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The more time Mike spent with the kid, the more prominent Jesse's bones became.
Forcing the younger man to tag along on pick-ups, missions and odd-jobs was useful, Mike needed the backup and the company was unexpectedly nice. But the more Mike felt himself growing closer to Jesse, the more he couldn't help but notice his self-destructive habits.
There was the smoking, a coping mechanism that Mike would never force Jesse to quit. Out of all of the kid's methods, it should've been the least concerning: but Jesse found a way, making his way through two, sometimes three packs a day.
There were the drugs. At least for now, as far as Mike knew, Jesse had quit. His hands were especially shaky these days as the withdrawals came and went - but it was clear he was dedicated to being the best partner he could be for Mike, and positive reinforcement seemed to genuinely help the kid.
There was the self harm. Jesse had white, ridges of raised skin across his wrists, some hidden underneath his black scorpion tattoo, it didn't take a genius to guess what caused them. All the ones Mike could see were healed, and therefore he saw no reason to bring up the marks. The older man knew how an addiction to cutting your own skin open could linger, the pain used to numb a different pain. He, too, had struggled in the past, too many unsavoury memories overwhelming him. So out of all of Jesse's various self destructive tendencies, this one Mike understood the most (alongside alcoholism). And when he saw Jesse, sat in the passenger seat, picking at the jeans over his thighs, snapping the fabric down as if over a wound to stimulate pain - well, let's just say Mike wasn't blind.
And the last self destructive habit that Mike saw in Jesse, and definitely the most worrying: was the starvation.
Jesse wouldn't eat.
Mike couldn't remember a single time he'd seen it happen. If the two stopped by a diner, after a long night of driving, Mike would order a plate of food for Jesse too. And the kid would drink his water and get a refill. He would cut up his food again and again. He would talk and talk and talk to Mike so that his mouth was always occupied. Every time it went the exact same. And everytime Mike noticed. Noticed Jesse's plate of food was full and the kid most certainly wasn't. His wrists bony, his oversized shirts and hoodies covering up his too-slim figure.
Mike couldn't recall the kid being a healthy weight, but it hadn't been his business. It was only after he had been forced to spend time with the kid when - completely against his will - he'd gotten attached to him.
And if Jesse kept starving himself... well, Mike just couldn't face another death.
*
"I'm hungry," Mike stated, knowing Jesse wouldn't reply. The kid's forehead was resting on the glass window, watching the streetlights blur past.
Mike waited a few beats before mumbling, "Come on, kid." He pulled into the parking lot of his favourite diner before getting out, the cool air greeting him. His body was stiff from sitting for so long so he stretched his back, letting out a huff of pain.
Jesse got out of the car too, lighting a cigarette to enjoy for the seven seconds it took for them to walk from the car to the door. Mike rolled his eyes.
Jesse followed him inside, after dropping his cigarette and putting it out.
It was eleven thirty at night, so there were only three other people, sitting across different tables, all looking very sad. He and Jesse sat in a booth and Fran walked over, smiling at them as she filled their cups with coffee. "Hey, Mike, what can I get for you?"
"Eggs, toast and bacon," Mike listed, then looked at Jesse who was gazing out the window, detached from the world around him. "And pancakes for the kid."
"You got it," Fran walked away.
"I'm not hungry," Jesse mumbled sleepily, pulling at the sleeves of his dark green jacket, which was two sizes too big for him. Mike started to wonder if that was because Jesse couldn't find clothes small enough, instead of just being a fashion statement like he'd previously assumed.
"Yeah. You are." Mike replied matter-of-factly and sighed, picking up his mug and sipping the coffee, closing his eyes to savour the taste after a painfully long day doing errands for Gus. Jesse was clearly exhausted too, his eyes were half closed and he was pale with sleep deprivation and nausea. "Maybe you'd feel better if you ate."
Jesse sighed like a toddler who wasn't getting their way, Mike raised his eyebrows and smirked. Neither said anything for a little while. He didn't usually challenge Jesse about his eating habits, letting the kid try and distract him or lie about eating earlier - which Mike always knew was a lie. But today the older man was concerned. Today, he had seen Jesse almost faint.
To an outsider it wouldn't have looked like a big deal at the time. He had stood up after sitting for a while, and rubbed his hands over his face, presumably to try and stop the stars from flooding his vision, only for his skin to go completely white, and he stumbled, leaning against the wall for a full two minutes whilst Mike watched him silently. Dizziness was normal when a person didn't eat enough. But fainting was extreme. Jesse's cognitive abilities were getting weaker too, Mike could tell - and if the kid kept this up he'd be sabotaging his position working for Gus, and putting both himself and Mike in danger. So for this meal, for once Mike decided he was going to challenge the kid.
The food arrived and Jesse made no move to begin eating. Mike leaned over the table and took Jesse's knife and fork from their napkin, placing each utensil in the kid's hands. Hands that were cold as ice cubes, Mike mentally noted.
Jesse shot Mike a glare. Then he shut his eyes and inhaled, getting ready to put on his happy persona and win an oscar for his acting. "So how long have you known Fran?" Jesse asked, overly cheerfully, adjusting the cutlery in his hands. He put down the knife and began turning the fork over and over.
Phase one: distractions. Mike knew the kid's routine, and he wasn't going to play into it.
"Mhm," Mike didn't reply, taking a bite of his toast. "Eat."
Jesse tilted his head, fake smile still on his lips but not meeting his eyes. Mike knew the kid looked up to him, he had a billion parental figures and wanted the approval of all of them - which was the only reason he still cared about his precious "Mr White", Mike guessed.
"How's your granddaughter? You h-"
"Jesse." Mike's voice was firm but not unkind. Jesse stopped turning his fork over and looked at Mike, the tone had startled him.
Jesse sighed and picked up his knife, cutting a small square out of the edge of one of the pancakes on his plate. He cut a second square, and then cut that one in half.
Phase two: playing with his food. Mike put down his own cutlery and sighed, staring at the kid. "Don't make me ask you again."
Jesse didn't look up from his plate. Mike's voice was more firm than he'd heard before - or at least directed at him. He felt like his parents were telling him off, and Jesse, always a failure to them despite wanting to please them, felt his eyes well up. He didn't want to eat.
Mike didn't move an inch, watching Jesse. He couldn't see most of the kid's face as he looked down at his plate, slowly cutting the pancake apart. He picked up a small square with his fork and brought it to his mouth, hand shaking slightly - which, of course, Mike noticed. Jesse chewed for a while, swallowed, then continued to cut the pancakes up. Mike didn't watching the kid until he'd eaten six more bites.
Then Mike picked his own cutlery up again and continued to eat his eggs and toast like nothing had happened, neither speaking another word.
Until Jesse, who had managed to eat half of his plate, muttered that he had to go to the bathroom.
The dawning realisation became painfully clear.
Fuck. Mike swore to himself as he watched Jesse go.
He didn't know it was this bad.
He stood up immediately and went to the men's room too, it was the middle of the night so there was no-one else in the bathrooms. One cubicle was locked shut.
One glance at the gap under the door told Mike everything. Jesse was kneeling.
Mike made his voice as gentle as he could, the strict tone from before had vanished, "Kid."
Jesse was silent on the other side of the door.
Mike had followed him quickly, so the kid hadn't managed to start purging yet, but the intent was there, and Mike couldn't stand it. "It's so bad for you."
No reply. He tapped the door gently, "I know you're struggling. Just... open the door."
He heard Jesse shift position in the cubicle, moving from kneeling to sitting and leaning his back against the wall.
Mike grimaced. He knew what he had to do but really wished there was a more hygienic way. For once in his life he was happy that American bathroom stalls had large gaps underneath as he slid under feet first from the empty cubicle on the left. Once through: he sat upright, leaning against the wall opposite from Jesse, who had his legs pulled close to his chest and his face buried in his knees.
Mike's heart broke as he saw the kid shake with silent sobs. He reached over and pulled the kid, by his shoulders, towards Mike's chest into a tight hug.
He didn't know the perfect thing to say so he said nothing, his chin resting on top of Jesse's head. His sobs were a little louder now, the older man's kindness undoing any composure he had managed to hold.
Mike held him tightly, rubbing circles into his back. "You don't need to do this to yourself," he whispered. Jesse shook his head in response, making Mike's eyebrows furrow.
As he held Jesse's shoulders he felt like the kid was about to snap under his hold. It was as if he needed to be surrounded in bubblewrap just to survive.
Mike cursed himself internally for not researching anorexia before confronting the kid. It was painfully obvious that he was suffering from it.
Their current position was the closest they had ever been to each other physically, but maybe also emotionally. Neither would usually be considered "huggers". But, Mike realised, he would literally do anything to comfort Jesse in his current state.
A few minutes passed and Jesse's sobs turned to sniffles, he pulled back eventually and leaned on the opposite wall again, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve. " 'M r-really sorry," he mumbled, looking anywhere but Mike.
Mike shook his head, "Don't you dare be."
Jesse wrapped his arms around his knees, "It's so pathetic, I know. I'm so pathetic, i-it's all so stupid."
"Kid, there's nothing pathetic about it. I... I want to help you," but he was scared that there was no way he could. "I mean, you must be eating occasionally - so when you do, do you have any, what are they called... safe foods?"
Jesse blinked a few times, considering, "Uhh... I eat cereal sometimes."
Mike nodded, "Good to know. I'm, uh, I'm sorry for pressuring you today. It probably wasn't the best thing to have done. I just... want you to be okay, and you being alive is pretty important."
Jesse tilted his head and scoffed through a shaky voice, "It's not like I'm gonna die."
Mike furrowed his eyebrows, looking at Jesse's eyes even if the kid wasn't going to return his gaze. "Look, kid, hate to break it to you, but if you carry on at this rate: you will."
Jesse didn't look phased.
Mike stood up, his old and aching body hating him for sitting on hard tiles for so long. He unlocked the cubicle door and reached out a hand to help Jesse up.
He paid for their food and led Jesse back to the car, where they sat for a few minutes, without driving, Mike mulling over what had happened and what had been said.
"You okay, kid?"
Jesse shrugged before nodding his head.
"Mhm, convincing," Mike tutted. "Just, talk to me more. But not about bullshit. Tell me how you're feeling and I'll listen."
Jesse looked at Mike, his eyes still glossy from crying. He looked like a lost puppy. "Okay... I guess."
Mike patted the kids shoulder before starting up the car. He would take Jesse home and then he would either murder Walter or Mr and Mrs Pinkman or whoever had hurt Jesse to such a degree that he was left in this state. Starving himself to the brink of death.