Work Text:
Jesse’s hands fly from one glass vessel to another. The tattooed scorpion jumps on the bony back of his wrist. An idiotic place for a tattoo, Walt’s always felt. Like putting a middle finger up to anyone who might otherwise be minded to take you seriously.
He sleeps well these days, but often he wakes at two or three in the morning with Skyler lying next to him like a carved stone figure. Her back to him, always. He gets up in the morning and there she is in the exact same position. As if she hasn’t moved all night just to make some sort of point.
Jesse’s bouncing one knee under the table, the other leg crossed in his lap, his head nodding to a beat Walt can’t hear. Walt had thought he’d made himself quite clear about the coveralls— they’re for a purpose, Jesse, we’re working with highly caustic substances here— do I have to remind you what “caustic” means?— but Jesse has unzipped his down to the waist anyway. It’s hot, especially under the lights. His skinny arms glow with sweat.
“What?” Jesse barks, taking him by surprise.
“I’m sorry?”
“What’s with all the—” Jesse makes an exaggerated I’m-watching-you gesture. “Did I miss a step?”
He hasn’t, as he should well know.
“Pretty sure I didn’t, but, y’know… speak now, or forever hold your…”
Not getting a satisfactory response, Jesse rolls his eyes and keeps working. Walt can’t imagine Mike putting up with this kind of petulant behavior, but what Mike does with Jesse is a mystery to him and everyone involved seems to want to keep it that way. If Mike and Gus would just listen to him— sit down and listen like professionals, like colleagues— he could perhaps explain why it’s so crucial that he and Jesse be allowed to perform their work unencumbered by cameras and secret mystery errands. But they won’t, so he can’t.
The cameras, when he thinks about it, are just insulting. He didn’t commit himself to this work just to be treated like one of Gus’ teenage fry cooks, or a cashier who can’t be trusted not to sneak a few bills out of the register. Light leaps off of the glass stirrer in Jesse’s hands. Walt returns to his work.
Their yields are satisfactory, but there’s room for improvement. A purer grade of methylamine, for instance, would help. That’s the kind of request a reasonable employer would entertain. But Gus is acting as though dialogue is beneath him.
What’s really maddening, if he thinks about it, what really drives him crazy, is how Skyler seems more interested in the money laundering than in him. How that seems to be the reason she’s softened towards him. Not seventeen years of marriage, no, but an opportunity to flex her intellectual muscle while still passing judgment. Skyler’s always liked the moral high ground but these days her disdain settles upon him like something he can’t scrub off his skin. Can’t she imagine how much he’s sacrificed already? Can anyone?
Walt checks the temperature on the main mixing tank, taking his time. Jesse has moved over to the coffee apparatus and is tinkering with it. Beneath the thin t-shirt he’s wearing his shoulderblades move like knives. Walt bites back a comment about basic lab hygiene: you were mixing chemicals a moment ago, now you’re pouring coffee?
It all comes down to hygiene, in a way. Keeping things separated. Isn’t that what cleanliness really is? Compartmentalizing. Skyler ought to understand. The fact that he keeps his work life separate from his home life is not dishonesty, but cleanliness. Common sense.
“We need more beans,” Jesse announces.
“More—” Walt starts, thinking, insanely, of the castor beans he cooked in the microwave the other day, as if Jesse’s about to tell him that he’s already lost the slender, precious vial of ricin.
“For the thing.” Jesse waves at the coffee contraption. “I don’t think it takes pre-ground.”
“I’ll… bring some in,” Walt says.
“You want any coffee?”
“No. Thanks.”
Jesse slurps his coffee, making a face at the taste. Walt wonders, often, whether he’s still using drugs of some sort. Gus and Mike may be zero-tolerance types, but maybe they don’t know. Jesse’s no longer the wreck he was after that awful business with Gale, but he hardly looks healthy. The boy can’t keep still, that’s what Walt keeps noticing. He does vaguely remember that there was some question of an attention-deficit disorder when Jesse was in his teens, but that was a decade ago. Besides, Jesse’s more than capable of paying attention to matters that interest him enough. All he needs, at times, is to be encouraged in the right direction.
“How’s your solution?” Walt asks. He can guess, but he’s hoping for a little engagement here. “Has it crystallized yet?”
“Uh…” Jesse darts back to the other side of his bench and looks at his equipment. “Yeah.”
“Keep an eye on it,” Walt says. “If the precipitate layer has an uneven density, it means you haven’t controlled your temperature.”
“Uh, yeah. Got it.”
He knows that Jesse isn’t Gale. He knows he can’t expect Jesse to be Gale, to quote Whitman from memory and wax lyrical about x-ray crystallography. All he wants is for Jesse to bring the best version of himself to the work they’re doing. Walt believes— Walt has to believe— that that’s enough. That if Jesse can deploy his abilities to their fullest extent, they’ll all be better off. Jesse sits back down, earbuds in, and angles his chair so he’s facing the wall.
Their yields are good. They’re making money hand over fist. Jesse should be satisfied. Skyler should be satisfied. He thinks of Skyler turning away from him in bed, leaving a skinny slice of space between their bodies, and feels a sudden, absurd rush of frustration. For a moment, his blood runs hot. He looks down at his work and tries to forget about it.
Across the lab, Jesse reaches for another piece of glassware, and the tight-knit muscles of his back move beautifully.