cleansed of his sins, washed away in the money, emilio prays to dead presidents— repents to financial relief. he's nothing but a smack-scummed, cigarette stunk, crank-hungry mo'fo, but he's comin' home full. stuffed to the brim with cash. never wanting, never needing, never empty. (fuck a nine-to-five. screw the simple living.) emilio's dreams of living large are outlined in elastic bands, bank-notes, badass vignettes like old westerns, all bang and shoot and steal ... but nothing's perfect.

[CUT TO] : a scrawnier, smaller, still-growing emilio stuffs a towel underneath the crack of his bedroom door. looks to his counterpart for assurance. ('s cool, man. if anything, i got your back.) the two smoke up, snack out, stay stuck to the middle of a bean-bag chair. chuckle and snicker and pass a bag of bugles back and forth. hey, dude, emilio mumbles — and grins a crumb-toothed smile his way. you're my best friend.

and wasn’t it great? wasn’t it special? with emilio next to him, jesse got in the habit of saying yes to anything. yes, i’ll chug that beer. yes, i’ll do that line. yes, we’ll smell like cat piss and talk like teenage desperados, ‘cause we’ve finally found enlightenment, and we’re not giving it up. 

cut to: huddled together on a bench during recess, two social rejects devise a secret handshake. (high-five, low-five, interlock your pinkies. express a promise you won’t keep.) they skip classes to terrorize the nearest strip mall. gorge themselves on chips and guac, flipping the bird to passersby in perfect synchronicity. jesse pays with the money he’d snatched from his mom’s purse earlier that morning. end scene.

                   admittedly, the faux-casual request for opioids kinda halves jesse's credibility on top of that. an unrelated but no less relevant concern that's raised not for the first time, either. abbot only appears unfazed because he's done this very dance many times before.

                   ❝ sure. but let's try tylenol first, usually does the trick just fine. ❞ not denying pain relief, crucially. but there's dousing the fire, and then there's fanning it. ❝ also gonna get you a lidocaine spray and an ice pack for the wait. ❞

his scattered focus drifts away from the computer, darting between the attending’s shoulder and the curtained partition. the hospital’s probably packed by now. teeming with second-degree burns, saline drips, oozing lesions, frightened relatives... jesse stiffens. exhales a tremulous sigh.

jesse was different. flirty banter and eyes that sparked, suggesting he had secrets. a lot of men had looked at her like that. not all of them meant it. monroe thought he looked sad, lost. but she didn’t want to dissect the reasons why, in case they matched up with her own.

their knees bump. her doing. she pins him there, searching for a pressure point to push. she settles on his chin, thumb scoring right below his lower lip. maybe so he’d stop smiling at her like that. dangerous, charming. though, she’s smiling…like that…right back at him.

up close and personal like this, jesse can count her inconceivably long eyelashes. he can fall victim to the magnitude of her allure. scramble to accommodate her whims. sit tight while she rewrites the trajectory of their dialogue, stripping away the superfluous metaphors, stripping away his— here we go again. jesse blinks and blinks and blinks and fucking blinks and bids goodbye to the spectral silhouette lingering in his peripheral vision. the syringe protruding from her lifeless forearm. miss you, baby. miss you always. please come back to haunt me soon. 

this late into the night, abbot's filter's mostly worn down. though his gloved hands continue to be methodical and no less gentle, his tone betrays he's not gonna buy what this one's selling. ❝ you gonna tell me you fell? ❞ likely thing to happen, given the state of his face. he's following the ridge of his nose up until jesse's hiss tells him to let go.

                   night shift's predestined for these kinds of walk-ins. accidents you're supposed not to scrutinise too closely.

“nope. car accident. this scumbag rammed into me outta nowhere.” he groans, fingers clenching into a loose fist against his thigh. “so i sorta, you know— hit the wheel. with my face.” the lie tastes like battery acid. it’s pitifully unconvincing. but trust is a capricious thing, and doctor abbot’s medical prowess is no match for jesse’s paranoia. 

Afterimage of the garish vacancy sign stains his vision:　one twitch,　two,　a smear of grime just above the marquis boasting low prices and television in living color.　Every muted hue at the front desk implicated the residency in the suppuration of its rot,　but it is nondescript place to serve nondescript purpose.　Man to man going the distance,　implements carrying out needle-sharp demand as they do best.　But there is always the downtime,　festering in every crevice.　Too long spent pressing his jaw into gunmetal bars of his cage　⸻　mutt trapped by circumstance,　bad dog that learns to shut up and bite on command.　Jesse is like him,　he thinks,　though information rots to whetted points with in.　Nothing to be done beyond allow the gradual permeation of discomfort.

Chlorine’s stench is nauseating,　countenance tugging into grimace of discontent as the odor floods his nose.　He hurts.　Dips bared feet into the gelid embrace of water hurts.　Stares to his reflection with radiance carving out stern features hurts.　The night breeze coaxes his arm hairs to stand on end,　and everything hurts.　(They could swim,　maybe.　Far too many months have passed since the stronghold of Father forcing his head underwater,　and Dae-ho has yet to revisit the endeavor.　It is crude and juvenile,　he thinks.　They could swim.　They could.)　Legs push in further,　wading below the surface.　It’s damn fucking cold.　He feels alive.

maybe dae-ho is playing a wholly different game. or maybe jesse isn’t worth the hassle. “why you asking?” he hunkers down beside him with a lazy grin. stops short of rolling up his jeans and untying his laces. can’t risk coming across as some kinda snot-nosed sidekick, jonesing for a crumb of attention. “what, you wanna cool off ‘n splash around?”

jesse pinkman in season 3, episode 4 "green light".

@pinkman.

Andrea came out fast and then closed the door with careful hands ( with the skills of a mother who mastered speed and gentleness ). The latch caught with a soft click. Inside, Brock was still in the living room, lost in the new video game she’d been putting money aside for bit by bit, the way some people saved for emergencies and some people saved for joy. The sounds of it stayed behind the door — a small electronic hum, and her baby boy’s quiet focus. She wanted to keep it that way, too.

It wasn’t only anger that brought her outside. It was protection. She had learned that children could get attached to footsteps. To voices. To men who showed up smiling and left without warning. So, she kept her voice down; low, tight, bordering on emotional. She took Jesse by the arm, not hard, but enough to guide him farther along the walkway, away from the door, away from the windows, away from the places where Brock might look up and see Jesse standing there.

She folded her arms before she even realized she was doing it, latched around herself the way people did when they were trying not to let too much spill out. It hurt. But then she looked at him. Really looked. Weeks. Weeks of calling and hearing nothing. Weeks of texts sitting unanswered. Weeks of talking into silence until the silence started talking back, telling you maybe you got it wrong, Andrea — maybe you cared more, maybe what you thought was there was only something you needed.

Andrea let out a breath and shook her head. "𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐥𝐲, 𝐉𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞?" Her voice stayed low. It had to. Brock was inside. "𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬," she said, watching him like she was trying to make sense of something. "𝐍𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬. 𝐍𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐬. 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠."

Her eyes, swelling with the threat of tears, stayed on his face longer than she meant them to, searching for the missing weeks there, tucked somewhere behind his own eyes, or in the set of his mouth.

Then she asked the thing she had been asking since he stepped onto the walkway, since she saw him, since the shock wore off and the ache came in a cold rush behind it.

he can’t sell her some stilted, half-assed excuse, either — it’d be an affront to andrea’s intelligence, andrea’s talent for hitting the nail on the head, and jesse doesn’t have a backup plan. unlike the cut-throat meth magnate presiding over his destiny, monitoring the subtleties of his performance, he hasn’t gotten the hang of the whole chessmaster shtick. jesse touches his elbow, mimicking the slight pressure of her palm. “i know.” because he does. “i’m sorry.” because he is.

his tone dips down, palpably sincere. “look, andrea— ‘m not here to bullshit you, okay? so you can call me a douchebag, or turn ‘round and tell me to get lost, and i’ll do it.” but the prospect of it, the hypothetical scenario of andrea cantillo’s coal-dark glare lancing through him as she closes the door, is much more terrifying than the violent festivities at that dude’s mansion in mexico. at least there, jesse knew he was just a bargaining chip. a prized show pony, anxiously trotting around its paddock. they could’ve had him hogtied, duct-taped, squashed like an insect, like a liability— no harm, no foul. there, his life didn’t matter.  

and the manner in which the boy slowly comes to accept this truth, it tugs at the strings of louis' undead heart. those pale digits tighten around his flesh and he can feel jesse's desperate whispers brush against his open wound, like prayers against the velvety curtains of a confession booth. and then his mouth connects to his hand and louis can feel it, the hunger which guides that lost boy to wonder, to cheat, to steal, to surrender to the will of the fates which do not hold his best interest in mind...even though the head which ducks to drink from his blood is covered in bright yellow hair, louis thinks he sees too much of himself in jesse.

but god, he’s grateful. grateful for a temporary respite from whatever insane scheme mister white would’ve corralled him into. (had jesse waited, had he stayed, had he succumbed to the threat of—) grateful for louis’ patience, for his proximity, for the fingertips ghosting through his hair. not twisting, not tugging; simply mooring him to the present.

louis handles him with care, with a compassion that’s downright excruciating. easy, he murmurs, like it’s a totally normal thing to do. jesse shudders and tongues at the incision, a long-starved animal off its leash. (the candles adorning a resplendent altar, the click of a camera shutter, the crowd of hooting, hollering theatergoers—)

dialogue prompts from rest and be thankful by emma glass.

there is nothing here. there is nothing on the other side.

you'll sleep well tonight.

what happens if you die in a dream?

are you okay?

there's no time for coffee, so i didn't make it.

i can't go to work today.

why did you stop?

i'm sorry i'm late.

it's okay. i'll let you off the hook, just this once.

you look tired.

you mean i look like crap?

i need water. i need coffee.

you always look innocent, with your big fucking eyes.

have you had a coffee? you look as rough as i feel.

it helps to know where the end is.

this will never be too much for me.

it's never too much. i can take more.

i don't know what to do with my hands.

your heart is too big. it will get in the way.

i need you to be _____.

your pain is worse than i knew.

my knees aren't what they used to be.

i need more than your hand on my shoulder.

you scared the shit out of me.

don't be like that. it was just a joke.

will you check this for me, please?

i'm not cleaning up any _____ today.

you look very pretty today.

here you go, my sweet.

sit with me.

do you want me to be there?

do you want a cup of tea? i'll bring it to you.

you smell like hard work.

if i wasn't prepared, _____ didn't stand a chance.

it was better and worse than i thought.

i'm not ready to be soothed yet.

i didn't see it before, but i see it now.

i know you're hurting.

you take it all on, but you can't. one day it'll catch up with you and crush you.

you are kind, but they don't appreciate it. they'll take advantage.

i am always here for you. you know that, don't you?

say something. tell me i've done wrong.

don't scrub so hard. your hands are fragile.

today is not the day to be close to me.

do i have to believe you?

people come in here to cry.

i can't do this anymore.

we never made this much of a home.

i don't know what i'm doing. i don't know where i'm going.

darkness suits you.

all i want to do is sleep.

my brain feels like tenderized beef steak.

no one should have to see their child die.

i'm sorry i laughed.

i don't know what to tell you. i'm a mess. my life is a mess.

i'm going to dance it away.

i know where this goes. i've been there before.

you are so warm.

i will not miss this.

i should be fucking floating.

i don't need half-love, half-life. half is not enough.

i can be whole with nothing. i came from nothing. i came from nowhere.

i thought you were being murdered.

what has happened? what is happening?

if i told you, you would laugh.

who gets attacked by a crow?

tiredness is playing tricks.

i've seen it, too. the ghost.

i don't like not being able to see outside.

living here might not be so bad.

don't unravel. not here.

i feel like i'll never sleep again.

do you feel as lonely as i do?

i'm actually pretty disgusting.

i'm seeing things. messed up things.

when the clock strikes twelve, they'll have another year, too. fractions of these same seconds, dosed out in paperback vignettes and reels of memory. (the same memory that bleeds. the same memory that doesn't.) he'll hold her through the aftershocks. of course he will. he won't bloody his knuckles, won't bruise the ache of her cheek. jesse will ride through the syncopes, the in-outs of conscious response, and lasso-loop her demons into shape: only kindness as a weapon. only acceptance as a tool. he'll kiss her at midnight, and she's damn sure that he'll make it count.

*she has minutes, hours and days dedicated to him; years, decades, millennium upon millennium. but what's a second to a lifetime? what's a moment to infinity? in a world filled with stopwatches and dead metronomes, empty hourglasses and sundown stories—

his trigger-finger twitches around nothing. what does that make him? a cautionary tale? an irremovable stain on their lineage? an ever-evasive poltergeist? if they somehow found out about chris driscoll’s existence, about the snow-capped shrubbery in his backyard, about the woman whose name is synonymous with his salvation— mari dai is tangible, mari dai is so, so gentle— if they could stroll through the museum of his heart, peek into its chambers, listen to how it jackhammers against his ribs— would they grieve the infuriating boy he once was?

but it's his picture, and his delinquent, and that's why he deals with it. the shit mattress, the yo's and bitch's, his mouth spit-swirling around his— ... not the point. point is, ignacio's not against complaining, if it mattered. but it doesn't. what matters right now is the way jesse's cheek presses against the pillow, how his skin flushes under his thumb, how he's still sleep-sludged and waking, and still, ignacio hasn't gotten up to leave.

he could, he knows. jesse would let him shrug on his shirt, half-button it before he's out the door, and spare nothing more than a 'later' in his wake. but out there, in the real world, he doesn't get this. this slow, speckled morning. this quiet, aching touch. ignacio becomes nacho, and nacho becomes nothing, and nothing turns into some gold-chained asshole that nobody's looking to stick around for. & besides: he likes the way jesse says ignacio. the way it stretches across his tongue. how it bends at the syllable, how it snaps at the end; how, when he's sleep sunken and sweet, it almost sounds soft. like this. like now. like every morning ignacio wakes him up earlier than he should, because he knows what he gets out of it. selfish, maybe— but nobody ever said he wasn't.

"you didn't answer my question." — @pinkman, as jesse pinkman.

but he’s not some opportunistic scumbag, mooching off a guy who’s leagues above his rank. nor is he gunning for an introduction the cartel’s representatives. their situation’s casual. uncomplicated. they bicker over takeout. debate the likelihood of an extraterrestrial attack. yank at each other’s clothes. jesse says ignacio — says it with an exaggerated glower, with an insufferable punchline, with a throaty lilt — and cuts himself off, cusses himself out, ‘cause he’d rather walk over legos than say something else. something like ignacio, i dig your accent. or like ignacio, whatchu got goin’ on tomorrow? or like ignacio, whenever you hit it bright ‘n early without so much as an adios, i spend the rest of the day in a daze. superglued to the couch. puff-puff-puffing on a joint. 

jesse’s memories are kaleidoscopic. lurid and loud and nowhere near chronological. (the patch of drool on his pillow. the staticky tingle in his limbs. the syncopated harmonies coming through his stereo. the wet trails he charts all the way down ignacio’s abdomen, skin glistening under a sheen of sweat.) a glutton for affection, jesse nestles into his side and fiddles with the gold band around his neck. badass alert.

louis wondered when was the last time anyone touched him there without hurting.

pinkman scrubbed at them. the older vampire remained still. "too long." he admitted. "i've come across the same crossroads you've tried to avoid. i've chosen the wrong, the right and the fucked up path, over and over again." louis mentioned, watching, within the field of his peripheral vision, the tortured boy's thoughts develop into catastrophe. he had let the sun lick at his flesh --- had prayed for it to take him back home, to where all his loved ones waited, in one bright flame. the pain had been too great to bare ... but he had also learned, no feeling is final.

no evening at the movies, no theatre performance, nothing at all.

but he can sense the proverbial tipping point, the pendulum swinging from a suggestion to an order. he’s well-aware of what it means. what it will lead to. what he must accept. “ugh.” it’s less of a legitimate complaint and more of a monosyllabic whine. “dude... seriously?” 

relying on the kindness of strangers is an essential component of a junkie’s toolkit. jesse uses it often. he’s gotten gas money and hastily scrawled phone numbers. stinging sinuses and carpet burns. except this type of kindness is costly. irremediably ruinous. this type of kindness is gonna erode him from the inside, molecule by molecule, and replace his entrails with molten iron.  with a blistering clarity.

olivia leans forward, smothering the twinge of her ribs between her teeth, she squeezes his hand, "I'm okay.