Work Text:
I hate the ending myself
But it started with an alright scene
1.
The first time Walter meets Jesse Pinkman, he's small, scared, and already in trouble.
That part never changes.
The baseball crashes through the living room window on a Saturday morning, but Walt still has enough time after the initial shock to scurry outside and locate its owner. There are three kids across the street, all about ten, scrambling onto their bikes as they toss bats and gloves over their shoulders. Two are faster than the third, and Walt zeroes in.
"Hey -- hey!"
Bare feet probably wasn't the best choice for pavement, but he manages to grab the straggler by the hood of his sweatshirt with a firm hand on the front of his bike, his cohorts long gone.
"Hold on, son."
The kid looks up with outrageous blue eyes, bright with fear and distrust. It's never a look Walt likes to see on kids, but what kind of character will he develop if he just gets away with it?
"Man, I'm sorry, it wasn't my fault, Pete threw the ball like a chick -- "
"It doesn't matter how it happened," Walt says calmly, releasing him and his bike. "But you owe me a new window. Where do you live?"
"Yeah, like I'm gonna give a stranger my address. What's it matter where I live?"
Walt rolls his eyes. "It matters so I can talk to your parents."
"What? No, shit, they don't need to know. Can't I just like, mow your lawn or something?"
Walt raises an eyebrow. "How do I know you'll come back?"
The kid looks flustered, bold eyes darting to and fro like he's still contemplating an escape, before they settle on Walt's. "You don't."
God damn it.
"All right," Walt concedes. "Can I trust you?"
The kid swallows. "Yeah."
"Then come back here next Saturday, same time. You mow the lawn, front and back, every Saturday for a month and we'll call it even."
"A month?! Come on, windows aren't that expensive."
Walt has to bite back a laugh. "Front and back, three weeks."
"Two weeks."
"Three."
The kid bites his lip, considering. "Fine, but I get snacks."
"Deal."
Walt holds out his hand, and they shake on it. The kid's hand is small, but his grip is firm and confident, and Walt thinks, You're not hopeless.
"Nine-thirty," he calls after the kid, who salutes him, not bothering to turn around. "Hey -- what's your name?"
"Jesse," the kid yells. "That's all you get."
+++
"You're late."
"Yo, like, ten minutes. Where's the lawnmower?"
+++
2.
Jesse Pinkman comes to Wynne with ego, weed, and a face too lovely and delicate to avoid his fate.
If you're unattractive and small you get beaten up; if you're too attractive and small you get called a faggot and beaten up. The best you can hope for are genes somewhere in the middle and the ability to not piss people off.
Jesse possesses neither.
Must be his freshman semester, Walt muses as he sprints across the parking lot. He hasn't seen him in a couple years, not since he helped judge the middle school science fair, but even with Pinkman sprawled across the pavement, two lumbering linebackers holding him down for a halfhearted pummeling, Walt would know those eyes anywhere.
"Hey -- all right, break it up -- that's enough!" he bellows, yanking McCormick up by his sleeve and shoving Carson aside. "What the hell is going on?"
"Sorry Mr. White, it's not what it looks like -- "
"Yeah, so you weren't just kicking my ass?" Pinkman retorts from the ground, breathless but suddenly brave as he pushes himself up on his elbows.
"Shut up, all of you," Walt snaps. "I don't know how this started and I don't want to know. I've every right to suspend at least two of you and I can easily make it three," he adds, glaring meaningfully at Pinkman.
Pinkman rolls his eyes, head dropping back to the pavement.
Walt turns to McCormick and Carson. "I'll deal with you two on Monday. Go home. Now."
It's all but silent after their footsteps fade, just the labored sound of Pinkman breathing on the ground, a bright orange sunset blooming over the football field. Walt doesn't know why the kid's here so late and he doesn't want to know.
"Come on," he offers, extending a hand. He feels a smaller, paler one wrap around it and grip tight, and it doesn't feel all that different than it did four years ago. "Can you walk?"
Jesse nods, steadying himself on his feet as he clutches his side with one hand. There's blood drying on his face and his knuckles and a bit clumped in his hair -- not a lot, but enough that Walt's not letting him out of his sight until he's at least made sure the kid's not going to pass out in an alley somewhere.
"I think Ms. Hampton is still in her office -- "
"No." Jesse stops in his tracks, eyes wide. "Don't -- please."
"Jesse, you should at least -- "
"No, just. Don't take me to the nurse, okay?"
"Why not?"
"Because." His eyes dart around -- always mapping the escape, just in case. "They'll ask questions. They always... ask questions."
Walt's chest constricts. He should know -- he wants to know -- but he also really, really doesn't.
"All right. Come on."
A restless pair of legs dangles over the side of Walt's desk as Walt digs around the supply room for the first aid kit. The kid's rearranging his pencil jar when he comes back and under any other circumstances, he'd snap at him to knock it off and sit somewhere else.
Jesse's quiet, though, which is unusual and nice.
Walt dampens a paper towel under the lab sink before turning around, lifting it to Jesse's face and pressing it gently to the trail of blood. He half expects the kid to duck away and insist on doing it himself, but Jesse's a statue, pliant and willing, watching him work in silence.
"So," Walt offers lightly, "Why on earth did those boys want to beat you up?"
Jesse glares at him.
No questions.
"Well, you know, guys like them... they're really not as tough inside as they are outside. A lot of times taking advantage of someone weaker is just their way of compensating for their own insecurities."
"Gee thanks, Mr. White. That makes everything better."
Walt freezes, hand in mid-air. "I -- I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this."
"You don't have to say anything. They're just asswipes, that's high school. Whatever."
"That doesn't make it fair," Walt counters. "That doesn't make it right."
"Yeah, so? Life ain't fair."
There's a warm, uncomfortable sort of defensiveness bubbling up inside him, like he can't stand to see the kid just accept his fate. For a fleeting second, his mind conjures a fantasy of him teaching Jesse to fight back, but it fades fast enough when he recalls his own high school luck (or lack thereof). Fine, he's no Miyagi.
"High school sucks," Walt says suddenly, surprising himself.
Pinkman laughs. "Amen to that, yo."
"But the good thing is, it's only four years -- and I know that feels like forever now, but there is an end in sight, and when it's over, you'll never see these -- these 'asswipes' again. So that's something."
"There's more. There's always gonna be asswipes in life, Mr. White."
"True, but you reach a point where you no longer get pounded by jocks for stealing their girl, or being a nerd, or gay, or -- "
"Who the fuck said I was gay?"
Walt drops the tube of antibiotic ointment, looking up. "What -- no one. I didn't -- "
"'Cause I'm not."
"That's -- that's fine -- not that it matters -- "
"Experimenting doesn't mean shit. Everyone does it."
Walt can attest to that, but that's beside the point.
"Experimenting is all well and good," he says carefully, peeling back the bandage and laying the plastic strips on the desk, "as long as you're safe."
"Duh, I'm not an idiot."
Walt meets his eyes. "I know you're not."
He holds up the bandage and Jesse takes it from him, pasting it across his own cheek. He slinks off the desk, gathering his backpack and hanging it gingerly from one shoulder.
"Thanks."
Walt nods. "You'll take care of yourself?"
Jesse smiles, hollow. "Someone has to."
Walt watches the kid head for the door and thinks, out of nowhere, I will.
+++
3.
Pinkman, Jesse Bruce signs up for Chem101. Walt doesn't know whether to be surprised.
By senior year, the kid's changed. Not much, but he seems to have given up, which isn't something Walt's willing to accept. He sticks to scrawling passive-aggressive notes on homework and tests but after two reluctant F's in a row he's starting to wonder if he's doing enough.
The school's empty and half dark by the time he's finished being appalled at his sophomores' quiz results, and when a knock on the open classroom door breaks into his focus, he's grateful.
"Come in."
"Hey, Mr. White."
It takes him a moment to look up, and another moment to make sense of it. Jesse's walking forward, offering him a tentative smile. He's wearing clothes that actually fit, in fact his pants might even be too tight. No obscene, oversized tee, just a simple fitted V-neck with too much V. He looks like he fell through the roof of a Gap.
Walt wrinkles his nose, too tired for formalities. "What are you wearing?"
Jesse's face falls.
"No, sorry, it's just -- not your usual style. I mean, it looks nice."
"Thanks," Jesse deadpans. "Um, are you busy? I can..."
"No, no, I'm done. What can I do for you?"
Jesse draws in a breath, leaning forward in his chair. "Look, I know my grades aren't... awesome. But like, I really, really need to graduate."
"Then I suggest you really, really study."
"Oh come on, Mr. White."
"Jesse, if you're having trouble you're more than welcome to stay after school. We can go over the material, and --"
"I just. I really don't have time for that. I was hoping... there might be... something else I could do."
Walt raises an eyebrow. "...Something else?"
"Yeah." Jesse shrugs, eyes fixed on Walt's. "Like. Something... just between us."
Somehow Walt had missed the kid's hand on the desk, now inches from his. It feels like he's watching it all unfold from across the room: Jesse's gaze locked on him, tongue swiping briefly over his lips, careful fingers sliding across the surface, slowly extending to brush against Walt's.
"Oh, god." Walt's eyes fall shut as he pulls away, burying his face in his hands. "Jesse..."
He can sense Jesse melting into his space, the warm energy of another body thrumming beside him, soft breath at his ear. His fingers are numb from where they touched and Jesse smells like weed and peppermint and chaos.
"I know we're not supposed to do shit like this but..." His hand drops to Walt's knee, fingers skating upward. "I'm really good at this, I swear."
Walt jumps, pushing his chair back until Jesse's hand falls to his side. A man hasn't touched him like that since he and Gretchen and Elliott were -- whatever they were -- and oh, that turned out so well.
But Jesse -- Jesse's not even a man, he's a -- Jesus Christ, he's a child.
And your student, his brain supplies helpfully.
He's not going to freak out, he's not. It's not the first time someone's batted eyes at him for a grade; it's not even the first male. No, this is fine. He's an adult. Hell, he's the only adult here.
Walt draws a deep breath and stares him down, ignoring the vague ache in his chest. The kid looks like a god damned kicked puppy.
"Jesse, do you really have that little respect for me? For yourself?"
"Yo, Mr. White, no -- I totally respect you, all right? It was just -- Jesus, forget it. I'm sorry."
He stands to leave but Walt catches his arm instinctively, only to drop it like a piece of hot coal when he thinks of how horribly it could be construed.
"Just -- tell me what this is really about."
Jesse sighs. "I really need to get out of my parents' house, okay? And my aunt said I can come live with her, but only if I graduate. Like a -- incentive, or something. She's really cool but she's dead serious, man."
"That's -- that's good, Jesse. You should graduate. Is it so impossible just to put in the extra work?"
Jesse groans, sprawling himself dramatically across the chair. "Dude, I'm just not good at this, okay? I'm not good at anything."
Walt pauses, considering words -- considering all the things that speak louder -- and opens his desk. He rifles around a mess of papers before pulling out a wrinkled sheet, scarred in red marks, and flips it over. This particular piece features a caricature of a naked Walt, mouth wrapped obscenely around a beaker as he sprawls across some sort of billowy sheet, emblazoned with a surprisingly accurate periodic table.
"Oh jeez, Mr White, come on -- look, that shit's just for fun, okay? It's not like, meant to disrespect you or anything, I just get bored in class. No offense."
"Jesse, all... bullshit aside, you do really good work. You have a lot of talent. Have you ever thought about art school? SFUAD has some amazing programs."
Jesse shrugs, slinking further into his seat. "I dunno."
"You don't know?"
"That's not... my parents, they want me to study like, business or some shit. Y'know... the opposite of art."
"With all due respect to your parents, who cares what they want? You're almost an adult. It's your life, you get to decide."
But even as he says it, it sounds patronizing. As much as he cares, at this point Jesse doesn't strike him as someone he could trust to make a decision about dinner, let alone his career.
Walt sighs. "Look, if chemistry's not your thing, I understand. But you're not living up to --"
"Not living up to my potential? Is that it? Yo, what does that even mean? And who are you to say what my potential is? Maybe you're wrong, y'know? Maybe I'm just stupid."
"I don't think you're stupid at all."
"Well, like you said, I'm 'almost' an adult," he echoes in a flourish of air quotes dribbling with sarcasm. "It doesn't matter what you think."
"No, it doesn't. But it matters what you think of yourself. And it'll matter in ten years when you look back and wonder if you should've tried harder."
Jesse's eyes lock with Walt's, stirring a little beneath the resistance. Gears are turning somewhere in there, he can feel it after this many years of teaching -- but gears need maintenance, upkeep -- and if Jesse won't even let him in...
His eyes flash, wild bright blue fading dull as the gears crank to a halt.
"Look, I appreciate all this, like -- effort, or whatever," Jesse gestures aimlessly, "but I really need to pass. Please, just, tell me what I have to do."
"Try harder."
"Oh, come on, Mr. White."
"What do you want me to say? There's one exam left. Ace it, and you'll pass."
"I can't -- "
"Yes, you can. I can help you after class, or I can refer you to a tutor. Or you could apply yourself and actually study."
Walt gears up for another round of staring each other down, but he's pretty sure Jesse's never won a staring match. It takes patience, and as much potential as the kid might have, patience isn't part of it.
Jesse's eyes finally drop as he begins to fidget, mouth pursed, heel tapping on the linoleum. A hand drags through his hair, fingers scraping against the scalp, and he nods, mostly to himself.
"Okay."
"Jesse..."
"Nah, it's... whatever, Mr. White. Thanks for your time."
Walt watches the pencil-thin frame stalk out of the classroom, leaving a wave of stale smoke in its wake. He breathes in, wishes he hadn't, and sighs it out.
A wisp of sweet and sour fills Walt's lungs as he passes the football field on the way to his car, and he rolls his eyes. Getting propositioned by one kid and having to bust another for pot in one evening is not exactly his ideal Friday night. Hank's, maybe, but not his.
He sighs, heading towards the field and curling a path around the bleachers.
God damn it.
Pinkman's spread himself out over the bottom three rows, two long fingers wrapped around a joint, lips taut in an "O" as he puffs out one perfect ring after another. Their eyes meet, but it's too late to hide it, so Jesse settles for ducking his head.
"One of these days you're gonna get caught by someone other than me."
Jesse rolls his eyes.
It's quite a view, Walt discovers after climbing over the rows and settling beside him. The sky's blaring red and violet -- even sober, it's mesmerizing.
He doesn't let too much thought go into it the next time Jesse lifts the joint to his lips -- just stops him with a hand around his wrist. It fits easily, the kid's so fucking skinny. Jesse swallows hard, steeling himself for discipline, but Walt simply leans over, snatches the joint with his free hand and releases him, before wrapping his own lips around the tip in a deep inhale, slow and sweet.
Jesse makes a sort of strangled noise, staring at him like he grew an extra head, and Walt glares back.
"It's been a long week."
Jesse bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. "Touché, Mr. White. Touché."
His legs fall open lazily as he stretches a bit further, one knee bumping against Walt's. He doesn't move it, and Walt doesn't make him. Jesse's warm and the air isn't and there's no one around to see, anyway.
Walt feels a smile threaten his lips, but he keeps the silence. They pass the joint back and forth for a few minutes, enjoying the view and pondering their fates, until Walt starts to feel fuzzy around the edges, words bubbling to the surface.
"My kid got diagnosed with cerebral palsy on Monday," he announces.
Jesse holds the joint mid-air, mouth open. "Are you serious?"
Walt shrugs, taking the opportunity to steal a hit.
"Jesus, man. Shit, yo, that's -- that is so uncool. I'm sorry."
"Thanks."
"He's like what, six?"
"Five."
"Fuck."
The word hangs in the air, echoes through the smoke. Yeah -- that pretty much covers it. Fuck.
"I've gotta get home." The joint's about dead when Walt crushes it into the bleachers, giving Jesse a pointed look. "Stop bringing this to school."
Jesse smiles, just a quirk in the corner of his mouth. "Yes, sir."
Walt's about to round the corner when the voice stops him.
"Take care of yourself, Mr. White."
He looks back, nodding once. Jesse nods back.
+++
4.
The day before graduation, Walt gets a present.
He doesn't expect to get it from Jesse, standing at his desk with a blue gift bag.
"Hey Mr. White."
"Jesse. Hey."
"Look, I'm not here to talk about the grade. I've already signed up for summer school. No hard feelings."
Walt sighs. "An 82 wasn't bad. I know you gave it some effort. But I also know you can do better."
"Yeah, well, anyway, just wanted to say thanks -- y'know, for being cool, and trying, and not like, ratting me out and shit, so, here."
He places the bag on Walt's desk, shoots him a brief smile, and heads for the door.
"See ya around, Mr. White."
Walt stares at the bag, words reaching him far too late. He calls after him, but Jesse's probably in his car by now.
He reaches into the bag and pulls out a mug emblazoned with "World's Greatest Teacher" and a rolled-up sheet of paper inside. He chuckles, sets it down and unrolls the sheet.
It's him, which shouldn't come as a surprise -- but he's fully clothed, which does. It's not a caricature, not a cartoon -- but a fully fleshed out portrait, bursting with detail and care and practically disturbing realism. Jesse's drawn him at his desk, a bubbling beaker in one hand and a pen in the other, eyes intent on the substance. There's a scrabble of words at the bottom, near illegible as ever.
To Mr. White, who always has a solution.
--J.P.
+++
5.
Maybe the bulletproof vest is cutting off his oxygen supply, because -- no.
No fucking way.
The kid's pale enough -- ridiculous enough to be him, but it can't be.
He's gathering himself off the ground, tugging clothes over his head as he peeps around the corner for the cops, and suddenly there are his eyes -- and it's only a fluke that they catch Walt's at all, but even from this distance they are still so impossibly, stupidly blue.
+++
1.
Jesse puts the gun down, and it might be the closest to an I love you that they ever got.
Jack's band of Nazis is gone, nothing more than a memory and a pile of corpses.
Jesse's free. Free from hell, and better yet, free from Walt.
Walt's good as dead, and they both know it. He'd never ask Jesse to stay till the end, because he knows he wouldn't. Not now.
How do I know you'll come back?
You don't.
But the kid still turns around, still gives him one last look. It doesn't matter to Walt how much of it is hatred and how much is anything else -- if there's even room for anything else at all.
Jesse nods, just once, and Walt thinks, It's something.