jesse doesn’t live by almosts.
he didn’t almost kill, steal, cheat his way into notoriety, nor did he almost make the cut into blackwatch, even as some young, scrawny, scrappy thing with dirt on his face and dry blood under his nails. the strides he makes are in full, exhaustive and exacting. some folks plan for failure, he knows, preparing backups and auxiliaries before they’ve even tried their hand, but he doesn’t entertain thoughts of loss. too distracting, altogether tempting to accept notions he’s become familiar with. so he goes in thinking he’s already won, or that he’s on the path to victory, at least, smug mouthed and haughty, with words like near and close and nigh out of mind.
still. there are exceptions.
and they sound like angela coughing on cigar smoke, hand waving in front of her face as she chokes out a few reasons why he should kick the habit, nothing jesse’s never heard before but he smiles and hums like he agrees and isn’t wildly amused by her concern and disgust both.
he pops the cigar back between his lips and acts like he isn’t thinking about how it was just touching hers a moment ago. the wrapper is sweet, but that’s the taste of maduro for him, cloying and bitter. best of both worlds. it’s a flavor that demands attention, but so is she, apparently, and jesse feels ridiculous for coming back to this like he has so many times before over the years.