Sam Wesson stares at the jacket for a long time. it's thifted, second-handed, came with a hole in the right pocket. The seller said something about Wilsons's distressing on the jacket that he didn't catch, but whether it's natural or artificial, it sure looks worn. Used. It looks like it lived a life, carries the memories within in the thin layer of dust over wrinkles and folded creases.
Now, Wesson ain't a man of fashion. He'd survived with a single wardrobe with 6 same shirts and some pair of jeans, given that he works full time and always have to wear uniform to the company. You can't convince him that field jacket over plaid t-shirt isn't a proper look, he'd just add in a flannel when it turns cold. So, why is he here with a medium-sized leather jacket that he sure would look goofy on him if he manage to put it on? Wesson doesn't know, and If he were to know, then he wouldn't have bought the jacket and maybe save the money for a Carhatt instead, he'd always preferred that. This one looks more like Smith's taste than his own, so it's really a strange thing that he actually brought the jacket home.
Still, there's something in him just, stays on the jacket. It sounds ridiculous, but Wesson cannot look away from the jacket at all. He remember walking in the thrift store to find a scarf for the winter, maybe a pair of boots if he's lucky, then he came out with a jacket that doesn't really match his taste with size smaller than his. It would be easy if he could just return the jacket or at least have it sized-up, but when he holds the jacket in his hand ands feels the cool leather underneath his fingertips, he knew he was a goner. The jacket is just, so familiar, it makes his heart aches in a weird way. He's not gonna get emotional over a damn jacket now, is he? Blame it for the OT he's doing lately.
He kept the jacket nonetheless. Maybe someday it'll get some use.
