Chapter Text
Jesse can’t smoke crystal. Walt has made that very clear. He can’t drink, or have people over, or do anything he wants to do—not that he really wants to be doing those things, but every second he’s stuck with himself without distractions, there’s a feeling that something might be wrapping around his throat and suffocating him slowly.
He deep-cleaned his place during his last binge. For once, something actually productive came out of smoking that much crystal at once. The crystal is all gone now, but the cleaning products are still strewn around the living room in heaps of bottles and brushes and sponges covered in dirt, so the place still looks like a dump; and maybe it always will, Jesse thinks, because there will probably never be a point in time where he won’t be constantly aware of the whole body-falling-through-the-bathtub situation, the crazy shit those basement walls have seen, or the hoards of greaseballs he’s been letting squat in here, tweak in here, fuck in here. He could bomb the place with Lysol and it wouldn’t make any difference.
That’s why he isn’t bothering to clean up the supplies, or even get up and brush his teeth or put on some clothes that don’t smell like BO. Staying on the couch is easier. It feels good just flicking through the flat-screen channels, smoking some weed, letting his mind go blank.
And, yeah, at any moment, Walt might come knocking on the door with the stick up his ass saying they need to cook—and Jesse will jump when Walt tells him to jump, and help synthesize the chemicals when Walt demands it, weighing out the pounds of meth that he is under no circumstance allowed to smoke, working himself to the bone in that tiny camper for God knows how long.
But until then, he’s getting stoned. He smokes a joint, then half of another, until he feels something like inspiration to leave the house.
The corner store’s fluorescent lighting is too bright, and the pre-wrapped sandwiches there taste a little like plastic, but he buys four anyway. And some Twizzlers. And Skittles and a Big Gulp, some chips, all the chips, Funyuns, why the hell not.
When he dumps it all on the counter, he considers buying a pack of cigarettes but gets a pack of Twinkies instead. He almost gets the urge to laugh when the cashier raises her eyebrows in curiosity.
At home, he dumps it all onto the coffee table and throws himself onto the couch, flips on the TV and leaves it on some cartoon where all the characters talk in high-pitched voices. Zones out to the colors on the screen. It’s a pleasant surprise to find that the sandwiches don’t taste as plasticky as he thought they would, which gives him enough motivation to eat the other three.
He’s forgotten the feeling of being full. It’s uncomfortable, sort of, but it feels good, too, almost like an accomplishment. When he was using crystal, he’d forget about eating most of the time, sometimes surviving on just a family-sized bag of chips for days. Scoring another fix was usually higher up on the list of priorities than food. So it feels good to be stuffing his face now, even if it also feels a little shitty, but mosty good, even though he’ll probably be crashing off the sugar high later. Better than coming off crystal.
His hands move with a mind of their own, reaching into the bags of chips, dully comparing flavors. The Twinkies are a nice change in pace, even though they don’t taste the same as they did, back when he was a kid. Something in his head tells him that if he eats enough, they might, and he keeps the thought in the front of his mind as he starts in on the candy. The Skittles are too sour, but the motion of ripping the licorice Twizzlers with his teeth is distracting. At least, until the fake strawberry flavor becomes nauseating.
He doesn’t register how full he is until he drains the Big Gulp, until he finally stands from the couch to take a piss. He really isn’t used to eating this much. It’s only mildly disastrous how he can feel everything sloshing around in his stomach, but seeing all the empty wrappers on the coffee table makes it slightly worse. The weed made everything look so good.
He trudges to the bathroom, does his business, splashes some water on his face. A burp brings back the sharp taste of Cool Ranch Doritos. When he hears a loud knocking at the door, he considers hiding the evidence of his gluttony and sluggishly grabs a few Twinkie wrappers and the empty bag of Funyuns, but he loses his train of thought and answers the door before throwing them in the trash.
It’s only when he’s standing face to face with Walt, clutching the wrappers still in his hand, that he realizes how bad it looks.
“Are you high?”
“No. I mean, I smoked some weed…” Jesse can't help feeling defensive at Walt's scowl. “Hey, you said no smoking crystal—you didn’t say anything about grass.”
“I shouldn’t have to specify what substances I’m talking about when I say ‘no getting high’. I shouldn’t have to tell you that a blanket statement includes all possibilities, as in; no eating magic mushrooms, Jesse, no smoking peyote, Jesse, no huffing noxious cleaning chemicals—”
“I wasn’t doing any of that shit!”
“When I say no getting high, that covers the extensive list of whatever substances you choose to fry your brain with. Got it?”
“Yeah. I get it, Jesus.”
When Walt lets himself in, Jesse can’t slam the door hard enough. As if the lecture wasn’t annoying enough, now Walt is just standing there, eyeing the living room the same way someone might check out the inside of a crackhouse. He takes one glance at the coffee table full of way too many empty wrappers and gives Jesse a look—the “You can’t possibly be this stupid” look.
“What is this?” Walt asks.
“It’s… I don’t know, it’s just snacks. Can’t a guy fuel up?”
“Fuel,” Walt repeats stiffly. “I’d compare that junk to liquid mercury before I compared it to fuel.”
Jesse shoves the wrappers in his hand into his pocket. All the sugar churning in his guts does feel a little toxic, and he hates Walt all the more for rubbing it in. The thought of driving out into the boiling desert wasteland is almost too much to bear, but so is standing still and letting himself get lectured by the prick.
“Did you want, like, a house tour?” Jesse snaps. “Or can we bounce?”
Walt is still staring at the mess of junk food, probably thinking up some other way to ride Jesse for this. And Jesse wishes he would hurry the hell up already and get it over with because it’s too quiet and his stomach is finally reacting to all that sugar, loudly, and the last thing he needs is Walt’s undivided attention right now.
But, of course, the universe is never on Jesse’s side. His stomach decides to make an obnoxiously loud gurgling sound right at that moment, and he doesn’t miss the doubtful twitch of Walt’s eyebrow. The way his eyes flicker an inch lower.
“Are you going to be able to cook?” Walt asks, and Jesse makes a point to gawk at him like it’s the stupidest question ever. Because it is.
“Yeah?”
Walt gives him another judgmental look, then puts his hands up in defeat. He’s done with his bitching, finally, which means they can get a move on. If Walt will ever stop staring at him like a freak, that is. Jesse makes a point to roll his eyes as he heads for the door.
“Are we gonna cook, or what?”
*************
The drive into the desert is hell. The camper is hot and muggy and croaks like something on its deathbed every time it rolls over a bump. Walt has been going on about upgrading the lab equipment, some rant about titration that sounds more unhinged than anything. The man must love the sound of his own voice, or maybe he’s just accepted the fact that he’s talking to himself, because Jesse hasn’t really been able to pay attention.
His stomach is in shambles. And yeah, he did it to himself, and yes, maybe it wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t gotten so stoned. But now his hands feel sticky on the wheel and the sun is somehow burning him through the windshield, making the camper feel like some sort of disgusting bog he’ll never be able to escape, and it’s hard to think about anything else.
Staring out at the miles and miles of sun-baked nothingness is only a good enough distraction for so long. He wipes the sweat off the back of his neck with a groan, slouching forward in the driver’s seat and wrapping an arm around his middle under his hoodie. It’s covert, and not obvious—at least, until he’s hit with a painful stomach cramp.
An embarrassing groan escapes his lips, and Walt’s eyes are on him in a millisecond, probing.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Stomachache?”
Jesse could deny it. He could, but he doesn’t really have the willpower right now, and if he ends up spewing all over the dashboard, Walt will figure it out anyway. He gives a half-shrug, and in the corner of his eye, he sees Walt shake his head.
“Shocking. Who would’ve guessed a diet of nothing but Funyuns would have consequences?”
Jesse can’t decide if he’d rather puke on Walt or leave him stranded in the desert. Ideally, he’d like to do both.
“You realize your body isn’t a landfill, right?”
Jesse grips the wheel, scowling. “Why you gotta be such a dick?”
“I’m only telling you what you need to hear, since you seem to be oblivious to your own faults, here. I’m just saying that if your body’s trying to tell you something, maybe you should listen.”
It takes everything in Jesse not to slam on the brakes to make Walt lurch into the dashboard.
Another five miles go by, then another ten, and then they’re parked and suited up in the wasteland.
The cooking is a mechanical process. Jesse is far from having the method down, so he knows when to step back and let Walt take the reins, when to say nothing and let him fuss over the small details. There’s usually a problem, and today, Walt has decided it’s the lack of ventilation in the RV. For once, Jesse agrees. It’s pure misery, and the heat hasn’t been helping the cramping in his guts. The camper is impossibly sweaty and cramped, and focusing on cooking was halfway taking his mind off it, but it’s getting harder to ignore now. There’s moisture pooling in every crevice of his body, his head feels too heavy for his shoulders, and he can still taste Cool Ranch Doritos, which he swears he’ll never eat again.
“No, no. This won’t work,” Walt mumbles, inspecting the wide square vent on the ceiling. “There’s some kind of blockage in the airway. Completely insufficient.”
“No shit, it’s insufficient.” Jesse tears off his gas mask. “I’m sweating my nuts off, man. What if we just crack open the door?”
“That’s a temporary solution. We’ll need to get this fixed as soon as possible.”
“Yeah, and let me guess—I’m the one who’s gotta fix it, right?”
“Correct.”
Walt is already propping the door open, but Jesse pushes past him to stumble outside.
He can’t do it anymore. He needs fresh air, or else—well, he doesn’t know what. With the way his guts have been churning, puking is a real possibility. Or something worse. He’s trying not to think about it.
The desert air is hot, still, but there’s a slight breeze and it’s heavenly compared to the confinement of the RV. The air always feels a little damp in March. Collapsing in the lawn chair Walt set up, Jesse strips off his baggy layers until he’s in his short-sleeved shirt and boxers, panting and feeling the hot breeze against his skin. It’s dry as hell, but it’s better than nothing, better than slow-roasting in an oven of humid sweat and chemical heat. And that nauseatingly sweet, synthetic stench of meth—
“Jesse.”
“God, what?” Jesse groans. “Can you just lay off for like, two seconds? I need some fresh air.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, we don’t exactly have an abundance of downtime here. That gallon of methylamine needs to be gone. We’re out here to cook, not sit around and—are you even listening to me? This isn’t some spring break vacation.”
Walt is a relentless bastard. Jesse wants to bite back, but he can’t focus on anything besides the saliva pooling in his mouth, the nauseous chill creeping up his spine despite all the heat.
“Just… just give me a second.”
Leaning against the side of the RV, Walt squints in the sunlight and tongues his cheek. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with you gorging yourself earlier, would it?”
Jesse closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. If he focuses on this, the feeling will pass. They’ll finish the batch. He’ll be back home soon. He just has to make it until then, and everything will be fine. This would all be so much easier if Walt weren’t a world-class dick.
“When are you ever going to take my advice? A human being can’t survive on snacks from the gas station, Jesse.”
Jesse swallows thickly, wiping a layer of sweat off his forehead. “Stop talking about food, man. Please.”
A moment goes by where Walt says nothing, and Jesse cracks open an eye to find him staring. He doesn’t seem so pissed anymore. Maybe it’s the heat waves, but there’s something like sympathy on his face, or maybe pity. Jesse watches as he ducks back into the camper, disappearing for a minute, then he comes out with a bottle of water and another bottle of something pink.
Walt offers him a small bottle of Pepto Bismol, looking only slightly less pissy than he did a moment ago.
“I always keep one on me,” he says. “Helps with the chemo.”
Jesse takes the medicine, trying to keep his breathing in check. Of course, he’s had this the whole time. He thanks Walt anyway, downing a third of the bottle in one swig. As he grips the arm of the lawn chair, he tries to will away the sick feeling, focusing on the anticipated relief that will hopefully come soon. It might come sooner if Walt weren’t standing so close, observing him like he’s some kind of zoo animal.
“Thanks, Mr. White,” Jesse says again, clearing his throat, but Walt doesn’t move.
“Why did you do this, Jesse?”
“Do what?” Jesse scrunches up his face, noticing the sweat glistening on Walt’s bald skull. It looks shiny in the sunlight, glinting as he shakes his head.
“This. To yourself. And don’t bullshit me and say it’s nothing, because you’ve been miserable all day—don’t think I didn’t notice how you almost botched the reduction process. You can hardly concentrate.”
“You think I did it on purpose?”
“No, I don’t think you did it on purpose. I think you lack impulse control. You have a tendency to overdo things, which is…” Walt shakes his head, stares out into the desert. “Your reckless eating habits are hardly my concern, but you can’t let it affect your professional life.”
“Yeah, cause this is so professional,” Jesse scoffs at the RV, but regrets it once Walt’s face hardens.
“You will not. Let it affect. Our business. This… incident today. It won’t happen again—do I make myself clear?”
“Yeah, I got it. It won’t happen again.”
Sometimes, Jesse can’t help but feel that he gets the worst of Walt. This is one of those times. Walt’s eyes bore holes through him for another moment before he backs off, finally letting him breathe. Jesse gives him back the medicine, and Walt hands him the water, watching him drink it in silence.
*************
The sun is waning, dipping down the horizon and making orange ripples leak across the sky. Jesse feels sleep weighing him down. After the brutal labor of today, the tattered passenger’s seat feels like the most comfortable thing on earth.
Walt is taking the wheel for this shift, which is nice. He hasn't yelled since the almost-puking incident, either. Jesse figures he should enjoy it while it lasts. As he watches the pale desert landscape whiz by, he begins to doze off. He’s halfway between lucid and asleep, just on the verge of slipping away, when he feels something fall in his lap.
“Protein bar.”
“Hm?” Jesse blinks groggily, glances at the bar in his lap before letting his eyes drift shut. “Not hungry.”
“You need to eat something,” Walt says, and Jesse sighs at that, because the way he’s saying it means it’s not a suggestion.
He unwraps the protein bar, taking a bite and grimacing at the taste of lemony peanut. It’s a weird flavor combination, but after the second bite, he decides it's not so bad.
“You should be getting more protein,” Walt says. “You need energy.”
“Thanks, mom.”
“If I were your mother, you wouldn’t be living off of neon-colored snack foods.”
Jesse wants to be more annoyed at the criticism, but he’s beat, and comfy against the window, so he laughs. “So, what? You’d cook for me? What would you make, pot roast or something?” He hears Walt scoff at that, but it’s not mean. Jesse takes another bite of the protein bar and closes his eyes again. “...and I have to eat my vegetables first, or no dessert. Right?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Damn, Mr. White... Out here repping like the breadwinner when you secretly wanna be the housewife. Didn’t know you wanted to feed me so bad.”
“I guess I’d have to. Seeing as how you don’t know how to feed yourself.”
Jesse curls up in the seat, letting his hoodie fall over his face. “Hey, you wanna cook me a homemade meal, I ain’t complaining,” he mumbles. “I can’t even remember what my mom’s cooking tastes like.”
Walt is quiet, then, and Jesse doesn’t bother wondering why. His eyes can’t stay open anymore. The seat feels so warm and the hum of the engine drones on and on, the clanky comfort lulling him to sleep. The protein bar falls from his hand and rolls under the seat.
*************
A dry week goes by. They cook again, then two more weeks pass without production.
Combo gets shot. There’s nothing Jesse can do about it, so he reminds himself first thing every morning, lets the feeling twist him up inside.
Some days are easier than others. Today, at least, he’s got plans.
The first thing he does after getting out of the shower is order a deep-dish pizza. He wraps a towel around his waist and dials the number, orders a large supreme pizza with breadsticks and marinara sauce. Gets a side salad too, because health, and all that. While waiting for the delivery guy, he loads up his bong and holds the smoke in his lungs until he’s coughing. He’s got box DVD sets now, so he puts on the show about the plane crash and lets himself get sucked into the story as he sinks into the couch.
When the pizza finally comes, he’s so hungry he nearly puts away the whole thing in twenty minutes. Each slice has the perfect amount of cheese, a hot gooeyness, and the dough is crispy with just enough oil to leave a soft texture on the inside. After the first two slices, though, the taste loses its novelty, so he digs into the breadsticks. He remembers the salad is there, too, but then there’s a knocking at the door.
When he answers, he isn’t sure why he was expecting it to be the pizza delivery guy. Then he remembers that he’s stoned and shirtless, staring at Walt on his doorstep. It’s only natural, he guesses, that Walt is gawking at him—even without any real reason, there’s always something he can find to be disappointed about.
“Hey.” Jesse sheepishly wipes the pizza sauce off his lips with the back of his hand, letting Walt into the house. He dips into his bedroom to throw a shirt on, then waltzes back out into the living room. “So, where’ve you been, man?”
“You’re stoned.”
Jesse groans, throwing his head back. “Come on, how was I supposed to know you were just gonna drop by out of like, nowhere? You go all ghost for a month, then just show up here—what do you want me to do?”
Walt makes a big show of sniffing the skunky air inside the house. He doesn’t need to say anything for Jesse to know he’s impossibly annoyed, it’s just his perpetual state of existence.
“It’s fine.” Walt quickly shakes his head. “We’re not getting cooking supplies today. I actually… I have something for you.”
“Really?”
Walt reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crinkled brown bag, and Jesse can hardly believe what he sees. What he smells. He identifies it before he can see it, actually, and when he takes the package to open it, his expectations are confirmed.
“Wait, what?” He rolls the bag around in his palm, baffled. “Weren’t you just riding my ass for getting high, like, two seconds ago? I mean, where’d you even—?”
“What, no 'thank you'?”
“Uh… thanks for buying me an ounce of chronic, Mr. White?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Walt waves a flippant hand. “There was no purchasing involved. I confiscated it from my son."
Jesse bites his tongue. Of course.
“I just—well, I know you indulge every once in a while,” Walt goes on. “And yes, I’ve criticized you for smoking marijuana. But as far as the statistics go, it’s a much better alternative to, well, methamphetamine. So, when I found this… item in my son’s room, I just figured… you’re an adult. And he’s a child. My son. You get the point.”
“Yeah, I mean. That makes sense.”
“You might want to take it easy with that stuff, though. My son threw a fit when I confiscated it. Apparently—and these were his words, verbatim—this stuff is ‘the good shit’. He mentioned something about the breeds, or the strains; what were they called? Alaskan Thunderfuck? Cheetah Piss? Some ridiculous names.”
“Cheetah piss." Jesse tries to blink through his high. "That’s, uh. That sounds like some top-notch grass, Mr. White.”
Walt shrugs. “Well, he was pretty worked up about it. I guess it was some high-grade reefer.”
Crinkling open the paper bag, the earthy aroma comes strong and sweet, almost citrus-like, wafting into his nose and tickling his brain.
“Damn, I don’t blame him. I would’ve been pissed.” Jesse stares at the bag. “Seriously, though. Thanks.”
“Yes, well. You're welcome. Let’s not get too distracted with all this, though. I figured we should touch base… I know a diner downtown, we can talk there. I figured it’d be more productive, and we could get something to eat.”
Straightening his spine, Jesse feels slightly more sobered up now. Yeah. They can finally talk business now, which is good. More money is good. But…
“I kind of, uh, ordered a pizza already,” Jesse confesses. It’s only the truth, but when the telltale look of disappointment begins to creep onto Walt’s face, he backtracks. “But no, yeah, totally. I’d be down for a diner.”
“You’re not hungry?”
“I’m, uh. I’m pretty full, but...”
Walt eyes the coffee table with the leftover takeout strewn over it, and Jesse can feel a familiar criticism building. He waits for the comment about him being a slob, a total fatass, but then Walt goes still with a sudden realization.
“God, I completely forgot.”
“Huh?”
“Skylar—she asked me to pick up these outlet covers. Bumpers. We’re babyproofing the house, it’s a whole ordeal. Anyway, it’s almost four pm, and I need to run by the store—just wait here. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
With that, Walt is gone out the front door, and Jesse is left to blink away what’s left of his blurry high. Great, he thinks. Just great. How long will he have to sit around waiting this time? Jesse falls back on the couch with a sigh. The thought of going to a diner does sound nice, actually, just to get out of the house. The fresh air is calling to him.
Then again, so is the bag of weed in his hand. He stops toying with it, finally, sitting up to carefully reach in and pinch a sticky bud between his fingers. Walt probably wants him to save it for a rainy day or something. Or, any time but now. The guy is seriously unpredictable, but damn, that’s some real charity right there. And the weed isn’t a gift, Jesse knows, but it’s free, and Walt was nice enough to think of him, so—basically a gift.
When he takes a whiff, the citrus scent is even stronger. Like some kind of tropical fruit. He shouldn’t smoke any. Walt will be back in an hour, and he’ll be pissed if Jesse is so stoned he can’t concentrate—which is usually the case, even when Jesse isn’t stoned, so what difference will it make? He won’t get super high. Just slightly high, and Walt won’t even notice or care. The weed has been helping him function better these days, anyway.
He packs the bowl of his bong, and the smoke that fills his lungs is just as tangy as he imagined. Tangier, even.
For as clueless as Walt is about weed, Jesse will give him credit—it’s definitely the good shit. The high hits him all at once, and he’s wrapped in a cocoon of fuzziness, slumped on the couch, staring up at patterns on the ceiling with a big fat smile on his face. His limbs feel detached from his body, heavy things, far from reach. So much for getting only slightly stoned.
What happens over the course of the next hour is hard to describe. He forgets about the dinner plans, for one, and he gets hungry again—finishes the pizza, the breadsticks, and most of the salad. It’s a mindless meal. At some point, he thinks he turned on the TV, only he’s not sure if those faraway noises are from the neighbors or some imaginary conversation he’s having with himself.
Then he’s in Walt’s Aztek, slumped in the passenger’s seat as a blast of hot air hits him through the open window. It should bother him more that he can’t remember getting here, but Walt seems oblivious, and it’s probably best to keep him that way. Having to listen to a lecture (or even attempting to comprehend it) would be a real pain right now.
He’s been going on about something. Reflux condensers, maybe. Jesse can’t keep up. He makes an effort to sit up straight in the seat, clearing the dryness from his throat and adjusting the seatbelt he doesn’t remember putting on.
“Uh. Where are we going again?”
Walt flicks on his blinker, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “Vic’s Daily. It’s a nice little joint, one of those Mom and Pop places. Casual.”
In the parking lot, Jesse may as well be on another planet. The sun feels too bright, just a fat, blinding bulb of whiteness, and he almost trips over his feet getting out of the car. Walt doesn’t notice his lack of tact, thankfully.
In the diner, Jesse wriggles in the plastic booth, feeling too high. He vaguely remembers eating pizza and breadsticks, and he isn't full, exactly, but he knows he shouldn't eat more.
“Do you know what you want?” Walt asks over his menu. Jesse scans the pictures—burgers, fries, fritters—wanting everything and nothing. He settles on chicken and waffles with a milkshake; Walt orders a Reuben, dressing on the side, and chili. The waitress brings out coffee first, and Walt sips it cautiously, wincing a bit as he burns his tongue.
They’ll be cooking again next weekend, he says. This bleeds into a one-sided conversation about how they’re doing in the business department, which is not great, obviously, considering all the fine tweakers of Albuquerque now know that Jesse never actually squashed anyone with an ATM, and then there’s the problem of Combo. Combo, whose wake Jesse never attended. Combo, who is dead now, because of Jesse.
When the food arrives, Jesse drowns his waffles in syrup, using the chewing to drown out Walt. And every other thought.
“...That’s the problem with relying on foot soldiers for distrubition,” Walt explains, stirring his chili. “It lacks tact, you can’t run a network on improvisation. You need structure, accountability—Jesse?”
“Hm? Right, yeah. Accountability.”
Walt sighs, pulling apart his sandwich to inspect it. “I specifically told her, dressing on the side. Didn’t I tell her that?”
Walt could call the waitress over to tell her he was Heisenberg himself, and Jesse would probably just keep nodding and keep scarfing down the chicken. Which is seriously killer, the chicken—the waffles are nice and puffy and the syrup makes them so much better, all gooey and sweet, but the crispy chicken really hits the spot. All the tenderness in the meat, the lingering thrill of grease…
He’s trying to have manners while scarfing it down, at least.
“Good?” Walt asks.
“So good,” Jesse mumbles. “Seriously, so good.”
Walt hums, eyeing the plate. “Well, I bet it’s nice getting some real food for a change.”
“Hell yeah. Haven’t had chicken and waffles in forever.”
Jesse feels like he’s floating. The AC feels fuzzy and warm against his skin. Normally, the silence would be awkward, but he’s fried, and the meal is amazing after weeks of nothing but takeout. Time feels slow, especially since Walt hasn't touched his sandwich.
“You’re not gonna eat that?” Jesse asks, and Walt's eyes slide down to his own plate with a weary look.
“Well. It’s been compromised, so no.”
“What?”
“I ask for the dressing on the side because when they put it on the sandwich, they drown it. I mean, they completely drench it, then it seeps into the bread, just… unsalvageable. You take one bite and it’s nothing but soggy lettuce and vinegar. There’s a ratio to these things, you know. It’s not arbitrary.”
Jesse rolls his eyes, and Walt nudges the plate towards him.
“If you want it, it’s all yours.”
It’s tempting. Jesse is beyond full, a heavy sensation nagging through his high, but it doesn't hurt yet. He accepts, taking a giant bite. Walt was right about the soggy bread, but the tangy dressing and savory beef are too good to turn down. He sips his milkshake between bites, basking in the break from reality.
“Yo,” Jesse nods. “Aren’t you gonna order something else? I feel bad, pigging out over here.”
Walt stirs his chili thoughtfully. Annoyingly. He’s really making it last. “I’ll have better luck with a different item. It seems unlikely they’ll make a mistake twice, but then again, you never know.”
Speaking of making mistakes, Jesse’s beginning to think maybe he shouldn’t have eaten so much earlier. He doesn’t even want to think about how shitty and bloated he’ll feel when the high wears off. Already halfway through the sandwich, he can’t help but dwell on everything he’d eaten earlier, all that pizza and breadsticks and whatever the hell else. He can’t remember.
Still, it feels good to be working his jaw right now, so he works through the sandwich, the tangy sauce flavors mingling with the smoked meat. Each bite is another hit of dopamine. And the dopamine demands more of itself, yes, because it’s all that good, until a dull, squeezing sensation hits his gut.
“Ugh, Jesus,” Jesse mutters, propping his chin on his hand.
“Something wrong?”
“Nah, I’m just… so full. I can barely breathe, man.”
It’s surprising, maybe, that there is no criticism in response. Walt is smiling a little, a kind expression. Warm. Like he’s just glad Jesse is eating again, like he’s actually happy to share a meal and have a conversation together like this. Which is weird, and actually kind of sweet at the same time, and Jesse doesn’t know what to think of it because it’s hard to think of anything at all.
“I don’t think I’ve eaten this much since, shit, I don’t even know. Ever?”
“Good to see your appetite is back.”
“Oh, it’s back.” Jesse laughs in a daze, rubbing his chest. It’s annoying to admit to himself, but Walt’s really not that bad of a guy. Just a hardass. He isn’t sure why they don’t do this more often. He isn’t sure why the next admission comes out of his mouth, either. “Hey, uh. Don’t be mad, but. I kinda smoked some of that grass you gave me. Just to try it, you know. I didn’t think it was gonna be this strong, but it kinda…”
“Knocked you on your ass?”
Jesse swallows, noticing Walt’s eyebrows raised. “…Yeah. I’m sorry, Mr. White. Seriously. I just thought you should know I’m like, insanely high right now. My bad.”
It’s only the truth. Surely, Walt is about to be pissed. But then he’s chuckling, a quiet sound drowned in the chatter of the diner. Jesse swallows hard as he leans forward in the booth, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of his waistband digging into the flesh there.
“You’re pissed.”
“No,” Walt says. The way his eyes are sparkling is really throwing Jesse off. “You’ve been through a lot. You deserve a break.”
“So, you really don’t care?”
“I gave you marijuana, Jesse. I’d be a fool to expect you not to smoke it. And have I ever been known to act like a fool?”
“...No?”
Walt nods, smiling. “You’re welcome.”
In the soft and sunny light of the diner, Walt almost doesn’t look like the same man who showed up in his driveway months ago to blackmail him into cooking meth. He doesn’t look like the tight-ass chemistry teacher who flunked Jesse all those years back, either. He seems older, kinder somehow. Especially when he talks all polite to the waitress, ordering a Pepsi with no ice, fries, and a cheeseburger—medium-well, top bun toasted, extra onions, no pickles, mustard on the side.
He’s picky as hell. And maybe it shouldn’t be all that surprising, considering how anal the man is, but Jesse finds himself staring in disbelief when the food arrives again, only for Walt to stare at the cheeseburger in disapproval.
“Unbelievable,” Walt shakes his head. “You’d think there would be at least one competent person in that kitchen, but no.”
Walt pushes the plate away, and Jesse can only gape in disbelief. “Are you for real right now?”
“I asked for mustard on the side; they gave me ketchup. They’ve slathered the patty in mustard. It’s a simple request.”
Leave it to Walt to act like he’s been served a severed head or something instead of a perfect, juicy burger. Jesse would offer to clean his plate if he wasn’t stuffed to the gills, already feeling the sedating effects of all the greasy bread and meat.
“Are you kidding me?” Jesse blinks. “That’s like, the most perfect burger I’ve ever seen. And who cares about the mustard if you’re just gonna put it on there yourself, anyway?”
“Forget about the condiments, Jesse. It’s about the principle.” Walt sighs, looking almost insecure before eyeing the plate again. “It’s just a shame this has to go to waste now.”
Damn. Jesse doesn’t want to do this, he shouldn’t do this, but there’s a haze of interference clouding everything, and his brain is buzzing and, God help him, but he can’t bear to see that burger thrown away for nothing.
He takes the burger with caution, letting it hover in the air before deciding he’s being too much of a pussy about it. And he’s already made a mistake, he knows, but after taking the first bite, he realizes he’s pretty much dug his own grave, because there’s no way he’s letting anything this delicious go to waste.
Jesse uses a knife to swipe the fat dollop of ketchup off Walt’s plate, slathering the sauce on the patty. Walt looks impressed, judgment be damned. And curious, like maybe he’s underestimated Jesse somehow, and there’s something incredibly satisfying about that. Not that Jesse needs his approval or anything, but it’s all the more reason he can’t go half-assed on this decision now.
“God,” he moans through a mouthful of gooey cheese. “You’re seriously missing out on this, Mr. White.”
“Am I?”
“Big time.”
It’s the truth. This might just be the best burger Jesse’s ever had in his life, and he’d be enjoying it a whole lot more if this weren’t his third meal in one sitting. He’s so full it hurts, but even now, there’s still an emptiness. The same big, sucking hole of nothingness that makes him want to smoke himself into a coma on the regular. And it’s not like this cheeseburger is going to be the thing to fill that hole, but damn if it doesn’t feel good to keep stuffing his face.
Jesse slurps up the last of the milkshake, ignoring Walt’s third-degree stare as he chews the savory meat. This is all insanely greedy and he knows it, but it doesn’t matter. His mind is a fog and he’s in a reckless bliss, eating through the haze. Before he knows it, he’s got one last bite of the burger in his hand, and all the food feels like it’s crowding into his lungs, taking up an impossible amount of room. He’s trying to blink through his high again, but all he can think of now is the ache in his stomach, the feeling of the swollen organ pressing against his ribs.
Jesse wipes his hands with a napkin. Pushes the plate away, probably too abruptly.
“Done?”
As it turns out, it is possible to impress Walter White; he's partly amazed, partly astonished. As much as Jesse would like to keep himself in Walt’s good graces, though, he’s long past the point of pretending not to be a slob—he burps into his fist, slumping back against the booth just to breathe properly.
“Oh.” Jesse sighs, sounding like a mattress being deflated. “Oh, man.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, wondering if he’ll be able to walk out of here without assistance, and when he opens them again, he wonders if the weed he smoked was laced with some kind of psychedelic—Walt is laughing, actually laughing. His snickers are muffled into the cuff of his sleeve. Jesse has never seen this side of Walt before. The laughter is contagious, apparently.
“It was all so good, I couldn’t stop.” Jesse covers his face, as if it’ll somehow stop the giggling. Slumped back in the booth, he can get a better look at himself from this angle, and—wow, he actually looks pregnant. “I think I’m like, about to give birth, man. Jesus.”
“Control yourself.” Walt speaks low, glances around. And it’s a warning, but there’s playfulness there, too. “You really can’t help it, can you?”
Jesse’s still laughing, sort of, until he realizes it’s an actual question. But what does he know? He’s just an idiot. A stoned, giggling idiot. Walt’s always been the smart one, taking the lead, taking the reins, taking them out to this diner—why are they here again?
“Maybe I should get the check,” Walt says, and Jesse agrees.
In the parking lot, Jesse heaves himself into the passenger seat of the Aztek, trying to avoid any sudden movements. He dips his hand in the pocket of his hoodie for the quick relief of nicotine, but there are no cigarettes, and to make things worse, Walt is insisting on him wearing a seatbelt.
“Do I have to?” Jesse whines.
“My car, my rules.”
Buckling up the seatbelt, Jesse groans as he lets his head fall back against the seat. His stomach already feels so tight, too tight, and now the safety strap is just digging into his middle.
Walt must be acutely aware of how uncomfortable he is, because he feels the need to remind Jesse it’s only a fifteen-minute drive back home. Still, Jesse slouches into his seat, cradling himself in an attempt to ease the fullness. But once the car is back on the road and they’re in motion, the pressure becomes more apparent, and he doesn’t bother to stifle the mournful groan that escapes him.
“Man, why’d you let me eat all that?”
“Seemed like you were enjoying yourself.”
Jesse stifles a burp into his fist as they drive past a Burger King, a Wendy’s, a fried chicken joint. Endless yellow arches. Walt glances over, but his eyes don’t linger.
“You did enjoy yourself, didn’t you?
“Yeah. Like, way too much.” Jesse palms idly at the small mounds of flesh above his hips, the softness where the too-tight belt strap meets the buckle. “I seriously can’t keep stuffing my face like this. Think it’s starting to show.”
“I haven’t noticed.”
“I’m gonna be a total blimp if I keep this up.”
Walt fiddles with his own seat belt, adjusting himself at a stoplight. It’s very proper, the way he does this. Most likely some difficulty having to do with a proverbial object permanently stuck up his ass.
“Those parachute pants you call jeans might actually fit you,” he says matter-of-factly.
And Jesse considers it for a moment, his baggy pants fitting snugly around his waist, his thighs. But, it’s a joke, he realizes. Walt is making fun of his clothes. And Walt’s not entirely wrong, because yeah, they’re a little loose on him—or, they used to be a little loose on him. It doesn’t feel that way now.
When did he first start to feel the blooming ache in his stomach? Thirty minutes ago? An hour ago? Walt was right about him having no self-control, and the realization does nothing to settle his stomach—it’s hard not to think about the swollen feeling, how his organs are pushed to what might be maximum capacity. Jesse shifts uncomfortably under the seatbelt.
“Alright.” A relenting puff of air escapes Walt’s throat. “You can take off the seatbelt. But. Just this once. I shouldn’t have to lecture you on safety hazards.”
Jesse unbuckles the belt, lets out a sigh of relief. The air feels warm. Silky somehow, and stretched out. In the fog of time moving so slowly, there is a thought on the precipice of forming—something like guilt, or maybe a lack of it, but he doesn’t feel bad about the vacancy. He doesn’t feel bad about anything, he realizes, which is strange. He eggs on the anxious thoughts, testing, just to see if they’ll stick. They don’t.
There’s freedom in it. And no real explanation for the freedom, either, unless it has something to do with the aching pressure behind his ribs. Maybe he’s so full that there’s no room left for anything else, even in his brain. No worries, no pain, nothing that hurts to think about. He tries to ponder it as he stretches out his legs, stretches out in the seat, and he can feel Walt’s eyes moving over him.
“...Like a kid in a candy shop.”
Jesse opens his eyes, realizing that Walt is, in fact, speaking to him.
“What?”
“You really can’t help yourself, can you?”
Yes, Jesse thinks. Or maybe the right answer is No. His brain feels a little scrambled. Walt asked him the same question, he remembers, back in the diner.
“It’s hard for you,” Walt says matter-of-factly. “To tell yourself no, to know your limits. I think I understand it now.”
“Yeah, well…” Jesse feels himself trailing off, staring out the window with glazed-over eyes. There was a smart reply on the tip of his tongue just a moment ago. He can’t recall it for the life of him. Walt’s fingers are drumming against the wheel with a steady tap, tap, tap as he talks.
“Don’t overthink it,” he says. “You’re just a doer, that’s all. An action man—or a businessman, if you will. Sometimes it’s better to go where your instincts take you. And I’m secure enough with myself to admit this, but I’ve always been somewhat…envious, of people with that appetite for life. You know, I used to watch Saturday Night Live, mostly in college, really, and they had this guy on there—with Dan Aykroyd, maybe you’re too young to remember. But he was a skydiver, this guy. What was it he said… ‘It feels good, so why stop?” Walt clears his throat. “But, ah. Listen to me, strolling down memory lane.”
Idly, Jesse rubs at his chest. He’s tired. He tries to focus on the road, the central path where traffic follows. Sunlight glinting off cars, the vehicles moving forward as one collective mind. Then he’s thinking about cars turning into robots, evil Transformers stomping all over the city. Walt would probably build some frequency transmitter device to take them down by hacking their electrical wires.
“You’re not so bad, you know,” Jesse mumbles. When Walt says nothing, more sounds are drowned by the rumbling engine. “You’re an egghead, but. You’re a good guy.”
“Well, I appreciate that, Jesse.”
Another moment goes by before Jesse speaks again.
“You’re right,” he says.
“About?”
“Can’t help myself. ‘S just hard sometimes.”
The car feels weightless, just some big machine gliding through the air and floating indefinitely in space. A speck on the great void’s conveyor belt. The low-rolling clouds tinged with pink make for a pretty view, but they don’t hold Jesse’s attention the way the buildings do, the streaks of greys and neons and bright fast food signs that make him feel a little sicker. In a bleary way, he almost likes it.
Walt should be halfway into a lecture right now, some tightly-wound spiel about him pushing his limits, him needing babysitting, Jesse with the brain of an addict; You never listen, Jesse, for once, just listen. But it’s quiet besides the lull of the engine, twinkling city lights coming alive and reflecting off the window glass.
“Mr. White?”
“Hm?”
Jesse yawns. “Where are we going?”
“Home.”
Stretched out on the warm seat, Jesse lets his head loll against the window. The AC feels cool against the back of his eyelids.