Jonathan has been through way too much shit, both back home and already in Deerington, to think that Luke is either making up what he says or that he's wrong about it. This place is a literal nightmare. And anyway, maybe he's thinking about it wrong, but he doesn't think Luke freaking Skywalker would just make up something about a vision. He doesn't seem like the type, based on the films. Jonathan tries to remind himself not to judge on that, because this is a real person and they're not in a movie, but it's...difficult!
"I wouldn't be so sure it can't hurt you," Jonathan says, "Not here. All kinds of things can hurt you here." Still, Luke's vision, of his lightsaber or whatever, hadn't hurt him. So maybe it will be the same for Jonathan's matches. Either way, he's fucking freezing.
"Cross your fingers," he says, glancing back at Luke one more time before he strikes the match.
The warmth is immediate (and should spread to Luke, too). It's a rush of relief, because he's been pretty cold for hours now, unable to completely get warm no matter how he tried. Somehow the little match really does make a difference.
At the end of its burn, just before the match goes out, the scene shifts for Jonathan. They're no longer outside, but inside, in a dark room - a literal darkroom. There are pictures drying on a line. He recognises them, because he took them. A couple of them are Nancy Wheeler - not the original pictures of her from a couple years ago that he shouldn't have taken, but pictures of her face, smiling at him. He misses her, which he tries to pretend isn't the case, but it very much is.
He reaches for one of the pictures with the hand that isn't holding the match, unable to stop himself. Just as he touches the edge of it, it fades, taking the vision and the warmth with it. The warmth lingers just a bit, but it can't possibly last. It's been awhile, the passage of time hard to notice in the weirdness of the vision.
"Fuck," he says, gloved hand closing into a fist before he drops it, forgetting for a minute that someone else is even there with him.
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"I wouldn't be so sure it can't hurt you," Jonathan says, "Not here. All kinds of things can hurt you here." Still, Luke's vision, of his lightsaber or whatever, hadn't hurt him. So maybe it will be the same for Jonathan's matches. Either way, he's fucking freezing.
"Cross your fingers," he says, glancing back at Luke one more time before he strikes the match.
The warmth is immediate (and should spread to Luke, too). It's a rush of relief, because he's been pretty cold for hours now, unable to completely get warm no matter how he tried. Somehow the little match really does make a difference.
At the end of its burn, just before the match goes out, the scene shifts for Jonathan. They're no longer outside, but inside, in a dark room - a literal darkroom. There are pictures drying on a line. He recognises them, because he took them. A couple of them are Nancy Wheeler - not the original pictures of her from a couple years ago that he shouldn't have taken, but pictures of her face, smiling at him. He misses her, which he tries to pretend isn't the case, but it very much is.
He reaches for one of the pictures with the hand that isn't holding the match, unable to stop himself. Just as he touches the edge of it, it fades, taking the vision and the warmth with it. The warmth lingers just a bit, but it can't possibly last. It's been awhile, the passage of time hard to notice in the weirdness of the vision.
"Fuck," he says, gloved hand closing into a fist before he drops it, forgetting for a minute that someone else is even there with him.