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Jerry had woken from a good sleep, not quite sure how long had gone by but he felt... better. Calmer. Everything that had been bottled had mostly been spilled out, messily, on Sasha's shoulder. Part of him felt guilty. He knew he was... a difficult man, but... who else had he had to turn to, really?

That's what ghoulfriends are for, Roar offered as best he could as he had read and reread the note left by his glasses. I'm sure she appreciated hearing the dirt. She hates him too.

Still, Jerry ignored him, but appreciated the weapon's efforts to act casual after the melt down.

He felt calm. Centered. Possibly unsure what to feel, settling for something neutral. He hummed softly as he moved to sit at Sasha's desk, rummaging for a spare form and staring at the empty lines for a few moments before he began to write.

He only paused when he heard his phone buzz in the pocket of his blood soaked coat Sasha had set aside to be delt with later.

His hands hovered over the foul smelling, caked thing, fingers trembling and stomach clenching anew. It was starting to turn brown in many places. The stains would not come out. She was caked all over. It wasn't even identifiable.

He hummed louder, hand diving into the crispy pocket, and he scrambled away from it to sit on the floor beside the bed.

His phone had gotten wet as well, excess gore having seeped through the fabric.

The trash can was thankfully close.

When his shoulders had stopped shuddering, he straightened, wiped his mouth, took in a deep breath, and read the text.

He felt calm again as he typed:

Jerry stared down at the text for some time, swaying a bit as he debated what to write.

Numb again, Jerry set the phone down, wobbling to the desk again. He sat heavily and went back to writing.

Jerry debated ignoring the text, and for a long time did so, continuing to write before his handwriting grew illegible and he scrapped that page and pulled out a new one to start over again.

He frowned at the bloodstained phone, lifting a hand to rub his eyes under his glasses. Finally, he picked it up and typed:

"It's open," Came a suspiciously calm voice. Jerry sat back from the desk, staring at the finished report. it could have been written better. It was the best he could articulate. What the hell. What was done was done and there was no undoing it.

"I've avoided it until now."

He didn't look at the heap of bloodied jacket across the room as he carefully folded the letter and glanced distantly up at Jordan, his expression unreadable, "I suspect you've had your hands full."

Jerry looked away again, fidgeting now as he shifted to the bed, scooping up his ukulele but didn't play anything, just tending to it's plastic strings carefully. He wasn't sure what to say.

In all of the island, Jordan had always been... the closest thing he had to a best friend. He had always had him to fall back on, to be a solid, stable foundation to talk to about anything. To help keep him grounded. Keep him straight. He hadn't been afraid to talk to Jordan about anything. And yet... they rarely just... did things together. Rarely casually hung out, shot the breeze... there was the occasional mission, but beyond that... He was fairly sure Jordan wanted nothing to do with him. Robert was there sometimes, yeah, but he couldn't talk to Robert. He couldn't entirely trust Robert, and deep down, he wasn't sure if he even liked the man. But they were Phoenix Brothers. Fellow strays. They had known each other for a long time, now, or at least what felt like a long time. But for as much as Jerry had tried to be friendly, tried to keep a face of practicality, (as far as he considered it) despite his... rough adjustment to his new life... there were very few people he could say he was close to. That he felt he trust.

He was lucky for Sasha.

"What do you see in him?" He finally murmured, not looking up from the toy instrument.