturbed. A range of prim luggage waited faithfully by the entrance while the ghost of her figure, materialized in the form of a lavish coat, moped from the armchair.

They were lighter than he’d expected, at least. Jesse held a trunk in one lifted arm and a pair of them in the other. The mechanical joints of his cybernetic arm murmured with strain, steel digits occupied with the weight of a bag all the while.

Toothpick flicked upwards in churlish acknowledgement. “A tip's soundin' real nice.”

The admission leaves their shared silence bloated, burgeoning, threatening to burst under even the most timid of exhalations. A swathe of chartreuse — not quite verdant enough to qualify as green — tinged the purlieu of his thoughts with premature envy and begrudged by her admiration of a stranger that was not himself but his walking simulacrum, Jesse’s sclerae flashed white to the painted metal. I could play yer daddy for a night, thought the vaquero glumly. The words themselves never passed up through his throat or beyond his arid, restless lips.

A second ‘ding.’. They were once again announced by way of a dying functionality while the whole of their steel domicile rumbled to a fateful stop. The doors yawned wide for Venus and her dog and spat them out as voraciously as it had when they’d first been consumed.

The lift was immediately relieved of his cumbersome size, sighing with newfound weightlessness. Lumbering in a wide-stepped gait, Jesse followed faithfully behind her, her gently sashaying figure. His eye, nigh indistinguishable from its organic counterpart, graced the fluid contours of her waist into her hips and watched the pale luster of her curls as they gingerly caressed her nape; he avariciously consumed her every fair detail down to the measured cadence of her heartbeat.

“That all it takes, sweetheart..? A name?” Molasses drippings, thick sardonicism seeping from his tongue; it lashes against the backs of his white teeth with pointed disdain. Jesse did little to conceal his wince. “I don’ told you already, honey.. You can call me whatever yer little heart desires.”

The crimson carpet relented beneath his footfall, the cloying desire to feed her some clever pseudonym snuffed out from under his heel. Silence, like an overfilled balloon, burst from under him. “I ain’t got no name. Just a nobody with a long slipe ahead of ‘im, passin’ through. This the door...? Twenty-six, right?"

[d-eadeye]

There'll always be an empty spot waiting for you

[d-eadeye]

Wasn't much else to it, was there..?

His entire body staggers. His coyote jaw is momentarily dislocated, bitter blood pooling in the pink space between cheek and tooth. There's a ringing at his temple and a violent throbbing at his all-too-sorry mandible. She'd gotten her lick on 'im, of that much he was certain and fine, he'd deserved it. Jesse cursorily tongued a chipped tooth; he then spat crimson-tinged saliva into the sodden dirt and straightened his spine in quiet obsyiquience.

"Damn, girl..! You'da killed any other sorry sonuvabitch with a throw like that!" Gloved fingers distend to soothe his irate cheek. Jesse gave silent thanks to the dense curtain of unruly beard that would soon conceal the inevitable lesion of blooming black and blue. "Damn-near broke my jaw..!"

Hinged at denim hips, the silver-tongued slicker stooped to retrieve his fallen hat from the disturbed dirt. Its lopsided crown and creased brim was a testament to their perilous introduction: she'd spoken with her fists like any good cowpoke and he understood the language just as well.

Storied leather is beat against his haunches while plumes of thick silt bellow from his russet side like a furious smokestack. Jesse watched as she delicately removed a blanch strand from across her perspiring forehead, slack-jawed at the prospect of such fragility being produced by the same cast-iron hand. He'd wrangled broncos more gentle.

"Yeah, honey [delayed; it is painful to form the words], I'll handle it long as you handle that swing o'yers. The hell're they feedin' you this side of town..?"

"So you one o'them real Southern girls, ain'tcha..?" A coyote smile with hawk eyes; extolled from his arid lips with a deep molasses drawl, words listless among wry surety and a loose bourbon tongue. He is content to revel in her honey-sweetened ire, to stoke the fervor of her flames like a January fire, endlessly eager to dwell longer than he should amidst coal and ember. The subsequent whistle was all but inevitable: uncouth, thick with all the crude thoughts his mouth yearned to say but did not. Jesse only feigned his submission. "Big hair n'a bigger mouth. Well they don't make 'em any better'n that, do they?"

Hands fell by his denim sides, thumbs hung benignly from sun-faded belt loops. The fraying toothpick at his lip rolled with idle glee.

"Alrighty-then. Now I ain't gon' lie to you, girl: never been one t'mind my own business. Too much'uva devil fer all that peace-keepin'. How's about you let me handle that there crate, git it where it needs to go, n'you can keep cursin' me out over some drinks? I'd bet my last dollar that you like 'em real stiff."

Sunlight gleams from a single silver tooth. "I reckon yer in good hands, honey."

There are two concurrent events that follow the lewd statements dripped from his snake-like tongue:    1. a resounding thud as the crate she's lifting is dropped upon rough terrain, sand kicking up a soft tide that falls beside her weathered boots.  and  2. a sickening crack, leather sheathed knuckles colliding venomously against rough skin — a violent kiss for his all too welcoming cheek ( call it her version of southern hospitality ). it is but the smallest taste of her ire, a warning sign of a troubled woman who wishes nothing more than to fulfill a job and move on. " And Ah pack a bigger punch if y'don't get the hell on boy! " spat, a herald of burgeoning rage.

Knees bend to pick the crate up again, hoping to god above none of the bottles cracked — she didn't want to ruin the single source of kindness she was granted . Old Man Charlie, owner of the town saloon, was the only one around for miles who didn't seem to care much for her rumours; who allowed her a bed to sleep on if the room was empty, who gave her gloves a fixin' if they needed it. she'd rather die than suffer his disappointment. her inspection comes up clean, and she tsks behind her teeth, glaring.

the mention of booze from the cowboy gives her pause, softens her features the tiniest bit. nothing dulls the constant rattling in her brain like a nice whiskey, either on the rocks or, on her harder days, straight from the source. she rests the crate on the wooden porch, pushing a wayward curl from her face as she considers. " Louder than a rooster in a henhouse ain'tcha? " same annoying bravado too, pecking away at her patience. " Why don't you worry about handlin' that mouth of yers, then we can see 'bout that drink."

[d-eadeye]

"That right?" Returns Jesse, eyes closed half-imagining himself to be already deep within the throes of a comfortable and lonely slumber. The toothpick at his lip began to still. Bourbon warmed his bones. Irascibility shifted steadily into pensivity.

How long had watchpoint been grindin' his gears now? Years, thought Jesse, since the days of Blackwatch in fact. Wasn't nothin' but a destitute isle high along the crags of God-knows-where, tossed haphazardly amidst the Alboran sea like discarded scrap metal on an interstate. It was the dregs of the dregs s'far as mandatory stations went and in spite of all his desperate efforts, he'd never forgotten it.

She wouldn't neither.

A cumbersome sigh, unrestrained. "Now look here, girl.. Only reason I'd divulge anythin' to you," he asserted, mechanical joints aching beneath artificial skin, teeth clenching, "is 'cause y'got access to it anyhow. Don't matter how secretive I try t'be, Overwatch's got my balls in a vice-grip." A disappointing truth.

"McCree." Thundered the cowboy, hatless and laid bare. It never sounded right leaving his tar-ridden lungs on a whim. "Now you be a good girl an' keep that tidbit to yerself."

There's a web of interface sprawled across his vision, delicate indicators like silver threads that profess the identity of his interlocutor. A buzz at his ocular nerve precedes the input and gives way for an inevitable ascertainment. The eye is near-indistinguishable from its organic counterpart.

"Now let's hear what the gossip-mill's got for me... Miss Song."

she   breathes   something   soft   and   sweet   through   her   teeth,   pouted   lips   and   averted   eyes,   sweeping   over   the   quiet   interior   and   curious   to   find   a   point   of   interest   outside   of   her   newfound   cowboy   to   poke   and   prod   at.       everything   here   was   some   shade   of   gray     [   …   ]       the   occasional   line   or   arrow   of   color   was   able   to   cut   through   the   monotone   for   the   simple   sake   of   ease   of   safety   and   learned   codes,   but   everything   else   fell   into   a   line   of   compulsion   and   inunique   military.       she   steps   up   into   it,   leaves   him   alone   to   the   lack   of   kind   cushioning   in   their   once   shared   seating   in   favor   of   creating   sole   interest   in   the   slowly   spinning   globe   hologramed   above   a   nearby   table.

“       i   have   my   ways.       ”       hana   offers,   pulling   the   hat   from   her   head   only   to   hold   it   gently   over   the   forward   curve   of   her   ribs.       she   teases,   runs   light   fingertips   through   the   thin   air   of   orange   light,   glances   back   only   once   she'd   ensured   there's   no   new   threats   flashing   their   way   through   the   radars   over   korea   for   now.       “       bribing   and   threats   arent   really   my   style   though     (   …   )       you've   got   me   all   wrong   already.       ”

though,   as   she   comes   to   slowly   pace   her   way   between   table   and   wall   and   stranger,   the   meka   pilot   is   all   but   remembering   not   a   word   has   been   said   about   herself   other   than   the   simplicity   of   age     ;       all   she'd   gained   on   him   other   than   flitting   rumors   and   whispers   in   the   medbay   was   a   want   for   the   buzz   of   alcohol   and   the   notion   of   his   attitude   toward   the   entirety   of   this   line   of   work.       she   clings   to   glancing   over   his   attire,   over   his   sharp   features   not   lacking   in   beauty   but   certainly   filled   with   exhaustion,   the   way   he   carries   himself   without   a   lick   of   doubt   that   she   is   of   no   real   threat.       her   impatience   is   palpable.

“       i'll   trade   you   the   gossip   if   you   trade   me   the   truth.       ”       a   grin,   mischievous   in   nature   and   leaning   into   a   childish   sense   of   wonder.       “       starting   with   your   name.       unless   you   want   me   to   call   you   ‘cowboy   jones’   or   ‘rootin   tootin’   for   the   rest   of   this   mission   timeline,   of   course.       ”

[d-eadeye]

The admission leaves their shared silence bloated, burgeoning, threatening to burst under even the most timid of exhalations. A swathe of chartreuse — not quite verdant enough to qualify as green — tinged the purlieu of his thoughts with premature envy and begrudged by her admiration of a stranger that was not himself but his walking simulacrum, Jesse’s sclerae flashed white to the painted metal. I could play yer daddy for a night, thought the vaquero glumly. The words themselves never passed up through his throat or beyond his arid, restless lips.

A second ‘ding.’. They were once again announced by way of a dying functionality while the whole of their steel domicile rumbled to a fateful stop. The doors yawned wide for Venus and her dog and spat them out as voraciously as it had when they’d first been consumed.

The lift was immediately relieved of his cumbersome size, sighing with newfound weightlessness. Lumbering in a wide-stepped gait, Jesse followed faithfully behind her, her gently sashaying figure. His eye, nigh indistinguishable from its organic counterpart, graced the fluid contours of her waist into her hips and watched the pale luster of her curls as they gingerly caressed her nape; he avariciously consumed her every fair detail down to the measured cadence of her heartbeat.

“That all it takes, sweetheart..? A name?” Molasses drippings, thick sardonicism seeping from his tongue; it lashes against the backs of his white teeth with pointed disdain. Jesse did little to conceal his wince. “I don’ told you already, honey.. You can call me whatever yer little heart desires.”

The crimson carpet relented beneath his footfall, the cloying desire to feed her some clever pseudonym snuffed out from under his heel. Silence, like an overfilled balloon, burst from under him. “I ain’t got no name. Just a nobody with a long slipe ahead of ‘im, passin’ through. This the door...? Twenty-six, right?"

The placid pools of her wide-eyed gaze fell tenderly upon him, soft as summer rain. To call the incipience of her chagrin a burgeoning curiosity would have flattered no one but him; but truthfully he preferred the comfortable warmth of a woman’s ire while mesmerized by the embers of a smoldering disdain. The old man had always said it, forever drunk on liquor and a lifetime of romantic regret: git under her skin and yer halfway to her heart.

He worshipped her humorless smile quietly — it flashed briefly within his enlarged shadow before it was eclipsed by a thin and purposeful shoulder. Simply, with a delicate unfurling of her velvet tongue, the dove feigned a preemptive regret for the weight of his buckle; she’d hate to make him take the stairs.

Like a dog chasing a blood-scent, he followed feverishly after the rhythmic cadence of her heels, the metronomic whisper of her wide hips, until he found himself standing at her leftmost side. Jesse thought nothing more of that awful radio or the storms or the unpleasant desk-gal. The borders of him barely fit within the mechanically-aching maw, its domicile momentarily bowing as he found his ill-fitting place within it, boots put firmly to the chipped linoleum. The halo of his russet curls just barely grazed its aluminum ceiling (painted in the gaudy imitation of a Michelangelo sky), rendering him as close to heaven as he would ever come.

A begrudged chime heralded their ascent. A cacophony of neglected steel was short to follow.

Jesse rocked impatiently from toe to heel. “Never liked bein’ called ‘sir.’ 'S what I called my daddy.” The toothpick bobbed. “But damn if don’t sound sweet-as comin’ from you.”

A golden eye was cast mindfully below. Jesse watched the way her nails traced the divots in the new key, muted pearl embracing burnished brass with tender pensivity. “Dove, huh? Like them pretty li’l church birds?” There was so much to be said. But the cowpoke bit his bourbon-tinged tongue. “Well.. I tell you what, sugar: you call me whatever you want. It don’t make no difference.”

A coyote was still a coyote by any other name.

[d-eadeye]

jesse is not only incorrigible but is, all-in-all, a no-good born and raised cattle rancher turned outlaw turned mercenary with a dirty mind and a dirtier mouth. he is a hypocrite and a liar and sometimes good-hearted and i encourage the most authentic responses possible to his shenanigans!

[d-eadeye]

The placid pools of her wide-eyed gaze fell tenderly upon him, soft as summer rain. To call the incipience of her chagrin a burgeoning curiosity would have flattered no one but him; but truthfully he preferred the comfortable warmth of a woman’s ire while mesmerized by the embers of a smoldering disdain. The old man had always said it, forever drunk on liquor and a lifetime of romantic regret: git under her skin and yer halfway to her heart.

He worshipped her humorless smile quietly — it flashed briefly within his enlarged shadow before it was eclipsed by a thin and purposeful shoulder. Simply, with a delicate unfurling of her velvet tongue, the dove feigned a preemptive regret for the weight of his buckle; she’d hate to make him take the stairs.

Like a dog chasing a blood-scent, he followed feverishly after the rhythmic cadence of her heels, the metronomic whisper of her wide hips, until he found himself standing at her leftmost side. Jesse thought nothing more of that awful radio or the storms or the unpleasant desk-gal. The borders of him barely fit within the mechanically-aching maw, its domicile momentarily bowing as he found his ill-fitting place within it, boots put firmly to the chipped linoleum. The halo of his russet curls just barely grazed its aluminum ceiling (painted in the gaudy imitation of a Michelangelo sky), rendering him as close to heaven as he would ever come.

A begrudged chime heralded their ascent. A cacophony of neglected steel was short to follow.

Jesse rocked impatiently from toe to heel. “Never liked bein’ called ‘sir.’ 'S what I called my daddy.” The toothpick bobbed. “But damn if don’t sound sweet-as comin’ from you.”

A golden eye was cast mindfully below. Jesse watched the way her nails traced the divots in the new key, muted pearl embracing burnished brass with tender pensivity. “Dove, huh? Like them pretty li’l church birds?” There was so much to be said. But the cowpoke bit his bourbon-tinged tongue. “Well.. I tell you what, sugar: you call me whatever you want. It don’t make no difference.”

A coyote was still a coyote by any other name.

The dull eruption of static from the tar-blackened dels of consciousness made him no better than that damned radio afterall; it was, perhaps, a more honest and well-intentioned orator. Thoughts, like fragments of paper in the thundering wake of a steam-engine, listlessly fluttered amidst a swathe of disembodied sentiments: blonde, honey-voiced, articulate, fragrant, hips, glamour, breasts, lips, purpose, relationship her reasons for being condemned to an interstate hellhole among blitz and bramble and barrel-boarding bums.

Their sultry intruder regarded him with level disinterest, in the same manner that a lion might cursorily acknowledge the amused hyena. This, of course, was all the motivation necessary for a man like him. Jesse watched as her svelte arms primly perched atop the tired mosaic of the frontdesk, rounded back giving way to a bounteous posterior that balanced miraculously atop endlessly stilettoed heels. It was like putting a well-charred steak under the nose of a starving man: the subsequent urge to feast quickly became inevitable.

Jesse chuckled — one of those low, brusque chortles that never quite transcends the lungs but dwells in the throat — elbow settling ‘gainst the counter’s edge while the rest of his boorish frame candidly leaned. He was ignorant of the contemptuous glare given to him by the desk gal. “Ain’t nothin’ a little rope can’t solve, sweetheart. You know what they say about a vaquero with a big belt buckl—?”

“It is what it is,” countered the attendant, with masterful indifference. “Ain’t had the mechanic here since Monday, neither. Good-luck hitchhikin’ in these storms.. Nearest inn ain't for another nine miles south.” Thunder roared as if on command.

Whether by design or unfortunate coincidence, I suppose it didn't matter: he'd discerned the way she traced the letters of her pretty name that lone dove sat among a perch of salivating condors. Jesse removed his mirrored lenses; the solemn withdrawal of his hat, too, was soon to follow. He held both in faux-reverence at the hirsute pith of his chest, sunset eyes smoldering on the golden halo of her glittering purlieu. The toothpick at his lip ached between his teeth.

“I reckon you ain't gon’ git much farther with this’un.” A low crooning; molasses dragged over hot gravel. “But y’got yer ace in the hole right here, honey and there ain't nothin' I wouldn't do for that pretty face.”