Chapter Text
There's a ringing in his ears as though an explosion had just gone off next to him, deafening the world as he struggles to sit up, the piercing sound like a knife digging into him. He screws his eyes shut in pain, struggles to breathe. The ground - or whatever he's on - is soft beneath him, and he feels fabric when he flexes his fingers in it. Turning his head slightly, he can feel the embrace of the sun casting itself on him.
Where am I?
He feels a sudden jerk in his stomach, a mixture between hanging upside down on a rollercoaster and being kicked so hard he can’t breathe, and he keels over, vomiting his guts up for what feels like ages. When his stomach stops heaving, the ringing slowly subsides in his ears and he cracks an uneasy eye open. He's on a bed, unfortunately now sporting a puddle of bile. He wipes his mouth shakily with the back of a hand and turns his head slightly and carefully to avoid that kick of nausea, sees the sun streaming through an open window. Slowly the room comes into focus, and he reels backwards, feeling as though he's about to puke again.
It's his room. It's his fucking room in his Aunt Ginny's house.
Jesse sits there for a long time, staring stupidly at everything around him. When he finally stumbles off the bed, he explores the house on shaky legs with cotton in his head and acid in his mouth. It's the same as it was before his parents remodelled it, the homeliness and softness still carrying on beyond the death of his aunt before it was neutered and cut out by his parents. He wanders into a bathroom, and stares at the stranger in the mirror.
There's a young, fresh-faced boy staring back at him, short hair, stubble dusting his face, and scared blue eyes. When he reaches out to the mirror, the boy reaches back to him.
He feels a pressure building in his chest, behind his eyes, feeling as though someone's finger was hovering just above the trigger of a gun and preparing to fire right into his heart. Everything inside him wants to break down crying then and there, but all he manages to feel is numb.
The memory of the compound washes over him. He remembers bullets raining over him, the smell of blood, the feeling of choking Todd to death, of finally being freed from that compound by Mr. White - and even thinking that name makes the pressure inside him almost physically painful, the finger landing fully on the trigger of that gun but not quite pulling. Just like he hadn’t pulled the trigger and killed Mr. White. Even though he’d wanted it. Even though Mr. White had wanted it. He’d simply gotten in to a car after sharing a look with the other man that seemed to say, “Finally, we see each other.” It was a goodbye. An apology. One final tender thing to share between them amongst the carnage.
And then, screaming down the road away, it turns black. And now he’s here.
He stands looking into the mirror for a long time, wondering at the clean face, no scars, no bruises, no circles under his eyes or redness from weeping. When his hands dig into his pockets he doesn't find Andrea and Brock's photo, instead closing around a small bag of meth. He pulls it out and stares at it.
The first thought to cross his mind is, It's not blue. And he bends over, throws it into the toilet and flushes it down on impulse.
The numbness doesn't go away for the rest of the night, and he sleeps there, curled up on the tiled floor of the bathroom, clutching his knees to himself as though he was back in the pit.
When he wakes, he wanders through the house again. It's all still there. The boy in the mirror, the welcoming warmth of his aunt's home, everything. He finds the bed, smelling of vomit, and his phone falls onto the ground as he strips the sheets off in a haze.
The blinking phone display shows messages.
He listens to four voicemails from Emilio, all demanding to know where he was, why he hadn't gone to Emilio's to cook, and that if he knew what was good for him and didn't want to get beaten, then he'd get his skinny white ass over the instant he got up. When he reads his texts, it's more of the same, not-so-vague threats and demands, plus one from Badger asking if he wanted to hang out and if he had any crystal to hook them up with.
He's vaguely surprised that he feels nothing when he sees Emilio's name. The smell of blood and hydrofluoric acid had never left him after that day, had always seemed to haunt the house, lingering even after his parents had remodeled it. Emilio was his childhood friend, and his partner before he'd fallen into the hands of Mr. White, but hearing this ghost talking to him on the phone, it didn’t inspire anything but exhaustion in him.
He doesn't respond to Emilio, or Badger. Instead, he finds his fingers automatically tapping in a familiar phone number and holding the phone to his ear as it rang.
It rings briefly, then stops.
“We're sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again."
He pulls the phone away and looks at it with a creased brow for a minute before it clicks. He doesn't have his second phone yet. When Jesse realizes he dialed Mr. White, that number still burned into his mind, the numb haze slips away slightly, and he finds himself running to the bathroom to puke his guts up. He cries, hunched over the toilet until his eyes feel sore and achy, his throat scratchy, and he wipes his nose on his sleeve before pulling himself back together.
Jesse has to see him. Just see. He swears that he won't talk to him, that he won't reach out to him. He promises himself that a thousand times before he manages to get himself into his car. It’s just curiosity, seeing how far this demented daydream will take him.
Jesse's hands shake on the wheel, and he doesn't stop shaking the entire drive to Mr. White's house. Just to see.
He pulls up to the curb far enough from the house that he feels confident (not) that no one in the house can see him. The Aztek is the only vehicle there - and fuck if he doesn’t feel a jolt of nostalgia seeing that ugly old thing - and Jesse can feel himself start to hyperventilate through gritted teeth. What the fuck is he doing here? What is his plan? His knuckles go white on the steering wheel as he fights down a wave of nausea. He doesn't even have a gun, although at the deepest part of his heart he knows he could never in his life shoot Mr. White. Not even when he asked. Not even when he should.
The front door of the house opens, and Jesse sees him. He has hair, like he did in the compound, but a moustache instead of a beard. He's wearing plain clothes, thin wire frame glasses, and he's spinning his keys in his hand. Jesse sees a wolf in sheep's clothing; an angry, hungry animal hiding behind the mundane. Mr. White had, all the way to the very end, held this aura of incredible danger, even if his face looked tired and old, even as he stood there bleeding and dying.
He's out of his car before he can register it, and halfway to his partner - not my partner anymore, his mind whispers - before he realizes what he's doing but it's too late. Mr. White's head had turned toward the movement in the corner of his eye and he locks gazes with an abruptly terrified Jesse. And he can't run, can't move, can't do anything as Mr. White comes towards him with wide eyes and open arms.
The finger finally pulls the trigger in his chest as Mr. White's arms wrap tightly around him right in the middle of the street, pull him into his broad chest. Jesse feels himself shatter into pieces, the haze that had carried him through this bizarre situation completely vanishing as he bawls his eyes out and clutches onto Mr. White. He holds on as though letting go for even a second would kill him. Mr. White holds him so tightly in return it almost hurts, and a low voice in his ears hushes him like he's an unruly child having a tantrum. He feels dry, chaste kisses being pressed to the side of his face as he cries loud and ugly into Mr. White's shoulder.
“Jesse… It's okay now. You're alright. Hush, son,” Mr. White murmurs into his ear over and over, sounding so soft and gentle that Jesse can almost pretend that the past two years never happened.
He hates the man hugging him so much, wishes that God himself would strike him down because Jesse can't.
He doesn't know how long they stand there, but every time Mr. White tries to pull away, Jesse clenches his fingers tightly into the man's shoulders and sobs louder. And every time, Mr. White pulls him back in deeper, holds him tighter until Jesse feels as though he'll be pulled right inside, pushed into the nook right next to this man's heart.
A honk startles them briefly, but Jesse still refuses to relinquish his grip. After a moment of hesitation that Jesse can feel run across Mr. White's shoulders under is hands, he gets dragged across the street towards Mr. White's house and the interrupting vehicle goes past them.
“Jesse,” Mr. White says, voice thick. “Jesse.”
God , he just wants so badly to pretend the past two years were just a dream. He wants to stay wrapped up in this hug forever, avoid facing the world for just a while, wants to feel like the tight pressure of Mr. White's arms can piece him back together even though it was those arms that broke him apart a thousand times before.
Eventually Mr. White manages to drag him back to his front door, opens it even as Jesse can't stop himself from whining as the arms loosen around him and part of him wants to bite his own damn tongue off before he can say anything he'll regret when he comes back to himself. He can't even manage to feel embarrassed when Mr. White's lips press to his forehead in apology.
“Skyler isn't here,” Mr. White says, manhandling him to the couch. “We can stay, for awhile.”
Jesse can't stop shaking, and he swears on his life that the only thing stopping him from shaking apart into dust is Mr. White. He digs his fingers in and feels a sickening burst of anger unfurl in the pit of his stomach, all the anger he hadn’t had time to digest and unfurl in the compound. All that blinding white rage he’d had that had dwindled down into a pit of ashes and embers in his stomach and that had nearly gone out completely when he’d seen the bullet wound in Mr. White’s side.
“How could you?” he whispers accusingly, sniveling into the older man's shoulder. He doesn't know exactly what he's accusing him of - Jane? Gale? Brock? Andrea? Jack and Todd? There's a laundry list of ghosts hanging around his neck like a noose, put there in large part because of Mr. White. Because of Heisenberg and his empire.
The logical part of his brain knows that every step of the way he could've said no. Mr. White might be the devil with a tongue of silver and a touch of gold, but at every turn until the end Jesse had gone along with it, let himself be talked into believing that the man was doing what was best.
Mr. White rubs his back in soothing circles with one hand and runs through Jesse's hair with the other. “I'm sorry,” he says, with a voice low and broken and sad, “I'm so sorry.”
And God help him, Jesse believes him. He could probably count on one hand the times that the other man had ever apologized and had the apology feel truly sincere. But it doesn't matter if it's sincere. Not anymore. They're so far beyond forgiveness that it almost seems like a foreign concept.
He thinks about his time in the pit in the ground, being beaten and forced to cook without dignity or ever a kind hand. Todd had always been eerily polite, but distantly unconcerned when the others let off steam by kicking around the resident rat. As long as he could cook, as long as he could produce the meth that Lydia required, it didn’t matter what happened. There was no one there to protect him. There was no way out. “You did that to me,” Jesse says, blind with tears and hurt.
“I know,” Mr. White hushes, lips grazing Jesse's temple. “I hurt you.”
“You told them to kill me -” Jesse starts bawling anew, holding onto the man that had destroyed him, had killed him in every way except the physical.
In the pit, for those hard, cruel months, after Andrea's death, Jesse had had nothing to keep him grounded in reality save for the picture he kept in his pocket. He cradled it when he slept, looked at it when awake and not cooking, thought of it when he was. He'd wanted to die so badly and sometimes felt he would, just from the pure grief alone. But still, some stubborn part of him dreamt of being saved - of someone who loved him, of Mr. White coming, pulling him out of the dirt and holding him.
And his saviour had come. And he’s here, now, holding Jesse so tightly and yet so gently and whispering soft things that made it all not hurt quite so badly. Jesse wants to yell at him, curse him, force him out of his head - force him out of the dark, pitiful, needy place that Mr. White had occupied for two years.
Mr. White’s DEA brother-in-law had told him that Mr. White cared for him. In the moment, he hadn’t believed him, not after everything. But he’d been the one to come for Jesse. He’d been the one to kill those Nazi fucks. He’d taken a bullet, protecting Jesse’s body with his own.
What was the truth? Did Mr. White hate him or care for him? And for that matter, did he hate Mr. White or did he...
“I'm sorry,” Mr. White says again, quietly and unknowingly disrupting Jesse’s mounting panic attack. “You… I… I - When you pushed me away, when you went to Hank and brought him out there I felt like you had thrown everything away. Like you'd thrown me away.”
Mr. White pulls back, cradling Jesse's face in his warm, rough palms. “When Hank died, I felt so angry. I took it out on you. You didn't deserve that. I've done so many awful things to you, even if my intentions were… Even if I meant well, all I did was ruin the things I cared about. And that includes you, Jesse.” Mr. White's eyes stare right into his, and just like that Jesse knows in his heart of hearts that he'll cave to Mr. White again, just like he always has. Because without fail, Mr. White always wins and Jesse always rolls.
This time, at least, Jesse sees him for who he really is. He sees the truth.
“Why didn’t you just kill me yourself?” Jesse asks hoarsely. He doesn’t really want to know. He doesn’t want to hear about how Mr. White ordered his death and couldn’t even look him in the eyes and do it himself.
But Mr. White shakes his head and says, “I could never kill you, Jesse. I never wanted to kill you, until you refused to meet me in the square and I knew you weren’t coming back to me. I-I was trying to protect myself, and then after Hank…” Mr. White shakes against him and for a brief moment Jesse thinks he’s going to start crying to but his shaking stops and the man simply takes a deep breath.
He can’t believe his ears. “You - There was a guy at the square. Don’t lie to me anymore, don’t fucking lie, you were gonna -”
Mr. White’s thumb rubs under his eye and wipes away the wet, salty tracks. “No, Jesse. No lies. I don’t know what man you’re talking about, but I swear to you that I wanted to just speak with you. To try and make you understand.”
Jesse quivers. There’s no fucking way Mr. White’s being honest, but he can’t help but believe him, blinking away more tears as Mr. White keeps rubbing his thumb back and forth so gently. And Jesse sees the truth. He’d fucked things up. He’d walked away without giving Mr. White a chance, and because of his stupid paranoia he’d gotten Schrader and his partner killed, and he’d ruined every last little chance Mr. White had been willing to give him.
“I wish that you would have shot me,” Mr. White confesses, looking exhausted. “I wanted to pay back even an ounce of the blood I'd spilled. Made you spill. But you -” and at that his voice becomes choked. “Why didn't you?”
Because you saved me, Jesse thinks. Because I love you. Because no matter what bad blood there is between us, I could never kill you. Instead of saying all those things, Jesse pushes his face into the broad chest in front of him, sniffling pathetically. “No more blood. No more ghosts. I can't do that anymore, I can 't.”
“You won't, not ever again, Jesse.” Mr. White's voice sounds so sure that Jesse almost believes him. He’s said it so many times before, and it’s never been true, but he wants to believe again, just once. It's strange, almost otherworldly, the power he can put into the tone of his voice, make it seem like he could see how the universe unfolded before them and point out the best path forward. “I won't ever make you do that again, I swear to you.”
Jesse doesn’t care if he swears on his life. On his children’s lives. Mr. White doesn’t know how to not use people, how to not hurt people. But he plays along with the facade. “Okay.” Mr. White pats the back of his head and holds him tighter. “But you… You can’t either. You can't do all that shit anymore, please please please -”
Mr. White doesn't say anything, just holds him until he's calm again. When Jesse stops crying, stops nearly hyperventilating, stops feeling like he's about to crumble away from all the fucked up things in his head, Mr. White pulls away and tells him to stay put. He doesn't watch what he does, too tired to even stay upright without the other man holding him, just leans pathetically against the couch and tries to even out his breathing, but eventually the sounds behind him quieten and Mr. White comes back with tissues and a glass of water.
“Drink up,” he says and Jesse drinks it all. Then he wipes some tissues gently at Jesse's messy face like he's a kid, and Jesse lets him. “Skyler will be coming home soon. Can I - can we go to your house? To talk more?” Then, sounding worried, “U-Unless you didn't want to talk to me anymore, I understand. I'll just get you back to your car and -”
“It's okay. Come over.” Something about it sounds so hilarious that Jesse can't help but laugh. Yeah sure, Mr. Devil who has fucking killed everyone I love, please come over and hug me some more.
Slowly he stands up, rubbing his face into his sleeve to try and pretend it wasn't red from crying, and Mr. White watches him with soft eyes.
“Can you manage to drive home okay? I'll take mine.”
Jesse nods shortly - “I'm not useless, okay?” “I didn't say you were.” - and wanders out the front door when Mr. White opens it for him. He steps out into a bland suburban street and feels a wash of incredulity. He drives home half believing he's dreaming.