your jesse pinkman writing altered my brain chemistry i am actually begging for more
jesse pinkman who thinks you're sweeter than candy
summary · jesse never shows up to school, but he's smart. you do, and you're smart. after a vending machine mishap and group assignment make you cross paths, he finally learns to take education, and life, seriously.
watch out · senior!jesse pinkman, senior!fem!reader, inside jokes, callbacks, fluff, no ai used, graduation, slow burn, oneshot, sfw
The first time you met Jesse, he was fighting with a vending machine. You were already late to first period, hurrying down the nearly empty hallway when a loud bang sounded out.
When you turned the corner, you found a blond boy glaring through the glass of the vending machine. His backpack hung from one shoulder, his hoodie was half-zipped over a wrinkled tee, and one of his shoelaces had come undone.
"You know it probably isn't going to feel guilty," you said.
"What, you work for Big Vending or something?" He turned, eyebrows lifting as he looked you over.
"No," you laughed before you could stop yourself.
"Then why are you taking its side?"
"I'm taking the side of basic physics."
"Yeah, well, physics stole my Snickers." You stepped closer and peered through the glass beside him. The candy bar was hanging lopsidedly from the metal coil, caught by one corner of its wrapper.
"No kidding," he glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Ignoring the sarcasm, you pushed open the flap and reached inside. Your fingers barely caught the edge of the wrapper, but after a little maneuvering, the Snickers dropped into the tray. He stared in disbelief, looking at the opening, and you pulled it out and held it toward him.
"There." For a moment, he just... looked. Then he accepted it slowly, eyes shifting between you and the candy bar as though you'd performed a complicated surgery and not freed his sweet treat.
"Whoa," he laughed, some of the irritation leaving his face as he tore open the wrapper. "You're like the vending-machine whisperer."
"It wasn't exactly Fort Knox."
"Fort what?" His chewing slowed.
What an idiot, you thought. The first bell rang before you could reply, and the hallway filled quickly with students emerging from every direction. You glanced at the nearest clock and sighed.
"Now I'm late." The boy looked over too, but he didn't seem particularly concerned.
"I mean, technically." He started walking toward the side doors leading into the parking lot.
"Oh, is your class outside?"
"Don’t really feel like being here." He shrugged and took a bite of the Snickers.
"Probably." There wasn't any pride in the answer. He said it lightly, but his face had already settled into a frown, as if failing was less of a possibility and more of a contract he'd signed months ago.
He lifted the candy bar in a small salute. "Thanks for the rescue, though." And then he pushed through the school doors and disappeared into the morning sun.
You assumed that would be the last time you spoke to him.
Third period chemistry was half over when the classroom door opened, and the same boy wandered inside carrying a slushy. Mr. White stopped writing on the board. "Mr. Pinkman. How generous of you to join us."
"You usually walk to school, Jesse." He paused on his way toward the back.
"Foot traffic?" A few students laughed, and, like always, Mr. White didn't.
"You've missed the beginning of the lab-partner assignments. Take the empty seat next to her." You looked up as he followed Mr. White's pointing finger toward your table.
"Jesse, Jesse Pinkman," he corrected, dropping onto the seat beside you. You gave him your name, and Mr. White tapped his clipboard impatiently.
"Since you two appear to be acquainted, you can remain partners for the semester."
"Sorry in advance." Jesse leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"I'm kind of a terrible student."
"You've been here for thirty seconds." Your brows furrowed in confusion.
"Yeah, and I've already got a reputation." You glanced at the blank worksheet in front of him. Someone had written "Jesse Pinkman" across the top in red ink with all capitals and circled it twice, probably Mr. White.
His smile faltered for a moment as though he had expected you to agree with him. Before he could dwell on it, he picked up the worksheet and leaned back in his chair.
Over the next two weeks, Jesse did everything possible to prove himself right. He missed chemistry three times, and he missed English often enough that the teacher stopped leaving handouts on his desk. He came to history once, slept through most of it, and disappeared during lunch without taking his backpack. Whenever he did appear in chemistry, however, he understood everything.
That was what confused you.
Jesse never seemed to take notes, but he could glance at an equation and point out exactly where you had balanced it incorrectly. He completed lab procedures quickly, remembered the names of compounds you had to look up, and once spent ten minutes explaining electron configurations to you while drawing increasingly ridiculous diagrams in the margin of your notebook.
"So the electrons are like dudes at a party," he said, sketching several stick figures around a badly drawn couch. "They're spread out at first 'cause nobody wants to sit next to some random guy."
"That is not how Mr. White explained it."
"Yeah, because his version sucked."
"Oh, and yours is scientifically accurate?"
"Jesse, you literally drew one of the electrons holding a beer."
You laughed hard enough that Mr. White looked over suspiciously. Jesse grinned, pleased with himself, but when the quiz came the next morning, his chair was empty.
You found him behind the gym during lunch, sitting on the low concrete wall with his hood pulled over his head. A cigarette rested between two of his fingers, unlit.
"You missed the quiz," you said.
"So you're hunting me down now?" He didn't look at you.
"Uh, no, I was walking past."
"You came completely around the other side of the building. "I took the scenic route." He gave you a knowing look but moved over enough for you to sit.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Students crossed the distant football field, their voices blending into a hum.
Jesse rolled the cigarette between his fingers. "Did Mr. White send you?"
"Make it quick. I've got a busy schedule."
He gestured vaguely to the space around him.
"Why do you keep skipping?"
"You're going to have to repeat senior year."
He laughed under his breath. "I'm not repeating shit."
"So you're dropping out?"
"Probably." Again, that word. Probably. Like everything bad that might happen to him was already out of his hands.
"You're smart enough to graduate."
"'S that what he said? Mr. White?" He looked at you skeptically.
"What? No. That's what I'm saying."
"You don't know me." Jesse looked down at the cigarette.
"I know you got the highest score in our lab group while showing up for half the lessons."
"Maybe everybody else is just dumb."
"Maybe, but that still makes you smarter than them."
He smiled despite himself, then shook his head. "It doesn't matter."
"Because I already missed too much. Teachers hate me. My parents think I'm an idiot. Everybody here thinks I'm either always high or stupid, and honestly, sometimes they're right." His tone remained joking, but the humor had gone thin around the edges. You watched him pick at a loose thread on his sleeve. "Missing one class doesn't make it easy to come back," he continued. "You miss one day, then two, and then you come back, and everybody looks at you like you forgot school exists so you leave again."
"Nobody was looking at you yesterday."
"They were looking at Mr. White because he wrote sodium's symbol as 'So.'"
"Seriously?" Jesse glanced over.
"I took a picture," you pulled out your phone and showed him. Jesse laughed so loudly that two students on the field turned toward you.
"Oh, man. You have to send me that."
"Come to chemistry tomorrow and I will." His laughter trailed off into a suspicious squint.
He looked back toward the school building. Then he sighed.
Jesse arrived seven minutes late the next morning, but he arrived. You sent him the picture without mentioning it. The next day, he came again. He disappeared on Friday, returned Monday, and stayed through lunch. His attendance didn't improve all at once. Sometimes he still vanished for days, and whenever he returned, he acted as though nothing had happened. You learned not to greet him with questions or accusations.
You simply pushed the worksheets you had saved toward his side of the table and said, "You owe me."
"I didn't ask you to save them."
By October, Jesse had begun appearing often enough that Mr. White stopped pausing dramatically when calling his name.
By November, the empty chair beside you looked unusual. Your friendship grew in the spaces between classes. Jesse started waiting outside your English room, claiming it was only because his next class happened to be nearby, though it was in the opposite direction. He walked with you to lunch and stole fries from your tray. He began calling your house in the evenings under the excuse of asking about homework, then stayed on the phone long after you had explained the assignment.
"Okay, so what'd you get for number six?" he asked one night.
"You finished number six twenty minutes ago."
"I'm checking your work."
"You haven't even opened the book, have you?"
Silence. Then, "So anyway, what are we doing Saturday?" You smiled into the phone.
He came over that weekend to study chemistry. At least, that was the plan. Jesse spent the first half hour examining everything on your shelves and making unsolicited comments about your music collection. "You listen to this?"
"You own three different shirts with cartoon bombs on them."
"That's just uhhh, fashion."
He held a hand over his chest. "Damn. I come into your home, and you attack me."
"You've been insulting my room since you got here."
"I said the little lamp was cool."
"You said it reminded you of your grandma."
"That was a compliment." Eventually, the two of you sat on the floor with your notes spread between you. Jesse complained relentlessly, but when you looked away, you caught him reading. He noticed you watching and frowned.
"You're doing that face."
"The proud teacher face."
"I don't have a proud teacher face."
"Yes, you do. Mr. White makes the same one when somebody doesn't set anything on fire."
You hid your smile by looking back at the worksheet.
"You're actually trying."
"Don't sound so shocked."
"Maybe a little." He nudged your knee with his.
"Shut up." By Christmas break, Jesse was passing chemistry. Barely, but passing. He showed you the grade during lunch, holding the paper so close to your face that the red C-minus drawn on the front blurred.
"That is a passing grade."
"I know what a C-minus is."
"Do you understand what this means?"
"... That you got twenty three questions wrong?"
"Congratulations." You laughed. Jesse lowered the paper.
"Yeah. You worked for it."
The joking expression on his face softened. People congratulated Jesse in ways that sounded surprised. Teachers said things like, "See what happens when you apply yourself?" According to him, his parents asked why the grade wasn't higher.
You were the only person who said he had worked for it, as though the effort itself mattered. He folded the paper carefully and slid it into his backpack rather than crumpling it with everything else.
"You're coming to graduation, right?" you asked.
Jesse snorted. "That's like six months away."
"You're passing everything. You could graduate."
"You really obsessed with this graduation thing, huh?"
"I don't want to walk across the stage alone.
"There'll be like three hundred people."
Jesse studied you for a moment. "What, you need moral support?"
"And I'm your first choice?"
"Unfortunately. Come on," you groaned, "everybody else here is constantly causing drama or thinks they're too good to talk to other people. Please?"
"I'll think about it." After winter break, he began arriving before the bell. Not every day. Jesse Pinkman was still Jesse Pinkman, which meant he continued showing up with gas station drinks, forgetting pencils, and wearing the same hoodie three days in a row, but he was there.
You started noticing other changes too. He stopped calling himself stupid whenever he got something wrong. He asked teachers about missing assignments instead of throwing them away. When Mr. White suggested he might not have enough credits to graduate, he even went to the guidance office himself and came back with a list of makeup work several pages long. He dropped it onto the chemistry table.
"It's doable." You looked through the packet.
Jesse leaned against the table. "You're gonna help me?"
"You know you don't have to."
He looked at you in a way that made your stomach feel suddenly unsteady.
Jesse had always been easy to read when he was joking. His whole face changed when he was trying to make someone laugh. But there were moments, usually brief, when his expression became quiet and serious, and you never knew what to do with them. He looked away first.
"Cool," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Okay."
You spent most of February working through Jesse's missing assignments together. He came to your house so often that your family stopped asking why he was there. Sometimes he worked at the kitchen table, and other times, the two of you sat in his car just outside the school, the winter air fogging the windows as you balanced textbooks across your laps and the radio played softly in the background. He complained constantly but rarely quit.
One afternoon, after finishing an essay he had been avoiding for three weeks, Jesse threw his pen onto the dashboard. "I'm done."
"You still need a conclusion."
"No. I'm done with school. Forever."
"You wrote four paragraphs."
"Yeah, and it was awful." You reached over and took the paper from him.
"Your third paragraph is good."
He gave you a sideways look. "Just the third?"
"The second is mostly you calling the author a... let me see... a 'coward' and a 'loser.'" You looked over.
"You can't put that in an essay."
"Why not? Teachers are always telling us to defend our argument."
"You wrote, 'This dude needs to stand on business.'"
You laughed and leaned against the passenger door, still holding the essay. Jesse watched you for a second too long.
He turned quickly toward the windshield. "I was looking at the paper."
"The paper is in my hands."
You waited, but he didn't elaborate. His ears had turned slightly pink. That was the first time you wondered whether Jesse liked you. The thought stayed with you afterward, though neither of you mentioned it.
There were little signs once you knew to look for them. Jesse always found you in crowded hallways. He remembered things you mentioned only once. He offered you his jacket during an unexpectedly cold afternoon and spent the rest of the walk home pretending not to shiver.
At the same time, he flirted with nearly everyone. It was difficult to tell what meant something and what was simply Jesse being Jesse, so you left it alone.
Spring arrived faster than either of you'd expected. Graduation announcements appeared on the walls, and teachers started speaking about the end of the year as though it were already here. Jesse grew quieter as it approached.
You found him behind the gym again in April, sitting in the same place where you had confronted him months earlier. This time there was no cigarette in his hand. He was holding a folded sheet of paper from the guidance office.
"You disappeared from lunch," you said.
"Had a meeting." He looked up.
He handed you the paper. At the top beneath his name, someone had typed "Eligible for Graduation" in bold letters. You looked at Jesse.
"I guess." He stared out toward the field.
"I don't know. It's weird."
"Yeah." He laughed once, but there was no humor in it. "My parents still think I'm gonna screw it up somehow."
"Yes, I do." Jesse looked at you then. The paper crinkled slightly in his hand.
"Because you could have quit months ago, and you didn't."
"I helped. You're the one who kept coming back."
He lowered his eyes. For a few seconds, the air between you felt heavier than it should have. Jesse's shoulder rested close to yours, almost touching. "I probably wouldn't have done it without you," he said.
"Yeah, I do." He said so quietly you almost missed it. You wanted to tell him that he deserved more credit than he gave himself. You wanted to say that you hadn't forced him to attend, hadn’t completed the work for him, hadn't made him care. You had only made it slightly easier for him to imagine succeeding.
Instead, you bumped your shoulder against his.
"You still have to pass finals." Jesse groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
"Why would you ruin the moment like that?"
Graduation day was painfully bright. The football field had been covered with rows of folding chairs, and the school colors hung from every railing. Families crowded the bleachers, waving handmade signs and calling names whenever they recognized someone beneath a cap.
You found Jesse near the edge of the student line, tugging repeatedly at the collar of his gown.
"This thing is choking me."
"It isn't even touching your neck." You giggled.
Jesse stopped adjusting the collar.
He looked at you in your graduation gown, and for a moment, all his usual answers seemed to leave him.
"You too," he said finally. "I mean, obviously. You always—" A teacher called for everyone to get into position.
"We should probably go." Jesse cleared his throat.
"You were saying something."
The ceremony lasted forever. Speeches blurred together beneath the afternoon heat. Students whispered, shifted in their chairs, and tried unsuccessfully to flatten their hair beneath their caps. When your name was called, you crossed the stage, accepted your diploma, and heard your family cheering from the bleachers. But the sound you noticed most came from the rows behind you.
You nearly stumbled. Turning slightly, you saw Jesse standing halfway out of his chair, clapping above his head. He grinned when you looked at him, entirely unashamed. Several names later, the principal said, "Jesse Bruce Pinkman."
For half a second, Jesse didn't move. You watched him stare at the stage as another person would go up, then the student beside him nudged his arm, and Jesse stood.
The cheering from the bleachers was scattered, but you clapped hard enough for several people around you to join in. Jesse crossed the stage. He shook the principal's hand, accepted the diploma, and then he looked toward the graduates until he found you.
You raised both hands above your head, grinning. Jesse laughed, lowering his head as he walked offstage. After the ceremony, the field dissolved into chaos. Families crowded around graduates for pictures, caps littered the grass, and teachers attempted to direct people toward the exits with no success.
You spent nearly ten minutes searching before you spotted Jesse beneath the bleachers, diploma tucked under one arm.
He turned. You barely had time to smile before he pulled you into a hug. Jesse had hugged you before, usually quickly and with some joke attached, but this was different. His arms closed around you, and for several seconds he didn't say anything.
"You graduated," you murmured against his shoulder.
"I know." He laughed, and you felt it beneath your cheek. When you pulled apart, Jesse kept his hands lightly on your arms. His eyes were bright, though he would probably have denied it if you mentioned it.
"Yeah. I'm just—" he glanced down at the diploma. "I didn't think I'd get one of these."
"You tell me a lot of things."
"That is absolutely not true."
"It is today." You smiled. Jesse looked at you again, and the noise of the field seemed to recede around him.
He released your arms and shoved one hand into the pocket of his gown. "So, uh, speaking of things you've been right about…"
"Can you not make fun of me for like two minutes?"
"I'm serious." The nervousness in his voice surprised you. Jesse Pinkman could argue with teachers, strangers, vending machines, and anyone else who looked at him incorrectly. You had rarely seen him struggle for words, but now he was unsure and rubbing the back of his neck.
"I've been trying to ask you something for a while." He started, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. God, he was making you nervous.
"How long?" You said, looking to the side then back at him. What would Jesse of all people feel like he couldn't tell you?
"Jesse." You rolled your eyes.
"Like… January." He said reluctantly, wincing a little after he realized how long that was.
"January?" Your eyebrows lifted.
"You've been trying to ask me something for six months?" You clarified, chuckling afterward.
"Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds bad."
"It sounds like you're terrible at asking questions."
"You make me nervous." The admission came out quickly. Jesse looked away immediately afterward, staring toward the bleachers as though he might find an escape route there.
"I make you nervous?" You felt warmth rise into your face.
"Yeah, because I'm good at acting."
"You spent ten minutes explaining electron parties to me."
"That was educational though, like how could I be nervous, you feel me?"
"You drew one holding a beer."
You laughed, and Jesse groaned.
"This is exactly why I didn't ask."
"Okay, okay! I'm sorry," you pressed your lips together, trying to look serious, "go ahead."
He studied your face to make sure you meant it, then took a breath. "I like you." Your heart skipped, although you had expected the words. Jesse continued before you could respond. "Like, a lot. And I know we're already friends, and maybe you don't wanna mess that up, which is cool. I mean, not cool for me, obviously, but I'd get it. I just figured if I didn't say something now, you'd go off to college or whatever and I'd spend the rest of my life thinking about how I should've—"
"You're rambling." He paused. "I like you too." His mouth remained slightly open.
Jesse stared at you for another second. Then a slow, disbelieving smile spread across his face. "You could've said something."
"Oh, don't give me that; you waited six months!" You laughed.
"I was going through personal growth."
"I was strategically waiting."
He lifted his diploma. "This."
"You needed to graduate before asking me out?"
"No. I just thought… Like, you were the reason I kept coming here, so it seemed right that we left together too. Fuck, that was cheesy, huh?" His smile softened.
You felt your stomach flip a little.
"I wasn't the reason," you said softly.
"Because you kept making me think I could." Jesse looked embarrassed by how sincere he had become, but he didn't take anything back.
"So," he said, glancing down at his shoes, "would you maybe wanna go out with me?"
"You mean like a date?" You raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah. A real one." He glanced over to the right and saw your family waiting for you. "Maybe later though, they probably need you."
"Yeah, you're right, but are there fake dates?" You teased.
"You know what I mean." He scoffed, starting to walk towards them.
"I just want you to say it properly." You beamed, eyes glimmering as you looked up at him and followed. He rolled his eyes, though he was smiling.
"Fine. Will you go on a date with me?"
You pretended to consider it. Jesse's smile faltered. "Dude, come on."
"Yes, Jesse." His grin returned instantly.
"Do you have an idea for this date?" He looked down at the grass.
"Wow," you laughed, "that's your big plan for me?" He instantly groaned in faux exasperation, nudging you with his shoulder because no, he didn't mean it like that.
"No! I spent all my energy graduating, and this place is really good, okay? Like, really good." He said, talking with his hands.
"No." You gave him a skeptical look. "It's the diner next to it," he amended. You laughed and slipped your hand into his. Jesse glanced down at your intertwined fingers. For perhaps the first time since you had met him, he appeared completely speechless. Then he squeezed your hand.
"Come on, let's go talk to your parents," he said as you'd finally made it across the field. You walked up to them and started talking, your dad patting Jesse on the back for finally gaining the strength to ask you out and your mom hugging you each, saying "I'm so proud of you" as she pulled away.
Behind you, the field remained crowded with families and graduates, but Jesse didn't look back. His cap sat crookedly on his head, his diploma was bent beneath his arm, and his gown dragged slightly over the grass.
None of it looked perfect. Jesse's attendance record wasn't suddenly clean. His future wasn't suddenly planned. Graduating hadn't transformed him into a different person, and you had never wanted it to.
He was still the boy who argued with vending machines and called himself a lost cause before anyone else could do it first. But he had walked across the stage, and he had asked you out.
"So," he leaned down and whispered as your parents struggled to figure out how to take your pictures, "you work for Big Vending?"
