rabid dog

an independent, semi-selective portrayal of jesse pinkman from amc's breaking bad as a transgender man. 18+. a study in: masculinity, codependency, addiction and shedding a new skin.

as depended on by david. 18. gmt-3. he/him & xe/xir.

multimuse can be found at @sstaysoft​.

google doc.

Emilio wasn’t sure whether or not he was relieved. Jesse not knowing who he was was refreshing, but that also meant he would have to tell him everything. All over again. It was like when he’d told D.W. he was bisexual; he’d assumed that would be the last time he had to do it. 

Obviously, he was wrong. 

Turning back to the wooden cup and the coins, Emilio stared at his hands in the braces for a moment before he said, “Forty years ago, I went with-with my family to another planet.” 

He swallowed. Calling the Jesuit party his family had just slipped out, but it was closer to the truth than calling them his colleagues. 

You see, Meelo? Your family came for you! I found you for them! 

Emilio flinched and sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes shutting momentarily, before he added, “I’m the only one that survived the mission.”

At first, Emilio thought Jesse’s nervousness in speaking to him had more to do with the fact that Emilio was popularly known as a murderer and a whore than anything else, but then the truth of it dawned on him and he found that he still had it in him to be amazed.

“You don’t know who I am…”

The words came out quiet and dumbfounded and all Emilio found himself able to do was stare in shock. How long had it been since he’d met someone that didn’t know who he was since returning from Rakhat? Had he even met anyone that didn’t immediately recognize his name? He didn’t think so, and he found himself cherishing the acquaintanceship already. 

Jesse blinked, confused. Of course, everyone in a retreat house was running from something or other, but the way Emilio spoke was like if he was a celebrity (or rather, someone infamous). He had not seen anything that he could connect to him, couldn’t recall any Emilios in the news. Not that he ever looked at the news.

Of all the expected things Emilio had lined up in his head as possibilities of what the boy would say next, this one hadn’t even been on the list. Jesse didn’t say it outright, but the meaning of the words was unmistakable: he was running from something or someone too. And more than that: if anyone saw his face, they’d recognize him right away. 

For a moment, all Emilio could do was stare at Jesse and blink. Maybe he’s right after all, he thought as he tried to formulate some semblance of a response. 

Nothing came to mind, and in the intervening silence, he blurted out words that seemed beyond his control, “Who’s coming after you?”

Immediately, he turned away, closed his eyes, and mentally swore. He knew better than anyone how those kind of questions came across and yet he’d still asked it. He swallowed hard and drew a hand across his face as his eyes opened again. 

“I’m sorry,” he added quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that. You don’t have to answer that.”

Maybe in another time Jesse would have scoffed, rolled his eyes, said something derisive and all in all mean. But things had changed, and all he wanted in the world was to be understood. For someone to forgive him for everything he had ever done, and to condemn the people that had wronged him. He needed to tell someone, even if it killed him.

Emilio was still staring out towards the waves. He was thinking of Galatna and the tiny dark cell he’d been confined to for the vast majority of his time there. He thought of the guards and drawing of the VaRakhati from the harem that he still had upstairs in his room in the retreat house. 

He tried very hard not to think about the door of light from his dream and the real door it would one day mirror. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes and that was when Jesse spoke. 

Emilio went rigid in response. How much did this boy know? And if it were all of it, then what did he think of him? And what was his purpose speaking to him? 

Still he wanted to give the boy the benefit of the doubt and answered with a curt nod. “Yes. That would be putting it mildly.”

“Well, me too, dude,” he said, trying for reassuring, looking at the table. He had drawn a lot lately, starting to get into the habit of trying to get his thoughts out in a way that wasn’t subconscious. It was often Todd --- he was easier to draw than Mr. White, for some reason. He had a half-done sketch of Todd grabbing at a nondescript body, trying to get the memories out, before it made him panic, spiralling at the memory. He didn’t know just how similar he and Emilio were.

Emilio watched the way Jesse’s hand passed over his face, tracing his scars. Ah, Emilio thought, I see we are both marked by more than what others can physically see. He only just managed to keep himself from flinching as Hlavin Kitheri’s face flashed through hit mind. He saw Galatna next. That one was a little harder to control. He let out a soft breath, trying to disguise it as an exhale as he, at last, responded, “Yes. I’ve been here for…going on two years now.” He looked away, towards the direction of the beach. He could hear the roar of the waves from where they sat. For a moment, he seemed to lose himself in the past. Then he blinked, forced a smile, and said, “Sorry. Old men think about the past a lot.” But he couldn’t look at Jesse as he said it.

“Young men, too, sometimes, I think,” Jesse said. He had been entrenched in his demons, demons he could not fight, he could do nothing about except have nightmares and panic attacks, his brain haywire at the sight of dogs because they reminded him of himself, of what he was like in that compound, Todd smiling at him, petting him as he---

Emilio gathered quickly that the man had to be American judging by his accent and phrasing. It struck him for the first time just how little time he’d spent there. He’d lived his life all over the world as a Jesuit and yet somehow, one of the largest countries in the world had been one of the countries he most often avoided. He was telling himself it had nothing to do with his parents, but he wasn’t sure he even believed that; his parents hadn’t been American, but they were overwhelmingly white and Emilio was very much not. 

This young man seemed different in comparison to other Americans he’d met. He nodded in assent to his statement. Distantly he remembered when he’d first arrived at the retreat house. He tried to remember what he’d said them, but the words escaped him, so he did the best he could: “I’m Emilio. And you?” His English was accented with the Puerto Rico in him.

At first, Emilio thought the younger man understood him because he came over to sit next to him, but when he responded to his statement by asking if he spoke English, Emilio realized he’d been wrong. Briefly, he choked and his eyes widened as he tried to remember how to reply. With as many languages as he knew and after all he’d been through, speaking a language that wasn’t Spanish or Ruanja or K’San or Italian or English took conscious effort. It should have been one of the easy languages, which was what prompted Emilio’s moment of panic. 

He calmed when the words resurfaced and he forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, saying, “Yes. I know a lot of languages. I’m a linguist, you see.” Now even the false smile faltered. “At least I used to be.” He returned his attention to the wooden cup and the coins. Once he’d had dreams of traveling to other star systems, learning other alien languages, falling in love with all of God’s wonders on another planet all over again.

That dream had been quickly and brutally shattered when he met Hlavin Kitheri.

Jesse nodded when he heard him speak in English, happy to have a language in common with the man, even if he seemed to struggle lightly with finding the words. He knew not to prod into other people’s business, as that meant they could prod into his, and God knows where he’d end up then. He had nightmares, a lot of nightmares at the retreat house where he was back in the compound, and most often he would wake up terrified, not because of the memories but because maybe someone overheard him calling for someone, something that could make them piece it together. But it hadn’t happened. So far.

almost  shyly  a hand raises, giving a soft wave with fingers spaced. before she can speak, the static of the walkie chimes in, and the gesture is disregarded.  alicia, you there?  there’s panic in her face because she doesn’t want to scare this new person off, she doesn’t want him believing this is some kind of  trick. quickly, she answers,  ❝ i’m here, i’m with someone. ❞  who?  ❝ i’ll get back to you. ❞  alicia, d– petite fingers turn the walkie off before the man on the line can continue, and,  slowly,  she puts the walkie back on her hip.  ❝ – if you need something, ❞  she begins, gesturing with a nod of her head towards the box,  ❝ you can take whatever you need. just leave some for someone else. ❞

she can only imagine how sketched out this person might be–  she  would be–  especially  if she was in the mentality she was weeks ago before morgan and everyone pulled her out of it.  ❝ what’s your name? ❞ she’s prodding, albeit delicately; she wants to know if he’s alone, if he needs  help. that drive to help others as her mother did, she was scared it was gone, but the flame has ignited once again tenfold.  ❝ i’m alicia. ❞

“jesse,” he replies as he starts to walk toward the box, slowly. there’s cans of food, non-perishables, water. before he can think twice about it, about poison, he grabs some water and takes a long, long sip from a water bottle, letting out a breath of relief. his eyes flutter shut. “oh, god. thank you. that’s --- it’s very, like, nice of you to do this for other people. i wouldn’t do it.” it’s a bit embarrassing as soon as it comes out of his mouth, to openly admit that he would not be charitable --- but he wouldn’t. he hopes she understands.