“Text me when you’re home.”
“Call if you’re scared when you’re alone.”
“Tell your family I say hello.”
“What’s the answer?” Even though I know.
“I like your hair that way.”
Listening to every word you say.
“Let’s decide together.”
“Wow babe you really are clever.”
“My arm is fine, it’s not asleep.”
“Turn my phone on so I hear it beep.”
“I’ll help you with those.”
I notice you in your new clothes.
“You look beautiful girl.”
Knowing you’re without makeup, your hair without curl.
The truth is that we’re attached to a phrase.
One that gets cliché in some ways.
I’ll say it still, but I’ll say these too.
These are all the ways I say that “I love you.”
This was a hard choice to make. Did he make his presence known? Pull a gun? Turn away? Continue to watch? Peering around the wall he had pressed himself up against, the wraith scowled under the mask. Jesse McCree. For all Reyes had done back then… Was a part of Reaper still so attached to what Reyes felt? That man was dead. A clawed hand twitched down by his gun. He was a killer. A reaper. He had a list. But Jesse… Was the man really on it? He hadn’t looked too deep into what the other man had been doing. Was it because he still cared? He shouldn’t.
He had a choice to make. Swiftly he grabbed both shotguns and moved out of his cover, aiming both but stopping dead in his tracks with them aimed. Familiar memories of a time lost to him. Hesitation for the first time crossed him, and he nearly lowered his guns. Reyes’ memories. This wasn’t him, this wasn’t Reaper. He didn’t want to speak, and yet it came out.
They could have easily just filmed that scene with John reading the newspaper in TRF with him in actual clothes and not a wet body, bathrobe and shaved legs. Script choices. Costume choices. Directorial choices. Extra chest. Extra legs.