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[ Jesse is slumped over the steering wheel, arms draped over it, heaving a barely controlled angry sigh. His hand is down at the ignition, fingers clutching the keys. It's useless even bothering to turn it: they're out of gas. They're out in the middle of freakin' nowhere and they're out of gas.
The afternoon sun is beating down on the already sweltering RV. Jesse, for some reason, is still in his yellow hoodie. Hasn't had time to take it off because Mr. White got spooked while they were in the middle of setting up for a cook and ordered Jesse to just start driving and, Jesus Christ, the goddamn adventure it's fucking taken them on. And now, they're out of fucking gas.
Jesse lets out an exasperatedly agonised groan at Mr. White before shoving himself upright and back into his seat. He slumps with a heavy sigh, eyes glaring petulantly out at the desert, jaw set tight, before angrily grabbing the hem of hoodie and yanking it up and off him. Hair all mussed and t-shirt all askew and caught up against his back, he throws the hoodie with force across to the passenger seat, then slams his arms back on the steering wheel and grips it tight in his fingers. Bracing himself to attempt to speak to this infuriating asshole about why them running out of his gas isn't his fault. Ugh, when is anything not his fault, according to Mr. White?!
When he speaks, it's slow, deliberately even, temper barely controlled. ]
I am telling you, Mr. White, for, like, the millionth, billionth time, I only got enough us gas to get us out to the boonies and back. Like we always do.
[ He lifts his head to glare over at Mr. White with wild frustration. ]
Are you gonna stop riding my goddamn ass about running outta gas because you [ an angry jabbing point right at Mr. White ] decided to take some Texas freakin' Chainsaw Massacre detour out to the middle of nowhere, because you [ even more accusing jabbing ] are paranoid about your [ finger jabbing right in Mr. White's face ] DEA brother-in-law tailing us?
The afternoon sun is beating down on the already sweltering RV. Jesse, for some reason, is still in his yellow hoodie. Hasn't had time to take it off because Mr. White got spooked while they were in the middle of setting up for a cook and ordered Jesse to just start driving and, Jesus Christ, the goddamn adventure it's fucking taken them on. And now, they're out of fucking gas.
Jesse lets out an exasperatedly agonised groan at Mr. White before shoving himself upright and back into his seat. He slumps with a heavy sigh, eyes glaring petulantly out at the desert, jaw set tight, before angrily grabbing the hem of hoodie and yanking it up and off him. Hair all mussed and t-shirt all askew and caught up against his back, he throws the hoodie with force across to the passenger seat, then slams his arms back on the steering wheel and grips it tight in his fingers. Bracing himself to attempt to speak to this infuriating asshole about why them running out of his gas isn't his fault. Ugh, when is anything not his fault, according to Mr. White?!
When he speaks, it's slow, deliberately even, temper barely controlled. ]
I am telling you, Mr. White, for, like, the millionth, billionth time, I only got enough us gas to get us out to the boonies and back. Like we always do.
[ He lifts his head to glare over at Mr. White with wild frustration. ]
Are you gonna stop riding my goddamn ass about running outta gas because you [ an angry jabbing point right at Mr. White ] decided to take some Texas freakin' Chainsaw Massacre detour out to the middle of nowhere, because you [ even more accusing jabbing ] are paranoid about your [ finger jabbing right in Mr. White's face ] DEA brother-in-law tailing us?
I am so sorry this took me so long. ;A;
When that hand starts jabbing his way, Walt takes the first one. The second one. And by the third one, he swats Jesse's hand away. Why the hell couldn't he see that this is a problem? There is always a problem whenever they go out to cook. And most of it stems from Jesse's complete inability to think ahead. ]
What is wrong with you? There's seriously something wrong with your head. Why would you only get us enough gas to make the trip. Don't you ever, for one minute, think about the possibility of things going wrong? No wait. You don't think. That's the problem here!
That's always been the problem here. It's just one I can't seem to figure out the solution to.
[ Wearily, Walt sinks back into his seat with a sigh. Alright. They're in the middle of no where. Walking to a gas station would take hours, and quite frankly Walt isn't even sure he could make that type of journey. ]
I don't suppose you have your phone on you? I don't suppose you could call that friend of yours -- Beaver or whoever to come bring us some gas?