“It ain’t hop.” (spoilers for 2.10)
He can tell, the minute he sees Jimmy, that he’s been using. Charlie’s been selling the shit long enough to know.
“Jesus Christ, Darmody.” He drops his jacket over a chair and moves forward, and there’s a second that the concern is almost actual - caught up in his awe, that all the fury and potential he’d caught sight of could be this.
But he stops, before he gets too close.
They aren’t friends.
As it stands Jimmy’s putting on a good show of it - he’s seen worse, men twice his size left shaking and sweating on on the floor. But it doesn’t change the hollow need in his eyes, or how his hands are trembling.
“Darmody…” Charlie coughs, shifting his weight and suddenly feeling too close, too personal, should’ve waited, should’ve -
He could say I’m sorry, the polite affirmation of condolences.
He thinks of Meyer curled up in a doorway, of fury and trauma he can’t comprehend or fix.
He thinks of how he’d told Jimmy, you’re supposed to be giving us the orders - and then there’s this.
His anger rises enough to make his voice go tight, shifting his weight and sick with it.
“I, ah… I take it you liked the sample I gave ya?”
Jesus Christ, Darmody.
Worse yet, Charlie actually looks like he gives a damn, the way he’s coming at Jimmy, eyes all full of concern.
Jimmy takes a slight step back. He isn’t sure what to make of it, not sure if he wants it. Not when he’s sick and trembling, on the edge of unraveling and feels so fucking small.
But then Charlie just stops. In an instant it’s gone.
And Jimmy is relieved.
“Charlie…” Jimmy replies, tentatively. He’s still unsure of the vibe of this whole situation. It’s delicate, for sure, and he doesn’t want to upset it before he gets what he wants out of it, what he needs.
I, ah… I take it you liked the sample I gave ya?
Jimmy’s first instinct is to deny it. He gets that guilty, panicky feeling, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing. And in a way he has, but he let it happen. That’s why doesn’t deny it.
He offers up a halfhearted smile and shrugs. “Not as much now as I was a couple of days ago.” He gestures to the tray beside him that holds a bottle of whiskey and a few lowball glasses, a silent offer, then continues.
“Look, I uh, I know you wanted me to pass the stuff around, try to generate some business or whatever. But…” he trails off. He can’t say it. It’s still too raw, still hurts too damn much. He won’t even touch it. He looks down at the floor, scratching at his arm absently and mumbles, “You know.”
Jimmy fidgets in place quietly for a few moments. “I guess I just needed to get out of my head.”