Chapter Text
For those brief moments of heady euphoria, where his freedom had made him laugh out loud as tears streamed down his face, Jesse Pinkman hadn’t been the empty shell he’d become in the last six months. But once he stopped the car in front of his house—sitting there innocently, the grass untended and long and the windows dark—his hands were shaking and he was gasping for breath.
What was he supposed to do now? Was he supposed to somehow go back to a normal life? The thought of even speaking to another human made him shiver. And then there was the fact that he had no money. It was almost absurd, how he’d gone from his fat stacks and mad cheddar to nothing at all, and it wasn’t even a result of him smoking everything away. He’d literally tossed his money away and the police had taken what he hadn’t left on random doorsteps throughout Albuquerque. He’d had millions of dollars—literal millions—and now he had nothing.
It was fine. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want anything. He couldn’t even muster up the feeling or the energy to get out of the car and go in the house. He could see the rock where he kept his hide-a-key and just couldn’t care enough to go get it. He felt tears on his face and realized he was crying again. It happened so often he barely registered it anymore. The only time he didn’t cry was when Jack and the rest of the family were around, because he’d learned quickly the consequences of making any noise at all. He even cried in his sleep.
He couldn’t stand being in the same space that had been occupied by anyone in Jack’s crew, so he dragged himself out of the car and up to his doorstep. It was amazing to him that the key was still there in its spot, like the whole world wasn’t completely different since the last time Jesse had lost his keys. He opened the door and everything inside his house was exactly the same. He flipped a light switch out of habit, but of course the power was shut off. He wanted desperately to take a shower, but it just seemed so hard. Did he even have water? He didn’t go to the tap to try. Everything seemed too hard. He just wanted to sleep. He literally crawled up the stairs to his bedroom, so exhausted now he couldn’t stay upright. He wanted to tear off the filthy clothes he was wearing and burn them, never see them—or, more importantly, smell them—again, but just like the shower, it seemed too hard. He crawled between the sheets, sighing at how soft the bed was, and closed his eyes.
Jesse had no idea if he’d actually slept that night. His consciousness was hazy at best these days, and if he’d slept at all, he’d woken so often the sleep wasn’t worth much. Every sound put him on alert. The bed was too soft after six months on a concrete floor. His whole body ached and burned. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw Andrea collapsing in a heap on her front porch and he trembled and cried.
Jesse waited as long as he could before he pulled himself out of that bed. He didn’t change or shower or eat anything. He avoided his reflection in the mirror when he went to the bathroom. He didn’t want to see the damage.
He put his spare key on the key ring with the Aryan’s car and drove himself to the DEA headquarters. He didn’t hesitate at all as he went to the front desk and asked to speak to whoever was in charge of the Heisenberg case. He ignored the people gaping at him. His voice was hoarse and his throat burned. He had no idea when he’d last spoken out loud, but he woke up screaming enough to know he’d probably damaged his vocal chords permanently.
“Why do you want to talk to him?” The detective was eyeing him with alarm in his eyes. He probably thought Jesse was on a hit job or something.
“I’m Jesse Pinkman.” He said, looking away from the detective’s face but hearing the sharp intake of breath anyway, most likely making his next sentence unnecessary: “I worked with Heisenberg.”
He was sitting at a table out of the way while the cops figured out what was going on and how to handle it. It wasn’t even an interrogation room, which confused him. He remembered his own words from so long ago; I’m a criminal, yo. He was used to the interrogation room, but this was more like a break room. There was a coffee maker and a bunch of paper cups on a table to his left. No one was speaking to him. They stood apart from him and spoke in hushed voices, glancing at him.
“Mr. Pinkman?” A young woman took the seat across from him. “I’m Lindsey Burrows. I’m the prosecutor.” She couldn’t have been a day older than Jesse himself.
“Okay.” He didn’t know what he was supposed to say.
“Did the officers advise you of your rights?” She asked.
“Um…no. They haven’t said anything to me. No one has.” He found he didn’t really care. He didn’t care what happened to him.
“Okay. You’re not under arrest.” The girl—woman? lady? She was so young, but obviously a professional—told him.
“I’m not?”
“That’s not to say you’re not being charged with anything.” She explained, and Jesse only shrugged. That’s what he’d intended.
“But we know you cooperated with Agent Schrader.” Jesse closed his eyes at the sound of that name, trying hard not to picture Jack shooting him. “His wife mentioned that from the beginning, when he first went missing, and your taped testimony was found at the scene.”
The scene. Jesse had to struggle not to throw up when she said that. The scene of the crime? Which one?
“There was also evidence that you were not a…ah, a willing participant in the events that took place.” Jesse stopped listening. She was talking—telling him the evidence they found that helped him—and he had to tune her out or he would break apart into a million pieces. Like he needed to be reminded that hadn’t been willing? Like he needed her to tell him there was an “elaborate chain system” in the lab or that he’d been held captive in a cell?
“So what happens?” He interrupted her. He still didn’t care what happened to him, but he had to make her stop listing the horrible conditions he’d lived in for six months in a calm, logical voice. It was making his ears ring.
“Well, we’re going to offer you a deal.” She took a breath to keep talking, but Jesse was shaking his head.
“I don’t have anything.” He said, staring at a water mark on the table. “Everything is in that video.” Everything except the last six months, but he certainly wasn’t talking about that.
“You don’t have to give us anything.” Her voice was gentle for the first time, instead of flat and clinical, and Jesse felt his hands start to shake. He’d thought the emotionless was bad, but now her pity felt worse.
“You’ll plead guilty to some charges. You’ll get a prison sentence but you won’t serve time unless you do something wrong. You’ll pay some fines and do probation. As long as you do what you’re supposed to, you won’t go to jail.” She paused, pursed her lips for a second, seemingly debating her next sentence. “Before he died, Mr., ah, Heisenberg, gave a statement to police confessing to everything.”
Jesse felt a ringing in his ears. Was he going to be under Mr. White’s shadow for the rest of his life? Even after he was dead and gone, that old bastard kept popping up.
He told me not to give up on family, and I didn’t. Mr. White was there next to him for a flickering second, giving Jesse his special look for when Jesse had actually done something right. Jesse wanted to scream and he looked at the prosecutor to avoid seeing Mr. White.
“Lindsey.” A terse voice interrupted them. It was a frowning man in a cheap suit. “Can I speak to you?”
Jesse didn’t move as she got up and moved over to the side of the room. He didn’t feel a single emotion. He stared at the table.
“Are you seriously offering a plea deal?” Cheap suit asked.
“He cooperated with the DEA.” The girl pointed out. Jesse was pretty sure they didn’t realize he could hear them, but then again he was used to being treated like he wasn’t there.
“And the agents he cooperated with are both dead.” Jesse didn’t like this guy.
“There's no evidence he had anything to do with that. Barry, you can’t tell me Schrader didn’t give this guy some kind of immunity—”
“Not that we have record of.”
“That doesn’t matter! You and I both know that.”
The guy sighed. “This guy was Heisenberg’s accomplice. You wanted more opportunity, better cases, and I’m giving you a career case here. You’re going to plead it out? We could put him away until he dies three times.”
Jesse’s heart started to pound. He’d thought he didn’t care what happened to him, but he suddenly found he couldn’t handle the thought of going to jail. He couldn’t be locked in a box again. His palms were sweating and he could hear his own breath in his ears.
“Barry, are you kidding me? You want to take that guy to trial? Look at his face. Even Gilson’s smart enough to put him on the stand, testify about being held captive, all the beatings he took. You read the file. We take him to trial, we’re going down. Plus we’ve got a confession from the mastermind taking the blame for everything.”
“You could still put jail time in the plea agreement! The confession was dubious.” Captain Dickwad was determined to go down with his ship and Jesse hated him, hated her, hated the officers staring at him like he was an animal. Six months ago, Jesse would have lashed out. He would have risen up, the attitude coming off him in waves, calling them names and letting them know just how he felt. But he couldn’t find the will to speak up.
“You can see how swollen his wrists are from here. None of the officers will cuff him. And his case is going to Judge Watkins. He’s a bleeding heart. He’d alter it from the bench."
“Lindsey—”
“Barry, you gave me the case. You have the ultimate authority, but you said you trusted me. And this is what I’m doing.”
She came back to her seat and Jesse looked up, cutting her off before she could explain anything. “I heard everything. I don’t care. That’s fine. I’ll do whatever you want. Don’t send me to prison.”
She looked apologetic and Jesse was just tired. He couldn’t believe how hard it was to be around people, especially these people—these people were untainted and he felt like just being in the same room with him would ruin them somehow.
“Do you want to call your lawyer?”
Jesse’s mind flashed to Saul, bleeding and scared, and the feeling of pointing a gun at his face. “I don’t have a lawyer.” He said.
“We can appoint one—”
“I don’t need a lawyer. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Mr. Pinkman…”
“Can you just tell me what to do?” He asked. She stared at him for a minute, lips pursed.
“My office will write up the agreement and send you a copy.” She said finally. “Read it. The whole thing. You’ll get notice of a court date where you can show up and the judge will tell you your rights. You’ll have to tell him you don’t want a lawyer and then we’ll all talk about the plea agreement.”
He nodded and stood up, so tired he wanted to drop. He was going to go back to bed. Maybe forever.
“Mr. Pinkman.” She stopped him just before he stepped outside. “Turning yourself in was the right thing to do.”
He didn’t respond. He had nothing to say.