and in walks the trainwreck

Who: Jesse and Ronnie
When: the wee hours just gone midnight
Where: james' apartment

She hated these stairs.

She had never been a fan of them when she lived here, and was even less a fan of them now. Every aching and tired bone in her body screamed against them, and the single thick strap of the misshapen bag behind her cut into a shoulder that she was dimly aware of being bonier than it was... well, she wasn't sure how long ago. Hell, she wasn't even sure how long she had been climbing up these stairs. Five minutes? Ten? An hour? It hadn't been a continuous thing, she knew that. It had involved stopping and resting and trying to recoup her energy and stave off sudden waves of nausea until they passed and then get back to lugging the total of her possessions up these damned fucking stairs again.

Had it been this hard last time? She wasn't sure. She wasn't even sure when 'last time' was -- weeks? months? The details of it were fuzzy -- she hadn't quite reached the tail end of a trip when she had dropped by. Hell, it was only when she found herself standing outside the building and found the cash in her pocket that she realized she had stopped by at all... which was good, because what with finding herself standing outside the building go in and stop by again, not realizing she had already done so. But not this time. This time she was aware of being painfully sober, and drained, and sharply feeling each complaint her body made with each stair. Complaining against the movements themselves, complaining against her reason for being here, complaining against finding herself in this same fucking position about to do the same fucking thing again.

And what time was it? Ronnie sure as hell didn't know. Late enough for Baby J to be asleep certainly, if Baby J would even be there. She didn't know if she wanted her to be. What the hell kind of mother didn't know that? As Ronnie reached another flight of stairs she realized that she hadn't been keeping track. And there was no point trying to go over it in her head, that was for fucking sure. She may be sober now? But only because she had woken up from some mini-coma... hours ago? She wasn't even sure how long she had been passed out... a day, or maybe even more. She was certainly wearing the same dress, now wrinkled, from the party... that was for sure. It was probably the only thing that was for sure. That and her certainty in her decision to leave the latest Fucking Prick. It hadn't been a pre-meditated decision, but rather one made shortly after waking up on the living room floor and figuring out where she was only to get up and stumble towards the bedroom and see him with some body next to him that was not her own and realize that she really didn't care. Somewhere in that moment, her body was already moving to pack her shit up before her brain could fully catch up and she was out the door for good in... well, in shorter time than anybody woke up.

Ronnie backtracked down a flight, and -- paying attention now -- recognized this the door to the floor she wanted. It actually took two pushes with her body to get the thing open -- the trip and apparent lack of food and late hour and stair climbing had robbed most of her strength -- and she stumbled her way with the two bags hanging awkwardly towards the door. And then she knocked, the way that -- even amidst the narcotic haze -- she remembered to make just loud enough to wake Jesse but quiet enough to not disturb Baby J.

Jesse, asleep on the couch, heard it. The couch wasn't actually that far from the door, and if it was farther, then maybe he would have slept through, but lately he'd been sleeping incredibly poorly anyways. So, no sleep for him. Instead, he laid there for almost a full minute, staring at the door in the dark. Not many people showed at this hour. Jessie's friends sure as hell didn't. His friends didn't. Associates didn't. Only people who were in some form of trouble did. Either way, it took him a second before he managed to get up, tightness in his thigh making him grunt quietly as he did so. Then he walked to the door, and after turning on the dim, poor excuse for a lamp by the door, he undid the locks, and opened it.

And there was Ronnie leaning lightly against the door frame, one corner of her mouth pulling into smiling, if tired, smirk as she saw Jesse standing before her. "Hey, Outlaw," she greeted softly, a hint of a flirtation breaking through as the soft tone and late hour and general weariness made her voice a bit hoarse. A inner part of her winced at all of it -- the way she was leaning, using the petname, the flirtation she couldn't keep out of her voice when she called him that -- but despite that Ronnie still let a hand come up to run her fingers through the bedhead mess of now half-deformed curls. "How ya doin'?" again there was that tone, and the bit of smirk hinting at flirty.

Somewhere, really deep down, he'd known it was her. It was probably why it had taken him so long to answer the door, and why he hadn't even picked up the shotgun he owned just in case someone came knocking who shouldn't be there. Because there she was. Ronnie.

Ronnie, who had a tendency to ruin his life a lot. Who breezed in and out when it was convenient for her, or necessary for her, but wasn't there if he needed her. That whole reciprocation thing was an issue. Ronnie, the mother of his child, the woman who'd dropped so far down into addiction that she wasn't her anymore. Or, possibly, whoever she really was was just so buried by now he only ever caught glimpses.

Those glimpses, though, they were what hurt the most. Those were what were the true kick in the teeth. It'd be so much easier to just cut her out, to once and for all tell her to leave and never come back ever again, if he didn't sometimes see it. Just those little, tiny shards of the girl he'd fallen in love with when they were both young and stupid. Seeing her again was a little like a suckerpunch. It gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he never saw it coming. Not until she was right there.

And of course she was looking at him like that, and talking like that, like she'd just woken up in the morning and rolled over and wanted to go another round. Fuck. he thought with feeling. He let his eyes shut for a few long moments, then opened them up again to focus on her. "What're you doing here, Ronnie?" he asked, voice quiet. God, did he not want Jessie to wake up to this. To her.

It was shameless how she didn't let the smile falter for a long moment, and how she still leaned in such a manner against the door frame, elbow resting against it just above her head as she kept her fingers buried idly in her hair. It was shameless how she didn't even bother to pull the tired, bedroom eyes locked onto his own away for an equally long moment until her gaze flicked past him into the darkness where the poor lamplight didn't reach. Jessie was home, asleep. He wouldn't be talking so quiet if she were at her grandparents. And Ronnie felt her heart skip a beat in her chest, unsure whether it was out of hope that Jessie would step out of her room or merely apprehension that she might do so.

But whether she was worried or hopeful that would happen, it didn't; and her eyes traveled back to and over Jesse before she let herself sigh and lean more heavily against the frame for support and answered. "I left this guy," her hand left her hair to perform a casually dismissive 'shoo shoo'-ing gesture before rested it against the doorframe, fingers playing idly with the corner where her forehead rested. Had she told Jesse about the guy? She didn't know. But at the moment it didn't really matter either way. Then, smirking again and cocking her head a bit just before leaning slightly forward, "He was kind of a jerk," she whispered, sounding almost playful about the fact. But as she pulled back her expression became a bit more serious as she got to the main issue, "Anyways, I was thinking of heading over to the Sunny Shores, but..." she shrugged slightly, resting her forehead back against the door frame, and when she smiled again it was small and sad and brief and Ronnie herself had no idea it was intentional or genuine. "I was in hurry, and ended up leaving some stuff there." Like money. And her stash. Although that, in some impromptu decision for sobriety, was something left intentionally.

God fucking damnit, Ronnie, really? You start out looking and talking to me like that, and you're going right into how you left some other guy? And, if I'm guessing right--and I'm positive I am--like, half an hour ago at best? Maybe an hour or so? Jesus. Though unsurprising, really. Fabulously unsurprising. He sighed, stepping back, and walking back into the apartment, leaving the door open for her. "You want money." he said, and it wasn't a question. Of course she wanted money. She always wanted money. Even when she showed up supposedly just wanting to 'reconnect' or whatever, she always wound up getting cash off of him.

It wasn't a question, thus there was no need to answer it as if it were one. Although internally she winced again, shame and disgust burning within her that yes she was here again asking for money again, her face didn't show it. She had done so many things that she regretting while she was doing them that her face hardly registered those emotions any more. Instead she stepped casually into the door way, closing the door softly behind her, eyes languidly tracking Jesse's movements as she shrugged out of her coat and carelessly dropped it on the couch. Why had she done that? She didn't know. She hadn't been planning on staying: the specific plan had been very much just been come here, get the money, and leave. And selfish and pathetic though the plan was, it was the least messy one. But no, she had taken off her coat and shut the door behind her and suspected she wouldn't immediately leave after she got the money and she didn't know why she was doing this and she doubted it was a reason she'd be proud of. "How's the leg?" she asked conversationally, obviously noting him favoring it, keeping her voice soft and low so as not to wake Jessie. But there was also a pointed tone there, as if she were aware of some greater significance or story to the limp.

"It's fine." he answered her, a little too keenly aware that she was now in the apartment, that he heard her take her coat off, that she'd put her bag down. Which meant she was staying for a while. Shit. He half glanced over his shoulder at her, not fully, more just so he got an impression of where she was in the room, even if he knew where she was. He always knew where she was when she was around. It was like a hum in the back of his mind, an awareness he couldn't get rid of even if he'd like to. "You look like hell." he told her. Though it wasn't nearly as pointed as he would have liked.

"Yeah, well; how about you try walking up those stairs with those bags and heels and see how you like it," she smirked again, tone soft, light, and coy. What had been an attempt of a jab on his part was responded to with flirtatious banter on hers. She even gently kicked said heels off before practically gliding over to the kitchen, well avoiding the creaky areas of the floor. She stopped at the high cabinet, herself rising deftly on tip-toes as she opened the door and grabbed a bottle of Jack before closing the door quietly and and carefully resting the bottle atop the counter. Then Ronnie opened another cupboard and grabbed two tumblers before closing that door even more quietly than the first. She poured Jack into the two tumblers, re-capped the bottle, and left resting on the counter for now as glided back over towards Jesse, a tumbler in each hand. All this was done in almost complete silence, with the expertise of a woman who knew how to sneak around and stay quiet when necessary. She stopped short just in front of Jesse. "I don't think it's fine," she murmured quietly, handing him a tumbler as she brought the other one to her lips. "There was a grunt before you answered the door--" it would've gone unheard had not Ronnie been listening very carefully in the dead silence of the hallway, "--and I think if it were fine that wouldn't have been the case." She smiled softly at him before tilting some of the Jack back.

He sighed, letting her get the Jack, which he knew she was after when she went into the kitchen. He kept it in a cabinet that Jessie wasn't tall enough to get to unless she climbed, and it was the same bottle that had been there the last time Ronnie had showed up. Jesse didn't drink at home, that was for sure. Not often, anyways. In fact, it usually just happened when she was around. Like nowish. He took a drink, feeling like he needed it, with her there. He watched her move, watched her walk up, invade his personal space pretty well. Enough so he was looking down at her a bit. "So maybe it aches a little sometimes." he conceded. "It's fine. Nothing to worry about." he told her. Not that he was sure she was actually worried or not. Sometimes it was hard to tell. Annnd he should back up now. Get distance again. It took him a little longer than he would have liked to manage it. "Do you want to wash up before you leave?" he asked her, going to sit on the couch, thinking hey, if she went and took a bath, she'd be out of his hair for a little while. Or, that was his running theory, anyways.

"Outlaw, baby, gunshot wounds aren't 'nothing to worry about'," she practically whispered softly, tone laced with concern. And even though her concern was real, inside Ronnie absolutely hated the way she asked the question; the way she muddled that concern with a tone that could make her talking about drying paint sound like some intimate bedroom detail. He hadn't told her it was a gunshot, but she had seen the scar. And Ronnie was at a point in her life where she knew what gunshot wounds looked like. "And I expect you to to get cuts and bruises and maybe some broken ribs and knuckles... but gunshot wounds are a bit on the serious side," it was something that even as a statement would've been posed as a tacit question, but Ronnie didn't do that; she merely brought the tumbler back to her lips with an air that suggested there was no question in her mind at all. And even though Jesse had managed put some distance back between them, and she didn't move any closer, her eyes were locked onto his and his expression in a manner more invasive than her physical presence could ever be.

He kept his eyes on her, and he really wished he would stop that. Watching her like he did. But it was almost like watching a circling shark, knowing full well there wasn't any real escape, even if the attack hadn't happened yet. "Well, you weren't here when it was something to worry about, so you can not worry about it now, too, Ronnie." he told her, in his attempt to be firm. Really, he wasn't surprised she'd put things together. But it made him wonder how much else she'd figured out. If she'd done any digging. But then, Ronnie was usually a little too hazy to do anything resembling research, right? "You could take a bath. Get yourself cleaned up a little, before you go." Because she'd be going. Really. She'd best not be here when Jessie woke up in the morning. That? Wouldn't be good.

"Well I am worried about it now," she answered bluntly, sincerely, truthfully; her gaze melting from one that bore into him to one of gentler watchful concern. But what use was that naked moment when it was sandwiched between dressed up truths and tones that rendered her sincerity into some cruel ploy?

"And relax," she then sighed after a significant moment of watching him with that concern, quickly tossing back the rest of the tumbler and taking some steps towards the couch half-sit and half-lean against the armrest and glanced down at him, "I won't be here for Baby J to see." Why did she say it like that? Like she was reassuring a child in need of humoring? Why was she even still here, when she had more than gotten the hint about the bath and leaving and not burdening Jessie with her presence was actually something they both agreed on at the moment? He was already going to give her money, she didn't need to be like this. Her gaze drifted away from his face and fell to the empty tumbler that she cupped and turned between both hands. Ronnie had no inclination how short or long the moment was before she asked in a bare whisper, almost sounding defeated, "How is she?"

She always did this. She asked about their daughter, who ninety nine percent of the time, she had absolutely nothing to do with, and likely barely gave a passing thought to. But then she said it like that, every time. Where he could see how it affected her, he could hear it in her voice, that underlying damage, or pain, maybe both. He killed the rest of his own drink, because he had the urge to reach out and touch her, to give her comfort. It was probably lucky that she wasn't sitting closer to him, or he might have. But right now, he'd have to move to do it, so that was his saving grace. "She's okay." he answered, watching her. "We had a fight the other night." he said. Or, more correctly, last night. What with him having come home after drinking, and her still being there, when she was meant not to be. "Cleared it up, though. But she's okay. Doing well in school. Hasn't met any boys to bring home yet."

The part about the fight caught her by surprise, evident in the way her eyes widened for a moment and her head angled just enough to glance at him without it being from the corner of her eye. "A fight?" Yes, Ronnie was largely an absent presence from her daughter's life, but she kept tabs on Jessie. Even when her mind was hazy, and less prone to remembering details, she remembered to ask. And those details, even if they couldn't paint a complete picture of who her daughter was, were ones she never had trouble remembering. And, as far as Ronnie knew, fights were unusual. "About what?" Yes, he said it was cleared up, but Ronnie wanted to know. When it was about her daughter, she always wanted to know. Asking these questions were the only way she could know.

He sighed, and leaned back against the back of the couch, reaching up to rub at the bridge of his nose. "There's been a lot going on, lately. She was supposed to go to my parent's house, but she didn't. So, when I got home from the Round, it was...less than a pleasant occasion." he explained, almost feeling like he should tell her it was none of her business, but he never actually went there. Not once. At the end of the day, it was still her daughter, and he knew that. He just didn't want Jessie to see much of her.

"What's been going on?" Her eyes were still on him, carefully not invasively boring into him while still tuning in to the slightest twitches and changes in his expression. It wasn't something she intended to do, watching him so intently even when it didn't seem like it; she didn't even like doing it, because it more often than not was followed up by some manipulation on her part using the information she had read there, in his expression. But though she could shut it off if she wanted to when she caught herself doing it with other people, she could never not do that with Jesse... even though, honestly? Sometimes he was the person she wished she could shut it off with the most. For the moment she managed to keep herself on the armrest, not moving closer, trying hard not to let her practiced behaviors bastardize the concern and interest she had in what extremely little and broken family she had left... not this time.

He dragged his hand through his hair, slouching into the couch now, and he wasn't looking at her. Everything about his body language said what he wasn't okay, that there was quite a bit wrong right now. It was wearing on him, especially since it had been ongoing for a while. It seemed like the past few weeks had been just one thing after another. Of course, and now she was added to that list. "A lot." he said. "I don't really want to get into it, Ronnie." he told her, tone soft. He didn't. Though in some sick little way, she was sometimes the only ear he had, the only person who sometimes? Got an entirely unedited version of the story. It wasn't that he tried to be guarded, he didn't. But she'd known him for so long, she knew him better than possibly anyone, and sometimes... But not tonight. No, he was giving her money, letting her take a bath if she wanted it, and she was leaving. And that was it.

His body language worried her, and it showed clear on her face. Although little warning bells were going off in her head -- not only for his behavior but for her own. Because even though the worry displayed on her face was her own, she had a sickening feeling that there was some ulterior motive in actually showing it. She shouldn't pick at it, but she was probably going to and she had know idea if she was doing it for his sake or her own. For a brief moment she didn't know what to do, because it was really only with Jesse that she had so much trouble differentiating what was done out of manipulative mind-play and what was done out of her own emotions and desires. Many times, like now, it seemed like some confusing and unholy combination between the two.

Her body slid off the armrest and onto the couch, not close enough to twist her concern into seduction but close enough to reach out and touch him if she wanted and close enough to lean and angle her head in a manner to force him to meet her worried gaze. "Then don't get into all of it," she encouraged gently, concerned, her face and tone very much that of when she would lend a sympathetic ear when they were still together. And, because she was concerned, and could see he was distressed and not okay and weighed down, she wanted to believe her motives were purely selfless in this case. "How long has stuff been going on? Because it's wearing you down," she pointed out, because she could see that clear as day. So there was no denying it. "Have you talked to anyone about it?" Her guess was a resounding no, or else the wearing down wouldn't have been evident.

He was aware of her getting closer. He could feel her there, even if she wasn't making any direct contact. He was aware of exactly where she was. Just how far away. How if he moved just a little, he could bush the back of his hand against her knee. He didn't, but he was all too sharply conscious of it. Of her. He did meet her gaze, though, since she put the effort in to do it. "A while." he told her, tone quiet. Partially because he was still aware of their daughter being asleep, partially because he was being honest, and he still didn't really want to discuss this...but he was, apparently. "And no." he told her, green gaze ticking between hers. I don't have anyone to talk to right now. he added silently, just barely keeping that bit of total, screaming vulnerability to himself. But it was a close one. He very nearly said it.

He didn't say anything, but she could make some conjecture. It had been going on a 'while' and he hadn't talked to anyone about it? That was odd, for him; but she tactfully remained silent on picking at that particular detail even though the gears in her head were turning. His family was close, a fact she was even more aware of when held in comparison to her own family: her own parents, who were still alive, but who she hadn't bothered to see and who hadn't bothered to see her since the day Jesse got in a fight with her father and she left that empty wound of a house for good. Generally, Jesse kept the details of his 'jobs' and criminal activities away from his family. But, generally, stuff like that didn't wear him down so. And she was aware that he was supposedly aiming for the straight and narrow and as far as she knew and heard of he was keeping to it (so how he managed to keep the apartment and pay bills despite that, well...). She figured either his issue was with some atypically serious bit of criminal business probably related to the gunshot, or a personal one. And if he couldn't even talk to his daughter or sisters or parents about it...? She wondered if it had to do with the family itself, or somebody that the family knew.

"What happened?" she asked again, softly, body still and not moving any closer as her face was receptive and ready to listen. Both concern and curiosity and that horrible part of her that wouldn't leave things alone for some sick sake keeping her at asking the question.

He didn't say anything for a while. He kept watching her eyes, taking in the details of her. How she looked even thinner than she had last time he saw her, and she needed to eat better. The way her eyes were bloodshot, and they took away from the beautiful blue they were. Eventually, he ticked his gaze away, sitting up a little better. "Evie's gotten herself into trouble. She's been lying to everyone. She even stood up Jessie at one point, just...didn't show up to take her to the theater as she'd promised. I don't even know what to do with her anymore." he admitted. "I don't know what to do period with the situation."

Again the news surprised her, although more from her knowledge of the James' family than specific knowledge of his sister -- the girl had been a child when Ronnie had seen her last. Although, horribly ironic though it was, a corner of Ronnie's mouth sharpened in a frown at the mention of her daughter being stood up. She was painfully aware that she was a horribly absent failure of a mother, but she was still a mother nonetheless; who took poorly to her daughter being upset by or let down by others despite her knowledge of the hypocrisy. But the temptation to steel her tone when asking about his sister was expertly reigned in with a manner that was already doing it before she thought it, "What kind of trouble?"

Something about the way Jesse had observed her before answering ticked at her, as if she knew what he had been thinking, possibly noting the flaws or comparing her looks against her previous beauty or (worse) to some other woman's... and without realizing it, even though she never got any closer, Ronnie had slightly and smoothly shifted to lounge in a more flattering manner, with her elbow resting casually against the back of the couch as her hand propped her head up. The shift may have been slight, and her overall posture still composed and almost harmless, but there was now some elusive provocativeness to her lounging.

Whether he consciously realized what she did there or not, it worked. But then he was always struck when she was around about her sensuality, and she didn't exactly do a whole lot to curb that, with him. It was kind of what she did. It was why occasionally, even if he told himself he wasn't ever going to touch her again, he wound up doing it anyways. And he felt like hell for it every. Damn. Time. And yet. But at least he didn't do anything. He didn't reach out for her, and usually, he could do that. He had better willpower when she didn't push things. But the woman knew him, knew him criminally well, at times, and she knew what buttons to push. They were both aware of that. He told himself maybe she wouldn't this time. Maybe she'd just...be here then leave. And it'd be done, and he wouldn't see her again for months.

"Working someplace she shouldn't be 'trouble'." he said. "She's just getting herself mixed up in some things she shouldn't. You know how easy that can be in this town. I don't even know why she's doing it. and she just doesn't seem to care, Ronnie." he said, that last bit quite clearly what hit hardest. "I talked to her about it, called her on it, and she just...stared. Like she was looking right through me. God, it was like I was looking at a complete stranger." And she, like most people who got to know him even a little, knew how much family meant to him. Family was everything to Jesse James, always would be. Hell. It was why he couldn't really get rid of her. She was the mother of his baby girl. She was family too. "So I can't talk to any of my other sisters, or my parents, or Baby J, even though she knows something's wrong with me lately." And he usually told her everything he could. "I just don't know what to do." he finished, shaking his head.

"Where's she working?" she asked lightly, gently, letting her head rest more heavily against her hand, unaware of how her fingers twisted idly through the half-fallen curls. She couldn't give him advice, and she didn't pretend to have any to give. Ronnie wasn't skilled at getting out of trouble. If anything, her whole life was one big display of What Not To Do for others. Instead she only kept her eyes on him, listening, and feeling an inner struggle with her desire to comfort him and her desire to. not. fuck things up. Well, not any further. Because a part of her very much wanted to just be there for him as a friend and touch his hand and not have it be tied to overtones she knew only fucked with both of them in the end. But her intentions, even when sincere, usually were twisted and disfigured into some more hazardous by her own actions, her own behavior, her own tone. Especially with Jesse. She couldn't seem to separate her caring and yearning for what was best for him from her own selfish whims and desires.

And she was trying, right now. She really was. And so she didn't touch him, and her voice was quiet, expression gentle and saying that even if she couldn't think of how to help right now she was at least here for him, listening. And she kept her hands to herself. But maybe what she ended up doing, unwittingly, was worse. Again there was just the slightest unconscious shift as she got more comfortable on the couch... only her legs shifted, one folding halfway beneath her, the knee resting some small mere inches from his own thigh as her other leg draped carelessly of the couch, her bare foot grazing the floor. And with the movement the wrinkled silky rayon dress shifted as well, raising a dangerous hair higher. Not enough to be obscene, but enough to display how leggy she was. It didn't help that she hadn't bothered with stockings -- not wishing to hunt for her own amongst the strange woman's discarded clothes -- and in this weather, she really should have worn those.

He hated himself for it, just a little, but he noticed the lack of stockings. And he noticed the inch up of the skirt of her dress. And how close she was, and pretty much everything else that had that dangerously poisonous 'inviting' feel. Which he was ignoring. Really. "The Drake." he said. Which pretty much said it all. Of course, there were other things that had gone on. Like the thing with Helena, and the bar fight he'd gotten into over her, only now she'd just turned up missing. He'd been trying hard not to think about that, but it was there now. It had been there, beneath the surface. Like the other girl he'd helped, too, Anya. She was gone as well. Though at least with Anya, there wasn't the sinister threat of the mob having caught wind of you. Though with Helena, she'd been asking for it. She'd been deliberately going looking for trouble. Even if the O'Malley's were pretty much null and void now, he strongly suspected they took her out before they got taken out themselves. Shit. Here he was, thinking about everything now, and just because she was here. He really needed someone new he could talk to. So it wasn't just her, when she decided to be around because she wanted something. Because that was the kicker, wasn't it? She wasn't ever there when he actually needed her. It was pure accident that she was here now. "Ronnie, go take your bath." he said, trying to stop all of this before it got too deep.

She could keep her poise, and maintain that receptive expression on her face. But inside she couldn't pretend to herself that it didn't hurt when he cut her out like that, when she was trying so incredibly hard to be there for him even though she knew this one time couldn't make up for all the others. She knew that she deserved it. She knew that she should be grateful because Jesse gave her so much more than she could ever deserve, and that she was lucky every time that he didn't just shut the door in her face. She knew that, painfully. But all of that did nothing to change the fact that being faced with it cut her deep when he said that. And her eyes, signaling defeat, drifted solemnly over to the coffee table for a long moment, her face wearing a translucent-at-best stoic mask over the raw vulnerability. Her posture had again shifted, although it had somehow managed to without any actual movement of her limbs... only what had been serene and elusively seductive before fell into something listless and defeated and displayed more fully how much thinner she had gotten and the way the dress now seemed to hang off her. And it wasn't a lie -- the posture, the expression, all of it were only signified the tip of the iceberg of what she felt. But what they didn't convey was that distant self-disgust she was feeling. Because even if all of this was very, very much real? The fact that she was showing it was a calculated move from somewhere within her.

She didn't sigh, just sort of brought her feet back down and shoved herself gracelessly up off the couch. "Alright," she conceded, not looking at him but instead at her hands that tried in vain to smooth some of the wrinkles from her lap. "A bath it is, then."

Jesse almost reached out to pull her back down. But if he did that, he knew he'd pull her down onto his lap, and that just was a bad place for her to be. And he felt like hell for making her feel dejected, or what looked like dejected, and another part of him told himself he was an idiot for that too, because hello! This was the woman who had chosen drugs over her family, and walked away from everything. Including him, though most importantly, their daughter. So, he managed not to do anything, but it was a lot harder than he would have liked. He did fail on one bit thought. "Do you need something to eat?" he asked. Like if he could fix one little thing, beyond giving her whatever was in his wallet, it'd make it better. Fucking moron. he told himself.

It was then that she finally glanced down at him, hands still splayed against her thigh mid-smoothing, considering him uncertainly for a moment. Her expression was more poised now, and more collected, but not expertly so. Except it was. The mask? Was intentionally left translucent. It was very much the visibly 'putting on a brave face to cover the pain' display, but not obviously so to be cheap and seen through, instead it was all more subtle and poignant and infinitely more effective. "I'm not sure," she replied, leaning forward to pick up her tumbler and straightened up with a small shrug, her free hand slightly pulling at her hem to attempt more smooth. Why didn't she just say 'yes' or 'no'? Sure, Ronnie really didn't know -- whether she had eaten or not was a detail easily forgotten by her mess of a mind. And she didn't really feel hunger, any more. Or more, whatever hunger was too clouded by her usual cravings that she just couldn't pinpoint it anymore. And when those other cravings were satisfied? Any pain or hunger melted away. But the legitimacy of her answer wasn't the concern, it was the way that she knew yet again that she was baiting him, putting him in a position to come to the rescue and make her do what was best for her.

"I don't really feel hungry, I guess?" she murmured distractedly, attention pointedly focused on her hand instead of him. Was it because looking at him hurt? Or was she trying to attract attention to the way the fabric, when pulled, stretched taut against her thigh for a brief moment.

And, just like he always did, like was in his nature, and the rules he lived by--he fell right for it. "I'll make you something." he promised. He did that often too. She was too thin. And he was pretty sure if she had a choice between a hit and a meal, she'd choose the hit every time. So, he was inclined to do what he could, when he could. He stood, more to put a little distance between them again, since he noticed the way she was messing with her dress incessantly, and maybe she was doing it because she was just feeling like she needed to do something, but it was distracting. He headed for the kitchen. Maybe he'd pour himself another drink while he was at it. Dealing with Ronnie...yeah.

Yeah, he would need the drink. Because Ronnie, again being deft on her feet and avoiding all the known creaky areas of the apartment, didn't wait to get to the bathroom before she started undressing. But she didn't just stand in the living room and remove her clothes, but was far more subtle about it -- or, well, as subtle as carefully stripping off clothing before getting to the bathroom could be. And, contradictorily enough, she somehow seemed rather un-coy about the whole business. Walking as she unzipped her dress more as if she were carelessly stripping in the privacy of her own home instead of in the apartment of the estranged father of her child and their daughter. But, really, she had lost enough weight since first buying the dress to simply pull down the straps and step out of it, but instead she went with un-zipping. Stepping out of the discarded fabric and peeling it from her ankles with careless grace as she didn't skip a step towards the bathroom. But she wasn't standing there, naked. She had a thin underslip and her necklace on. And the necklace was next and quickly unclasped, and before there was anytime to worry just how unconcerned Ronnie might be, she had reached the bathroom and shut the door before the underslip came off.

And of course, Jesse's eyes followed her the whole time. And he was sure she did it on purpose. Really, in their years apart, she did that to him. He'd even say no. He would. He'd try very very hard not to do anything, and she just pushed all the right buttons, and did the right things, and somehow, things would wind up happening and half the time he wasn't even clear on what it was that had tipped the scales the wrong way. Shit, shit, shit. he cursed himself, and then turned and walked into the kitchen, pouring himself another drink and killing it in one shot, before he started to make her a sandwich, because it was easy, and Jessie might smell something cooking and wonder what the hell was going on. He did that, and tried not to think about what he'd just seen, or Ronnie in the bath.

It took a long moment to draw the bath, especially as she didn't turn the water on very high to avoid making much noise. But Ronnie didn't stand around waiting for him, afraid that if she did so she would wander into the living room and make sure to always stand just at the edge of his personal space and... well, she wasn't doing that. She had already botched and strayed from her original plan and she wasn't going to do that because... why? she wondered, only needing to shrug the straps off from her underslip to have it fall to the floor. The bath wasn't close to fully drawn, but she got in it anyway. What was the point of this? It wasn't even as if she could -- as if she would -- with Jessie here. She had no plan on doing that, hell her plan hadn't been to come in at all! Only wait in the hallway, get the money, and go. Get the fuck out. Such a plan may have been heartless, but it was the far better option to the alternative. To what she was doing now.

She slid as much as she could into the shallow water, splashing some of it across her face and rubbing at it with her hands to get rid of the day? days? old make-up. She hated herself, right now. For this. For all of this. For asking for money. For planning to not leave. For not leaving. For staying here and just... fucking with everything. Every time she told herself it would be the last, that she wouldn't come here like this anymore to take whatever cash Jesse had in his wallet... but she always came back. Why? At the root of it, the answer was pathetic -- because in this apartment were the only people Ronnie had to her name... and even out of that? Jesse was the only person she had to count on.

Jesse was done with making her her sandwich, and was standing, leaned in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, watching the bathroom door. He vaguely was wondering if she'd locked it or not, and guessed she wouldn't have. And he didn't read into that nearly as much as he might have another night, but it was a deliberate shift of mindframe. Instead, he picked her dress up off of the floor, and brought it over to her bag, dropping it down on the couch before he debated if he was going to get her something clean to wear, or what. It was always a trainwreck when she came around. Always. It always left him wrecked for days later, no matter what happened. No one got to him quite like Ronnie did, and never in such diseased, damaged ways.

For the moment, in the water, hearing it lap gently around her... there was something cathartic about it all. She closed her eyes, and could almost imagine that she was separate from her body, and her mistakes, and thinking, and just separate from all of the messes she seemed to walk into or leave in her wake. Hell, for a brief time, Ronnie could even almost forget that this peaceful moment wasn't only a break between unhealthy ones. That after this bath, no matter how she might promise herself and try not to, she was going to slip right back into playing all those little games that she knew were so damaging and just fucked both of them up. Like now, as she pushed herself up out of the tub, shaking out her damp hair and running her fingers to shape it into a manner that followed the shape and movement from her neck down the collarbone, particularly where some ends surpassed the collarbone and delved further below. Then she stepped over to the door, slipping her wet body into the underslip -- which now clung close and sheer to her frame that it probably worse than her being naked at all -- and gently cracked upon the door and curled her fingers around the edge, pulling it back only an inch or two further. "Outlaw?" she called softly, ever aware that her daughter was asleep close by.

He was still right there, watching that door, so he caught the view when she opened it. The light from in the bathroom was better than the light in the living room, and so she was mostly backlit, which accentuated everything. That, she had to have done on purpose. And it drew him in, of course, even if he knew that was likely the idea. He pushed off of the doorframe, and walked closer, right to the other side of the door, and part of him knew he was using the excuse that if they spoke louder across a distance, that it might wake Jessie, but that wasn't entirely it. "Yeah?" he asked quietly, watching her eyes as well as he could from there.

Instead of smirking, her mouth warmed into a soft romantic smile up at him almost as if they were still together, as if there was nothing the least unseemly or unhealthy about this situation. That this was all natural, and the way it should be. It was wrong, very wrong. She knew her doing this was wrong and cruel and pointless and yet... Like when he had opened the front door to her, she again rested her forehead coyly against the doorframe as she let her hand drop to the knob to pull open the door another inch or so wider; the other hand now curled around the door frame, hovering just above where her forehead rested, fingers brushing the surface of the outside. "Could you grab some clothes from my bag?" The bag that she knew had the folding knife he had given her long ago resting right atop all of her possessions. It hadn't been intentional -- she hadn't expected to stay, much less take a bath. It was something set up almost wholly unintentionally... except she had realized the knife was there mid-way through her request, and hadn't bothered to rescind it. Even though she could've changed her mind and gotten the clothes herself. Then, just before he seemed about to turn around she added, "And a towel?"

She's playing me. She's playing me very well, but she's playing me. he thought, even if he was already turning to do her bidding, and of course looking back again when she added to the request. Standing there, where she was, the slip clinging to her, everything. It was a little more than just distracting. Internally he cursed himself, and then he turned to go do both of those things, wondering if she had purposely not done either of them just so she could ask him to do it for her. Probably. Still, he didn't call her on it, or make her do it, because if he did that, then she'd be walking out of the bathroom, right in front of him in her condition, and he just didn't want to do that to himself. He wasn't going to help her mess with his head.

He went to get her clothes first, opening up her bag. He stopped when he saw the knife in there, the first gift he'd ever given her. It had actually originally been his, but she'd liked it, so he'd given it to her. She'd needed something to help defend herself anyways. He just didn't know she'd kept it. In fact, if he'd had a guess, he would have guessed that she'd hawked it ages ago. Or lost it. But there it was. He picked it up, sliding the blade free, noting that it caught a tiny bit, and needed a little oil. He had that in the kitchen junk drawer, he was sure. Then he realized he was taking too long, and he dug through her clothes and pulled out the first dress he found, really not at all trying to find something he wanted to see on her. And it was coincidence that it was blue, it had nothing to do with the fact that he liked her in blue, because it brought out her eyes. It was just closest to the top. Right underneath the cream one. Really. He'd seen the blue first. Or something. Whatever. Idiot.

He got it, and grabbed a towel as well, heading back over to the bathroom to hold both out to her. "Here."

She had been watching him, from where she stood leaning against the door frame. And even though she had been expecting him to find it, and should have been prepared for it, she couldn't help the way her light breathing turned shaky and then momentarily stilled when she saw him pick it up. She hadn't been prepared for him to do that, pick it up and open it. Maybe some pause, then push the knife away as he got the dress. She had intended to never let him know she kept it in the first place. Hell, most of the time Ronnie tried to hide it from herself, usually leaving it buried in the bottom of some drawer, never to be glimpsed until the drawer turned more empty and it was time to do laundry. It was only because it was usually buried at the bottom that it had been the last thing she had packed, sitting at the top of the bag. She hadn't intended, or planned, for him to see it at all... she had just let it happen that way once she realized that was the case. And seeing him hold it did something to her, softened her in a manner that turned her expression still soft but serious instead of coy, even if she didn't move from her spot.

But then he was handing her the towel, and the dress. The dress that he hadn't had to pick out, that he could have left very well alone in the bag for both their sakes, and she felt that knowing and coy smile creep up before she could stop it, and she felt the way her hand deliberately reached out and gingerly grabbed the dress first from him, her own skin grazing against his lightly as she pulled back with the dress in her grasp; and it all seemed to happen without her telling it to. And she felt the way, as she turned around and left him standing with the towel, her knee gently bumped the door so it opened fully as she stepped into the bathroom and stepped into the dress, pulling it up her legs and drawing her arms through the straps. Then, standing just out of his reach so he would have to come in, she held her hand out for the towel while nodded her head gently towards her back, where the zipper was, "A little help?"

You. Are. Being. Played. he told himself again, but he walked into the bathroom, closer probably than he necessarily had to be, and it was clear he'd watched her put the dress on. Just like it was clear she'd wanted him to watch. Still, he walked into the small room, the temperature warmer in there from the bath water, and he held the towel in his hands, but didn't necessarily give it to her. Or, he didn't for a moment, and then he did, before stepping in close behind her, looking down her back, the lines he could see of her skin, her spine, the little freckle on the back of her shoulder. It would be really easy to push her hair off of the back of her neck and place a kiss there. He wanted to. Like he wanted to brush his fingers down her back before he pulled the zipper up for her. He resisted the kiss thing, but not that second one, his fingertips ever so lightly brushing her back, just a tiny bit, just a hint, before he made himself finish the action, pulling the zipper up, even if it was possibly a tiny bit slower than absolutely necessary.

She kept her breathing still, holding the towel almost dumbstruck between her hands, although the small breaths that did escape were tense. She felt the fingers, and she felt the way her hair stuck damply to her neck in the humid bathroom air and wondered if it would be her that brushed it away or him. He didn't, although she was well aware that, for a zipper not stuck, considerable time was allotted to the thing. When the zipper was finished she didn't move for a moment, standing right where she was before him, before reaching a hand up to brush brush at the hair sticking to her neck and pulling it over her shoulder. Those wayward strands had been bothering her, certainly, but she knew damn well as she angled her neck with the movement that the curve of it was on full display before him before him as she used the towel to dab and squeeze some wetness from her strands. Then, she did move, not stepping away and putting some distance between them but rather turning around in that spot to face him, hand and towel still at work with her hair. Or, well, sort of face him. She kind of had to angle her head up a bit to do it. Then, running fingers through her hair to pull it all over on shoulder, the ends of it almost meeting her decolletage, she asked at a near whisper, "Cleaned up enough for you?"

The continual, screaming knowledge that she was doing all of this specifically to get to him just didn't diminish her capacity to do just that. And it really, really sucked, because there was such a duality to it. Knowing she was fully aware of what she was doing, and how it was going to affect him, and the fact that it did, probably exactly how she wanted it all to. And as she asked the question, he had to admit, yes, she looked clean enough for him. Her hair was wet, but better than that half slept on look, and the make up that had been not quite done up right, probably a day or so old hadn't done her much good, but seeing her without it was just fine. Sure, he liked a lady to dress up as much as the next guy, but there was something a little more innocent about her like this. Not that Ronnie and 'innocent' could actually fit into the same sentence. Not by a long shot. Still, that didn't mean he didn't get the impression from it.

He was glad that she'd moved before he could do anything stupid when she moved her hair, but then she was just still right there, in close, only she was facing him, looking up at him. and it made him really aware of the fact that it had been kind of a while since he'd had something resembling good female company. Of that sort, anyways. He leaned back a little, til his back hit the wall, but the bathroom was a small room, and his feet didn't even move. It was that close. So even backing against the wall, it wasn't like he managed much distance there. "Yeah. You look better." he told her, recognizing that he actually probably did need to speak, here.

She laughed a bit, lightly, softly again. Everything she was doing in that moment was soft -- maybe it was from feeling clean, or seeing him with the knife, or being in a color she knew he loved, or just the way she could see him fighting with his composure. It softened her demeanor, and gave a delightful tinkle to her laughter, light as it was, soft enough to reach his ears in the bathroom but no further. Yes, everything about her was soft, but inside herself Ronnie felt that clean feeling she had almost achieve fade quickly, because she knew damn well that she wasn't being kind here. Kind would've been leaving before she could play this game. Hell, kindness would have been not coming here at all, so she didn't get a chance to twist him around the way she knew she did, the way she was doing. Then, meeting his eyes with a merriment she shouldn't have been able to pull off considering she knew just how fucked up all of this was that she was doing, she echoed, "Better?" Her mouth curved into a subtle pout, "well I'm not sure how to take that -- seeing how I 'looked like hell' moments ago." Ronnie didn't really know if it was moments ago, or how long she had been here. Hell, she couldn't even guess how long she had been in the bath. Ten minutes? A half hour?

For the first time there, Jesse smirked. It was light, not the full force of it, but present, at any rate. He looked down at her, and shook his head. "You fishing for compliments?" he asked her, a sort of light amusement buried in his tone somewhere, and he purposely left it at that, to see what she would say to him on the matter. If she was going to pout at him, he was going to hit her with the kind of behavior that he knew sometimes got to her. That little hint of cockeyness, and an undercurrent of playful. Stop it. stop it stop. it.

She blinked a moment, caught off guard by the smirk. It wasn't often that she saw one like that, light, when she came around. If seeing glimpses of her old self when they had been in love was a suckerpunch to him, the effect was a bit similar for her when she saw it in him as well. But she recovered from that shock there, and the corners of her mouth broke into a benign grin as yet again Ronnie was torn up between figuring out if this was genuine or part of her stupid game. "Well, if I'm not clean enough for you here," she teased in a mockingly oblivious tone, eyes wandering innocently away from him as she gave a languorous stretch, fingers pointed prettily away from herself, "I suppose I could just take another bath," she finished, bringing her hands back down and fixing him with an equally light smirk of her own. God, why was she doing this? Just teasing him like this... it was bad enough when she knew she could get things to actually go there, but when she knew that she wouldn't let them? It made this seem all the more worse, somehow.

"Take another bath." Jesse said, smirk still there, possibly widening a bit. "Really, even if you just got out of one." he said. "Not sure you could do that, what with the zipper issue." he said. "I did just help you with it, not sure you could manage on your own." And now he was flirting with her. God, he really was just a masochistic idiot, wasn't he? Seriously now. But this happened sometimes, when she was around. When he'd fall into things just far enough that he'd forget. He'd start to lose sight of all the awful things, just enough to get himself into trouble. Damnit.

"Well," her grin widened for a bit, before she took a small step forward -- because the space between them hadn't been much to begin with -- until she was standing very close to him at his side as he leaned against the wall, her body close enough to start to feel heat from his without ever touching, her chin almost resting upon his shoulder. The smile didn't fade as she spoke. "I guess I'll just have to ask for some help, then," she joked, her voice dropping into a low murmur. This time it wasn't out of any concern for being heard outside the bathroom. Hell, it was the kind of a voice that wasn't so much a 'voice' as it was breathing words into his ear; the kind of murmur that bowed heads toward it to hear better, even if the words could've still been heard just fine otherwise.

And, predictably, Jesse did just that, shifting to duck his head lower, closer to her, shoulder brushing against her lightly as he did so, though that was less by design and more by accident, but he didn't correct it when it happened, either. "And all this fuss, just so you can get my level of approval for your state of cleanliness?" he asked, his own voice having dropped, quieter still, in reaction to hers.

She didn't answer right away, instead letting her head drop a bit so that her chin rested atop his shoulder, and watched him with peaceful smile itching to tug at her lips. A warm glow building within her evident in all her person, unnerving her with how dangerously close it came to when she would take a moment to stop what she was doing and just watch him in silence back when they were together. And this felt far more dangerous to her and him than anything she had done thus far, because for her these were the moments hardest to recover from. Because she knew it wouldn't last. They never lasted. And it made things feel all the more awful and empty and hollow when she came down from them. She didn't know how long she did that, just watching him with that look and in that glow, but it felt like a long moment to her. But of course she knew that meant nothing; she knew that moments she thought long were usually short or longer; she hadn't told anyone about it, and there was nobody who knew her well enough or that she saw frequent enough to pick up on it, but Ronnie knew that her sense of time was practically shot.

And so she figured she should say something, before the moment became too long before she realized it (if it hadn't already). "Well let's just say I don't meet many guys whose opinions are worth getting," she murmured, and unwittingly a sadness permeated through the bantering tone before she could catch it. Maybe the tone had slipped through to keep him here with her in this tender moment for a bit longer, but It was all too true. The guys Ronnie got involved with were all too unhealthy in too many ways, even hidden beneath that underslip were faded bruised reminders of that fact.

One of the biggest problems Jesse always faced when Ronnie came around, was that she was a woman constantly in trouble. She resonated with it, and that kicked up that part of him that would step up, because there was a part of him that had to. That he could not, under any circumstances, go against. It was his nature, at the core, and she always picked at it. even if she wasn't trying to. He didn't know if she did it or not, though he guessed she would if she could. He heard that note in her voice, and turned his face in closer to hers. Not fully, he didn't try for anything, didn't even brush his cheek against hers. "You know mine." he told her, tone quiet, soft.

She should leave. She should have left a long damn while ago. She should have left the moment she stepped into this building. Internally she was screaming at herself to leave and let all this be and head over to Sunny Shores to that same old room she always found herself in. Yet the only other thing, besides popping in to fuck things up with Jesse and occasionally glimpsing her daughter, that happened enough throughout the years to be familiar. Outside that, nothing else was. But instead she shifted so her forehead rested fully on his shoulder, face buried against it, as she reached up one hand to snake around his upper arm. Again she didn't say anything, afraid that even in this moment where she suddenly felt quite vulnerable she would find some way to use this display as some screwed up ploy. She knew she could do it; there were times she had done it intentionally, and she knew it could happen when she didn't want it to before she caught it.

Another moment that she couldn't keep track of passed, before she murmured, not really knowing why, "I didn't just leave money." There was a small swallow as some part wondered why she was masochistic enough to say this, a part already quick to condemn this attempt as a failure like all the others that said she shouldn't say this aloud and get hopes up. And an even darker part of her pointed out that wouldn't be an issue, because nobody in the right mind would believe her and get their hopes up anyway. And, really, those were probably very rational arguments, and as such Ronnie's mouth ignored them and spoke again, "I left my stash, and other stuff on the dresser." Needles, paraphernalia, that kind of 'other stuff'. "But it wasn't because I forgot it." She didn't say anything else after that, already regretting the words that she had just spoken. Already feeling the sick guilt for when they became yet another promise or goal that she broke.

He'd been about to ask if she was really expecting sympathy because she forgot her shit, but then she clarified the point. He'd heard it before. He'd heard it many times before. Where she would show up, and promise that she was quitting this time, that she was done with everything. She was going to turn her life around, this time it would work, this time it would all happen... And god but if she didn't sound like she meant it, every single time. That was probably what sucked the most about it. The fact that she always sounded sincere. When she started clinging to him, he almost pulled away, and he did tense for a moment, wanting to. But in the end, he didn't, and instead he reached up, and ran his fingers through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. He didn't for a second believe her that it would happen. Ronnie...he'd known her for too long. He knew what happened. She, as a person, was weak. End of story. She didn't have the willpower. She'd never have the willpower. But she tried, sometimes. It just sucked every time. He didn't say anything, just stayed where he was, letting her cling to him, and he slid his hand down her back, giving a little comfort even if he knew he shouldn't.

She leaned closer against him, as if somehow the harder she pressed into him her problems would get pushed out of her. It was a stupid thought, she knew; and doing this right now was also stupid, because these moments really were the ones that were the hardest to recover from. She was very aware that he didn't say anything, and she was even more aware of why he wasn't saying anything. He didn't believe her. It wasn't a surprise, she had known he wouldn't before she even opened her mouth -- hell, most of her already thought she'd fail and she was already feeling the pre-mature guilt for when she did. But, still, having his silence confirm that stung, and it stung on a painfully deep level that it shouldn't have been able to touch for being something she expected. It just hurt, so much. She felt the water well up in her eyes, and for once she realized she had the power to decide whether they fell out or didn't. And she let them fall, burying further against his shoulder, crying quietly, and the disgust she felt at the decision further fueled the tears.

Again, she was using her genuine emotion for some ploy. Again she was corrupting the core of her being by taking what was real and twisting it. Because she could have held the tears in, but she had wanted... she didn't know if it was to punish Jesse, or maybe coax some words out of him for an encouragement he didn't feel, but whatever the reason... while the tears welling her eyes had come unbidden, her crying had been for the sake of getting some unknown thing out of Jesse. And this time the decision had been a wholly intentional one.

Jesse didn't necessarily deal with crying women a lot. Even with as many sisters as he had, and a daughter, and a lot of girlfriends in his wake... The James women were pretty strong in general, and didn't make a habit of bawling at the drop of a hat. Still, there was always a part of him that felt helpless when they did, not knowing if there was anything to do that would help it. And with Ronnie, he especially felt that way. In the end, he rubbed her back, pulled her closer, more firmly against him as he put his other arm around her, letting her cry against his chest instead. "Shhh." he soothed quietly. "It's alright, Ronnie." he told her. Even if it wasn't. In fact, it was very far from alright, and very likely wouldn't at all wind up anywhere near alright. Still, it was what he said, and it sounded like he believed it.

Even though she had gotten her reaction, she still carried on silently with the tears and soft sobbing. Was it because some part of the decision to cry had been emotional? Or was it because stopping as soon as she pulled her in would've revealed the act as intentional? She didn't know. But she carried on for a bit, and then even after she let the fit pass she remained there, not saying anything other than listening to his heartbeat as she thought about what to do or say next. And then she caught herself thinking that, and blinked and tried to push such planning out of her head. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, not sure what she was apologizing for or if it was another unintentional ploy and not moving even though she very much should.

He wasn't sure what she was apologizing for either, but was giving her the benefit of the doubt, and figuring it was the tears. So, he rubbed her back again lightly. "It's okay." he told her. Wouldn't be the first time, wouldn't be the last. Because he'd never seen the last of her, and some time ago, he'd just accepted the fact that he never would. That she'd always come back, like a bad penny. And every time she did, she'd send a trainwreck through his life, and then disappear while he picked up the pieces again. Knowing that, however, didn't prevent it.

Pressing against him like this and feeling the movement of his hand up and down her back was doing things. Things that should never have stirred in such a manner and the pathway to such things should have been cut off quite a bit ago. And even so she found that her hand had traveled from his arm to his shoulder where it rested against the base of his neck and her fingers idly stroked where the neck met jawline. And for a long, dangerous moment Ronnie felt as if she would end up pushing this in the very direction that her sense had been screaming against going tonight with Jessie asleep in her room. Temptation generally was a hard thing for her, and when it came to Jesse -- reading him, touching him, using him, playing him, being around him -- resisting those urges despite herself was almost impossible for her. But she had a daughter, and despite her utter failure as a mother Ronnie still carried an instinct that wanted what was best for her child. And her being here -- or even worse, waking Baby J with something like them together -- was possibly one of the worst of a very long list of wrongs she'd committed against her child.

So with effort that required momentous determination on her part, she pulled her hand away and took a step back. And then, considering how those feelings hadn't even retreated quite below the surface, she took one more. And, tearing her eyes away from Jesse because looking at him wasn't helping, she busied herself with an attempt to straighten and fix her dress. Her body hadn't dried off when she had put it on, and thus it still clung to her if not in as sheer and obscene a manner as the slip, and so her messing with it probably wasn't helpful on Jesse's part. But she needed something for her hands to do. And she did it in silence, not trusting herself and especially not trusting her words at the moment.

When she'd started stroking his skin like that, his eyes had dropped half shut. And he knew he should probably push her away, but he didn't, and then suddenly she did. And he felt the loss of her body heat where she'd been up against him, and he was really unhappy with the fact that it felt that way. Like a loss. And he hated the way he watched her fixing her dress. In the end, because he was starting to ride the line too close here, he pushed off of the wall and started out of the room, figuring his best bet was getting away from her for a few minutes. Something. Anything.

She didn't follow him for a moment, figuring more distance was good, and afraid that if she followed right after him she'd manage some way back into what had just taken so much effort to push herself out of. So after what seemed like good time had passed, she stepped out of the bathroom, not standing too far from the doorway as she watched him. Which, again, wasn't a good idea -- watching him. Not when the memory of body heat was fresh and her thoughts drifted to appreciation of how he moved, even with the limp, she appreciated it. So she stepped towards the couch, picking up her coat and -- even despite her effort of escaping her own seduction -- she still gracefully slinked into the coat in a manner just slightly slower than necessary and befitting of talented Kitten Club act (despite she was putting layers on). She didn't need to do it, especially not after what had just almost happened, but she did; and she kept her mouth shut still, still very much aware that at any moment it could undo her efforts.

He watched her, as she watched him, and he even paid that too-much attention to her putting her coat on, aware this was the best course of action, here. "At least take the sandwich I made you." he told her, because there was that small detail, wasn't there. That she probably hadn't eaten, and he'd gone to remedy that, and she hadn't done it yet. It wasn't, actually, a ploy to make her stay longer, even if it probably sounded like one. That one was born of pure concern, truthful in nature. As much as Ronnie continually caused him pain, he didn't want anything bad to happen to her.

"Sandwich?" Ronnie echoed, confused, as her hands reached behind her head to flip her hair from her coat collar. "You didn't have to do that," she continued off-handedly as she went about buttoning up her coat. And if it was said as if she had no recollection of what could possibly have nudged Jesse to make a sandwich, that was because she didn't. It wasn't that it was unlike Jesse -- it was actually very much like Jesse. It was just that most of his help had been a result of maneuvering on her part. And she didn't recall maneuvering or hinting at such a thing.

He could see that she didn't, and that bothered him in a deep level, even if he couldn't exactly pinpoint why. Maybe because it just clearly, overwhelmingly illustrated just how screwed she really was. Just how fried her brain was by now. He stared at her for a long, long moment, then finally looked away. "I'll just go pack it for you." he said, and walked away, heading into the kitchen, because he really needed to not be in the same room as her right now. Christ.

Ronnie may not remember the bit of their encounter that lead to sandwich-making, but watching Jesse look at her gave her cause for concern. It wasn't as if she wasn't used to getting such looks from Jesse -- disappointed ones, especially -- but this one seemed less about being disappointed in her and... "What's wrong, Outlaw?" she asked, grabbing her discarded dress off the couch and dropping it into her bag, zipping it up.

"Nothing." he said, keeping his back to the archway, as he quickly wrapped the sandwich in wax paper, then put it in a little bag for her. Then he walked back out, and set it on the back of the couch instead of directly handing it to her. Then, he went for his wallet, which was in his coat pocket, and he pulled that out, grabbing the bills inside without looking at how much he was giving her, and he held that out to her. "Here. It's what you came for." He said the last bit as more a reminder for himself than to her, really. To kick his own ass into gear there. She was there because she wanted money out of him. That was all.

She didn't take the money right away, instead eying him intently as she didn't believe that 'nothing' for a bit. And also because she really hated this part; she hated it even more than her asking for the money. Every time it happened she just felt more... hollow, and shitty inside. And Ronnie felt like a she had a decision to make -- take the money or press the issue. Even though it wasn't really an either-or issue, her brain set it up as one. And, well, she had absolutely no place to stay right now, except at the Sunny Shores motel. And even if they gave her a significant discount? They didn't let her stay for free. So in the end she didn't press the issue, but instead reached out and shoved the money into her coat pocket. She didn't bother counting it. She didn't count it here. She counted it in the stairwell, or out the building, some place where she could feel her shame increase with each bill in private. "Thanks," she murmured, sounding casual about it, sounding as if his 'it's what you came for' hadn't dealt yet another cut to her psyche.

And see, there it was. That tone, just a flat 'thanks' like nothing had happened, like she was just going now, because he had given her what she came for. Next time, go for your wallet first. he told himself. Not 'next time don't open the door' or 'next time, send her packing'. That didn't actually occur. Just, next time, give her the money sooner. There was probably something wrong with him. He walked to the door and opened it, not looking back at her, but just holding it there, so she could walk out. And part of him still was aware that the knife he gave her needed oil, and he'd meant to do that, but now it was too late.

She picked up the strap of her bag, shouldering it along with the smaller tote. Then she coolly, confidently started towards the open door. And it seemed as if she wasn't going to say anything, because that was what she was intending to do, just leave and not say anything that would screw things up more or display those emotional sores or anything. Just go. That was the idea, and Ronnie thought it was a good one. But she stopped just in front of him, bright blue eyes fixing onto his green, a hint of a coy smirk dancing at her lips before she even realized it, and she was one her tiptoes and placing a soft warm kiss that just touched the corner of his mouth and lingered to long to be considered a peck. "I'll see you later, Outlaw," she whispered, giving him a softer parting smile, internally railing against herself for such an act. "Good night." And then she was out the door.

He almost turned into it. Almost. There was a part of him that desperately wanted to. But he didn't, even if his eyes had shut for a heartbeat. Then he shut the door behind her, locked it, and leaned against it. And after he was sure he heard her footsteps already out and into the stairwell, he thunked his head three times against the door. Stupid. Goddamn. Moron.

Then he went and fell face first onto the couch, and pretended he wasn't going to lie there, awake for the rest of the fucking night.