Jack was wandering around the hotel, antsy as usual. The problem with being dead was that normal people slept, and they generally had a consensus about this, which was over night they did that. And while he could bother the night desk clerk, he'd grown bored of that hours ago. People were starting to stir again, and he'd been trying to work out if he was going to go bother the old woman now or later As he headed up the hall, he didn't actually bother walking around the young man who was in his way, instead passing directly through him. He knew that he shouldn't do that--it was uncomfortable at best for people and painful if he lingered too long, but he wasn't in a frame of mind that had him caring so much at the moment. 

It wouldn’t have mattered, but the wave of cold that Jack sent washing over Thurston was sharp enough that he suddenly wished for a shirt, socks, maybe even a coat. He’d never had that happen before, and the look of bewilderment mixed with the gooseflesh running all along his torso as Thurs whirled to look back at Jack. “Really?” he blurted. “Too much work to go six inches to one side? Shit, when I was dead it wasn’t...” That last bit was a mutter and scowl as Thurs reflected on the fact that he’d never been able to walk right through people. Maybe, maybe he was a little jealous.   

That was all the provocation Jack needed and he turned right back on his heel to stalk over, the lights in the vending machine flickering as he got closer, drawing from the electricity source. He got up right close and personal, eyeing Thurston. "You were in my way." he said. "Got a problem with that, kid?" He then ticked his gaze up and down the guy. "You don't exactly look dead." 

The little flash of nerves he felt was entirely foreign to Thurston, but he understood it immediately too. He couldn’t punch this guy, couldn’t disturb him at all, whereas from what he heard? The more determined spirits in the city could definitely fuck with him. “Yeah, well I was. I got better,” Thurston told him. “On account of my sparkling manners and all. And if I have a problem, I know who to take it to.” Sort of. 

"Because getting better from death really works." he commented, clearly unbelieving. "And really? Going to run and tattle because I gave you a chill?" Jack asked. "That's some balls." he said scoffing. "You have fun with that, cupcake. Try not to trip over your vagina on the way." he said, chuckling.  

“I said ‘if’, Pony Boy,” Thurston was quick to retort. “You see me taking another step?” Yeah, he wasn’t so concerned about the incorporeal state of Jack now, he’d just had a nerve get hit. “Or is this your thing, floating up on half-dressed teenage guys?”

"Because I was just waiting, lurking around the corner, waiting for you?" Jack asked. "You were in my way. It wasn't like I was standing around appreciating the view. You were the one who decided to be a bitch about it." he said. "And 'if' is still a threat. That's still you, being a little bitch about like two seconds of being uncomfortable. I've seen you hanging around, I know who you're talking about. You know what that could mean...and all because I didn't walk around you because I don't happen to have to. And people call me an overreactive bastard."

“I’m the little bitch? As opposed to the guy who’s been around for like eighty years now, unless you died at a costume party or a production of ‘Grease’?” Thurston asked. “Y’know, the guy who probably had to deal with this exact situation so many times that he should probably know to just walk away, but he has a hair up his ass?” He shook his head at Jack, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the entire encounter. “And if people call you an overreactive bastard, it’s probably because you go and do shit you know’ll make people uncomfortable, then get your ghost-panties in a spooky knot when they call bullshit. Which, I’d bet, is why you’re still haunting this area."

"Why exactly should I walk away? And you don't know shit about what situations I have or haven't been in, boy." he said. He also didn't realize it, but he slipped into the appearance he had before he died, the injuries suddenly apparent in a flicker of his form, the blood soaking down the side and back of his shirt from where he'd been stabbed multiple times. Jack never had all that fabulous control over that, unless he was really paying attention and he wasn't most of the time. "You don't know shit about anything. Definitely not about why I might still be here, so fuck off, you over sensitive little prick. Don't talk about shit you know nothing about."

“Take your own fucking advice,” Thurston managed to mutter before the form in front of him flickered and shifted into a raw, red horror of bleeding points and bruised flesh. It definitely made him flinch, stilling anything else he might’ve had to say for a long moment there. “You seem really eager to act like you know everything, which is funny for a guy who’s been stuck in one place for fifty years,” he spat out, having to avert his eyes. “And I’m guessing you must just be the Spirit King in disguise or something, since you know what I’m saying is bullshit. I mean, you do know, right? Categorically? No chance you’re just spouting bullshit?” Thurston definitely was, he needed to so he wouldn’t look back over and flinch again. 

"For someone who supposedly knows about it you sure do look a little green right now." Jack said, eyes narrowed. The vending machine's lights flickered some more then went out entirely, as he drew hard enough to kill the bulb in there. He didn't really notice it though, or didn't appear to. He walked closer again, leaning in closer. "So, what exactly do you think you know about death?" he asked, voice low. "Because you don't look like you know shit, kid. You look scared, and you sound like you're just trying to talk a big game, like that's going to matter to someone like me. I'll clear something up for you. I have been here for about eighty years. So I've had more than enough time to hone the natural little abilities I've got. You might not want to go assuming I'm helpless, and you can just scream at me and there'll be no consequences to that."

Feeling the chill of his closer presence, Thurs forced himself to look back over, to keep his eyes focused on Jack’s face, the bruises and the cut across the bridge of his nose. It was easier. “I know you’re a fucking hypocrite, first off,” he muttered. “From saying I overreacted and made threats to doing the same, that’s classy. Or ignoring the fact that I just said I wasn’t assuming shit? That’s you trying to puff yourself up. And there’s a difference between you being sick to look at and you actually scaring me.” He swallowed hard after a moment, unaware that he’d wadded up the cash in his hand as they spoke. “Second, no one’s screaming. Don’t flatter yourself. Third, the ‘someone like me’ schtick is never cool, it’s never scary, and it just tells me that I don’t need to justify a goddamn thing to you, because your too-cool James Dean bullshit means you can’t actually listen.”

“Someone like me as in dead, dipshit.” Jack said. He stepped back a little, then expended the energy to punch Thurston in the ribs, just once, but he stepped into it. “As in I can hurt you, but you can’t hurt me.” he explained, backing up a step and turning to walk away. “So you might want to watch your mouth. Talking a big game doesn’t help you if you just piss off people who can take a shot at you, but you can’t take a shot back. Go ahead and run and tattle. It’s going to be harder to get rid of me than that witch thinks.”

Thurston definitely folded sharply to one side, reaching out to grab the vending machine for support as he kept his feet under him. “Chickenshit,” he cursed, spitting at Jack’s back as the spirit turned away. “Nothing says ‘greaser coward pussy’ like a guy who’ll only swing because he can’t get hit back. Just wait, Pony Boy. This’ll all even out,” he said, straightening with a little wince. It was actually a nice surprise to know that he could take a hit without slowing down too much, though it’d hurt for a while, no doubt. “Just wait.”