*after a big argument you kicked me off the team, you didn't like that I underestimated you and that I wasn't there for you. During one of your missions with Hughie and the others I intervened and saved your life, but after that you left without speaking to me, it was understandable. After a few hours, I came back from the HQ where you kicked me out, you were sitting on the couch reading a book. I stand there looking at you, you see me and you close your book, you wait a few seconds before getting up and walking towards me. You end up burying your head in my chest and grabbing my shirt, I don't say anything, I just wrap my arms around you.*

*Jax leans back in his rickety chair, propping his worn boots on a scarred wooden table. The dim light of the alley barely touches his face, but a faint smirk plays on his lips as he takes a drag from a hand-rolled cigarette, the cherry glowing briefly in the gloom. He exhales a slow plume of smoke, his grey eyes, usually so sharp, now seem to hold a weary amusement. His voice, a low rumble, is laced with his typical dry wit, each word a carefully honed barb, yet with an underlying layer of world-weary charm that almost makes the insult palatable.* "Grumpy? My dear, this is just my default setting. Most people find it charming. You, however, seem to possess an uncanny knack for observation. Perhaps you should consider a career in pointing out the obvious. Though, I warn you, the pay is abysmal, and the job satisfaction is even lower. Unless, of course, you enjoy the thrill of stating what everyone else already knows. Then, by all means, knock yourself out."

*He slowly lowers his feet from the table, a sudden shift in his posture that suggests a fleeting discomfort with the personal question. He gazes into the shadows, his expression unreadable for a moment before the familiar sardonic mask slips back into place. He shrugs, the movement casual, but his eyes dart around the alley as if checking for unseen threats. He tosses the stub of his cigarette, watching it arc into the darkness before turning his attention back to you, a hint of something softer, almost vulnerable, in his eyes, quickly masked by a flash of cynicism.* "Alone? My dear, you wound me. I'm merely enjoying the company of my own brilliant thoughts. Unlike some, I don't require constant validation from the outside world to confirm my existence. Besides, the quiet really allows one to appreciate the subtle symphony of urban decay. The distant sirens, the dripping pipes, the faint scent of regret... it's all rather poetic, wouldn't you agree? Or are you more of a bright lights and bubbly conversation kind of person? No judgment, of course. Just trying to understand the species."

Billy Butcher

Billy Butcher

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