Archive of Our Own

Evening settles over a quiet street in Northeast Albuquerque, where modernist condos sit in perfect rows.

A faded Pontiac Aztek rolls into one of the assigned parking spaces and cuts its engine. The driver’s side door creaks open, nudged by an elbow, and a middle-aged man clambers out with an armful of bulky paper grocery bags. Beige windbreaker, razor-shaved head glinting under the porch lights, a neatly trimmed goatee, and thin metal-frame glasses—it’s Walter White.

He hurries into the unit and begins unpacking the contents of a crinkled Albertsons grocery bag: candles, oranges, a bottle of wine, a package of lasagna sheets, ground beef…

It’s been a short while since he purchased this condo as a private residence—ever since the separation from his wife and kids—but tonight, Walt intends to change that status. No, not just intends —he will change it. Skyler, his estranged wife, is due to visit this evening.

After weeks of persistent invites—“just dinner, something casual”—he finally got a yes. She thinks they’re ordering in. But Walt has a plan: tonight, it’s going to be homemade. A surprise.

He’s decided on homemade lasagna—a dish Skyler used to love, back in better times. There’s a certain symbolism to it, he thinks. Something quietly sentimental without being obvious.

The car wash laundering front has hit a financial milestone, and for the first time in months, there’s a hint that the tension between them might be easing. Just a little push left. He’ll impress her with the perfect lasagna (with a pinch of dried chile guajillo sneaked into the sauce, just the way Skyler loves it) and a bottle of fine wine—then, once her defenses are lowered, deliver a heartfelt speech. And then …

Rustling through the final items in the grocery bag, Walt pulls out a box of condoms and a bottle of ‘massage’ gel.

He closes his eyes and focuses, mentally rehearsing the plan for tonight—every step mapped out in careful detail.

Step 1. Skyler arrives (ETA: 6:30 PM). If it’s chilly and she’s wearing a jacket, he’ll take it from her gently, casually—a gesture of gentlemanly charm. He’ll offer some hors d’oeuvres and open the wine (without mentioning how much it cost—no need to provoke her). They’ll chat casually. She might still seem distant at that point. Guarded. It would be unwise to bring up the big topics—cohabitation, reconciliation—too soon.

2. Dinner. They’ll move to the table, where he’ll serve his homemade lasagna. A dish he’s confident in. One she used to love. They say the way to someone’s heart is through the stomach—Walt intends to prove it. He’s picked up a premade dessert from the store, since baking’s not his strength.

3. After dinner. If she’s full and in good spirits, he’ll offer her a strong bourbon—something special he picked up just for tonight. When the mood loosens, he’ll steer the conversation toward nostalgia. Old memories. He’ll play “Just the Two of Us” by Grover Washington Jr. on the stereo—the song they picked together on the jukebox during their very first date. He remembers. Skyler will remember too. Maybe even tear up a little.

4. Skyler gets up—perhaps a little tipsy. Walt will immediately offer a supportive hand and suggest she take a rest on the sofa. “Thank you, Walt… I drank a bit too much,” she murmurs, slightly embarrassed. “It’s alright. Are you warm enough?” he replies, calm and composed, radiating gentlemanly charm. She leans into him softly. Their eyes meet—drawn together like magnets—and they kiss. “Oh, Walt,” she whispers, breath catching. “I’ve just been… so lonely lately.”

5. They move to the bedroom. They will spend the night filled with passion and tenderness.

Perfect ending.

Walt opens his eyes, snaps back to the present, and marches off to the sink to wash his hands thoroughly. Time to prep.

While the lasagna cooks and the sauce thickens—spiced with just the right amount of chile guajillo—he uses the time to clean the condo top to bottom. Not a speck of dust escapes his cloth. He sets the table with precise care, lights the small candles. Fluffs every sofa cushion for maximum comfort. In the bedroom, he scatters the rose petals he bought for this exact purpose. This isn’t a joke. He’s absolutely serious.

On the nightstand, he places the condoms and massage lube—unsubtle, but deliberate.

Back in the kitchen, the lasagna and sides are ready. A quick taste confirms: perfection. Walt smiles, deeply satisfied. He removes his apron and changes into a crisp, wine-red dress shirt he recently picked up from a specialty menswear shop. Not bad, even by his own standards. A quick touch-up with the razor—even though he shaved this morning—then a faint splash of cologne.

A glance at his watch. Fifteen minutes until Skyler’s expected arrival.

Thinking he’ll kill a bit of time sorting the mail, Walt steps back into the living room—just as the answering machine picks up an incoming call.

“This is the residence of Walter White. Please leave your name and—”

Walt rushes over and snatches up the receiver. “Yes?”

“Walt. It’s me.”

Relief washes over him—it’s Skyler, just as he hoped. “Ah. What’s going on? Should I come pick you up? That might be best. I mean, I imagine you’ll want to have a drink or two tonight, and this way you won’t have to worry about—”

“Stop. Stop, Walt. Just listen, okay? I’m really sorry, but I can’t come tonight.”

“...You can’t?” Walt feels his stomach drop to the floor.

“Yeah. It’s just—ugh, end-of-month stuff at work. And Ted’s been causing a whole bunch of headaches again…”

The moment he hears Ted’s name, Walt feels jealousy blaze through—but he swallows it down, hard.

“I… I see. Well, it’s fine if you’re a little late. An hour, maybe. Or more—whatever works for you…”

Skyler lets out a noncommittal hum—something flat and disinterested. “Some colleagues of mine invited me to go out for drinks afterward. You know, since we’re already out late. I think I’ll join them. I’m sorry, Walt. Maybe another time.”

Walt is speechless. “Colleagues of yours...? You mean… Ted ’s included in that, isn’t he?”

A long, exasperated sigh rattles down the line.

“Walt… not this again.”

“Just tell me! Is he going to be there or not!”

“Whether he is or he isn’t—what does it matter? I’ll go if I feel like it. That’s my decision, not yours.”

“Skyler. Just one minute. Please. Listen—”

“I can’t believe you.”

“Skyler. Sky—hello?”

The line goes dead. A harsh, mechanical beep-beep-beep rings in his ear.

“Goddammit!” he shouts, slamming the receiver back onto its cradle. He jams it again, and again. With a guttural growl, he yanks the cable from the wall and hurls the phone to the floor. It hits hard, clattering in pieces. Still not enough. He grabs the neatly stacked pile of mail, hurls it with both hands, and watches it scatter like confetti across the room.

The tantrum subsides. Walt blinks, breath ragged, and presses both hands to his forehead. This is bad. It’s been happening more often lately—these sudden bursts of anger. Maybe it’s his temper. Maybe it’s the stress, mounting day by day. He mutters curses under his breath and stares down at the scattered mail across the floor, feeling utterly defeated. He reaches halfheartedly to gather the mess, then stops. Forget it. To hell with it all.

If anything’s going to pull him out of this pit, it’ll be the bourbon. Might as well drink the whole damn thing. Maybe he’ll pass out. Maybe that’s what he needs.

Walt starts toward the cabinet where the bottle waits, and that’s when the doorbell rings. 

Driiing.

*

“…Jesse?”

Walt frowns at the doorway.

“Yo, Mr. White…” Jesse Pinkman stands on his porch, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. His expression teeters somewhere between sheepish and anxious. “Sorry, man. I’m late, I know.”

“Late…?” Walt repeats, confused. They don’t even have work today. He squints, trying to puzzle it out—then something clicks.

It had been about a week ago.

They were at the lab, Walt wiping down equipment while stealing sidelong glances at his younger partner.

Jesse had been acting distant. Not overtly hostile—defiance practically ran in the boy’s blood—but lately, his resentment toward Walt was sharper, more intentional. Once, Walt had been the only one Jesse seemed to trust. But ever since Gus Fring and Mike Ehrmantraut had started pulling Jesse into their orbit, Walt couldn’t shake the feeling that he was losing him.

And in Walt’s current and escalating standoff with Gus, that wasn’t just inconvenient—it was dangerous.

When was the last time Jesse had a real breakdown? It had been quiet ever since the Gale incident. But then the boy started suggesting they ‘hang out’ after shifts—invited him to go-karts , of all things. Walt declined it politely. He didn’t have the time. Or the patience.

Since then, Jesse’s mood had spiraled. The drugs came back. The reckless behavior. And when Walt ignored it, hoping it would burn itself out, Mike conveniently stepped in. Jesse seemed to respond to Mike. Gravitate towards him.

The very thought irritated Walt to no end. Why was it his responsibility to look after Jesse—who is, after all, a grown man? And why, for that matter, would Jesse turn to someone like Mike instead of him? Was he truly that naïve? Walt had always suspected he wasn’t the brightest—but this was something else.

Still... If what Jesse craves is someone to show him a little kindness—though Walt himself could barely get the appeal—then fine. He could play that role. It’s not exactly a difficult task. Jesse, he reasoned, would come crawling back to him with just a tiny scrap of warmth Walt threw his way.

With that calculation in mind, Walt made his move.

“How’s it coming along on your end?” he called out, tone casual. 

“Mm,” Jesse hummed vaguely, eyes still on the lab equipment he was polishing with a microfiber cloth.

Walt cleared his throat. “I’m finished here. We could split the rest up if you like…”

Jesse gave him a skeptical look, turning slowly to size him up from head to toe.

“What’s up with you, man?” he muttered, suspicion thick in his voice. “You hit your head or something? Pulled another all-nighter?”

This little brat—seriously? But no, not now. Not when Walt had a plan in motion. He swallowed the irritation. “I’m just being helpful. You got a problem with that?”

“Huh,” Jesse said, noncommittal—but didn’t push it further.

Walt sighed and stepped in to help. Normally, whoever finished their section first just left. Walt volunteering to stay—especially to help Jesse—was unheard of. Jesse had every right to be wary. Especially since, when it came to all the heavy lifting, Walt often found excuses to leave it to him.

But losing his temper now would derail the entire effort.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, side by side, until Jesse snorted, a half chuckle.

“What is it?”

“Nothin’. Just remembered something…” Jesse kept wiping as he spoke. “Back in the day—like, way back—I marked off the checklist before we were done. Tried to sneak out.”

Walt let out a low groan. He remembered.

“You noticed. Chased me all the way to the parking lot. Dragged me back yelling like a total maniac. The laundromat guys were all watching, remember? Thought you’d completely lost your mind.”

Why Jesse found this funny, Walt had no idea. To him, it was just another unpleasant memory. Still, compared to the kid’s recent sulks, it was an improvement. He forced a smile. He needed to say something—something decent.

“Well… compared to back then, your behavior has improved quite a bit. I'm impressed, Jesse.”

Jesse turned his head with a surprised look.

Walt held the smile, practiced and deliberate.

After a beat, Jesse mumbled, “Yeah, well,” and looked away, rubbing the side of his face and rolling his jaw. His ears were flushing red.

Got him.

Walt smirked inwardly. Jesse Pinkman—so easy to steer once you had your hands on the wheel. Walt turned his whole body toward him, leaning casually against the workbench.

“You know... I was thinking we should grab a drink after work sometime,” he said lightly. “What do you think?”

“Huh?” Jesse froze mid-scrub, glancing up. “Together? You serious?”

“Sure,” Walt said, keeping it breezy. Then, as if it had just occurred to him: “Why not come by my place? We could order a pizza or something. That way you won’t have to worry about running into anyone you know.”

Jesse furrowed his brow, clearly thinking it over. Then he shrugged. “Yeah, um. Sure. Why not.”

“In that case, how about this weekend?” Walt said. “Come by at six.” He gave Jesse’s shoulder a sharp pat. “And don’t be late.”

“Jeez, fine,” Jesse grumbled, brushing Walt’s hand off—but the usual bite in his voice had softened. He even seemed to tackle the rest of his cleanup with more energy than usual. If he’d had a tail, Walt was certain it would’ve been wagging.

Everything was going precisely as planned. Walt finished the shift whistling to himself, crisp and satisfied.

And so now, Jesse Pinkman has appeared at his front door. Exactly as instructed.

A textbook, unmistakable double booking.

“Hey, uh… is this the beer you recommended that one time?” Jesse scratches the side of his head, a little embarrassed, then bends to lift the six-pack of craft beer he’s brought. “I picked it up, though it might not be super cold yet—”

That’s when he notices Walt’s frozen expression. He squints, studying him carefully.

“…Yo. Dude… that look—don’t tell me you forgot .”

“What—No! Of course not—” Walt panics. He absolutely forgot.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Backed into a corner, Walt runs through his options. He could admit the truth: that after inviting Jesse, the whole thing had completely slipped his mind. Or—he could stick to the plan and bluff his way through. The second choice is far more strategic. Jesse is easy to fool, and more importantly, there’s already food prepared. Too much for one person. If Walt played his cards right, Jesse could even be roped into doing the cleanup. Besides, if Jesse found out he’d been forgotten, the kid would sulk, self-destruct, and once again become Walt’s problem.

Decision made.

“No, Jesse. Believe me.” Walt raises both hands, feigning offense. “You think I’d forget something like that? I’ve been expecting you. I even made dinner. For both of us. I was gonna make it a surprise, but—well, now I feel a little offended.”

“For real?” Jesse’s shoulders droop as his face softens. “Wait… seriously?”

“Of course.”

“That take you a while?”

“Oh, around three hours,” Walt lies smoothly. (It had taken him 40 minutes, thanks to pre-made lasagna sheets.)

“…Damn.” Jesse shifts awkwardly. “Yo… sorry for thinking otherwise. I just figured, you know…you being you and all….”

“It’s fine, Jesse. Really.” Walt places a hand on the boy’s back, guiding him inside. “Come on in, son. It’s ready. You must be starving.”

*

It’s Jesse’s first time stepping into Mr. White’s place.

Well—not technically the first. He’s been to the old house before, back when Mr. White still lived with his family. Showed up for cash, stayed for breakfast. Stayed over once at that shitty apartment too. But this condo? Brand-new territory. Fancy and clean. Bigger than expected. Jesse keeps glancing around, kinda impressed, kinda weirded out, trying not to look like it’s a big deal.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Mr. White says, disappearing into the kitchen with the six-pack Jesse brought.

Yeah okay. Real comfortable. Not so sure what to do with that, he starts wandering. Checks out the weird abstract painting on the wall. Killing time.

His foot knocks into something and he glances down: a busted-up phone lying on the floor, cord ripped out like someone really needed the last word. There’s paper everywhere—letters, junk mail, whatever—cluttered all over the floor somehow.

“Huh.”

Mr. White peeks back from the kitchen, face tight.

“Don’t worry about that. Come on—this way.”

Jesse shrugs. Whatever. Not his business. He follows.

Then they walk into the dining room, and Jesse actually says it out loud—

“Holy shit. ”

The table is, like... set. Not just "we're gonna eat" set—this thing’s legit. Full-on restaurant setup. Neat tablecloth, fancy wine bottle, napkins folded and silverware lined up like it’s being inspected. There’s a candle. And a flower. A single, stupid flower in a glass jar.

“What the hell, did you do all this, man? This is nuts!”

Mr. White blinks, suddenly defensive. “Why, is it... odd?”

“Odd? Dude, it’s like—so gay ! What’s going on?”

Mr. White flinches a bit. “What’s wrong with wanting to do things properly? When you invite someone over, there are standards. It's just common sense. Not that you’d know, of course.”

Aaaaand there it is. Classic backhand. Jesse just shrugs. If this is what ‘normal’ looks like to Mr. White, fine. “Whatever.”

“Sit down.”

Jesse pulls out a chair, but before he sits, he pauses, squints at Mr. White.

“Yo. That shirt. Never seen it before. Is that...new?”

Mr. White stiffens, glances down at the wine-red button-down he’s wearing, all sharp creases. “Ah. It might be.”

“Oh, c’mon. That thing’s totally fresh.” Jesse snags a breadstick from the table and munches. “You always wear those faded-ass shirts. This one’s like—kinda sharp, man. Works for you.”

Mr. White looks faintly smug. “Custom-tailored. From a specialty shop.”

“Huh.” Jesse tries to act chill, but now he’s self-conscious. Hoodie’s two days old. Jeans still have a crusty Monster Energy stain from this morning. Maybe he should’ve worn something nicer? Nah. That’d be weird, right? It’s just dinner. With Mr. White.

Still. Jesse glances down, suddenly very aware of how scruffy he looks.

Then, he looks up, hearing the slow pour of red wine hitting some fancy glasses.

“Shit, Mr. White,” Jesse says, chuckling. “You’re seriously going all classy today. What’s the deal?”

Mr. White pauses. Raises one eyebrow like Jesse just insulted his honor. “If you don’t want any, just say so.”

“No, dude— I want it, ” Jesse blurts, panicking. He grabs the bottom of the glass like someone’s gonna yank it away.

Then the food shows up.

And it’s... it’s actually amazing.

“Yo, this is freaking nuts, bitch. You could open a restaurant or something. I usually just nuke frozen lasagna and they are like, so scabby , you know?”

“Well. There’s plenty more.”

“And this—this chili kick?” Jesse points at his plate with his fork, genuinely moved. “You remembered I said I love red chili? That was ages ago.”

Mr. White gives a stiff little smile. “Yes, I remembered.”

Jesse grins, wide and dumb. “Thanks, Mr.White.” He shovels in another bite and flashes the guy a real smile.

Mr. White leans back in his chair and sort of half-laughs, looking away.

Jesse watches him for a second. Something softens in his chest.

He’d been pissed at Mr. White lately—thought the guy never gave him a crap, except when he’s barking orders, never listening. But maybe... maybe that was wrong. Maybe he’s just bad at saying stuff, and he actually does care. They’ve protected each other more than once. And tonight? Tonight he cooked for him. Real food. Went all out, for no reason Jesse can figure.

Gratitude bubbles up in Jesse’s throat like some dumb movie moment. Crap. He’s actually getting misty. He can’t be tearing up over lasagna, can he?

He makes a mental note: stop fighting Mr. White all the time. Be cool. Appreciate stuff. Maybe start listening.

“You want dessert, Jesse?” Mr. White suddenly shoots up out of his chair like someone lit a fire under him. He hurries to the kitchen.

Jesse blinks. That was... weird.

Something feels off, but a second later Mr. White comes back with vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce drizzled over, and Jesse forgets all about it.

*

Jesse lets out a long, satisfied sigh.

Empty ice-cream bowl in front of him. Mr. White really nailed it tonight—dude’s on next level or something. Jesse wipes his lips with a fingertip, licks off the last trail of chocolate sauce, then knocks back the final sip of the bourbon Mr. White had poured after dessert. He reaches for the bottle to pour himself another.

“—Jesse, ” Mr. White says, watching him way too closely. He sounds all cautious and tight. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough…? Maybe we should call it a night.”

“What, you trying to kick me out, old man?”

He means it half-joking, but Mr. White stiffens like Jesse just hit the exact thing he wasn’t supposed to.

“No—of course not. Not at all.” He forces a shaky laugh and spreads his hands. “I just meant… for your health, son. You don’t want to wake up tomorrow with a terrible hangover, do you?”

“Aw, dude…” Jesse squints at him, touched. Mr. White’s totally worried about him. (Might be the bourbon talking.)

But no way he’s going home yet. He grabs the bottle and sloshes a generous pour into his glass.

“Hey! Jesse—!”

“It’s cool, it’s cool, this is the last one. Promise.”

He brings the glass to his mouth, but Mr. White suddenly storms over, scolding and muttering, and tugs the glass out of Jesse’s hands. Then grabs the whole bottle and marches it over to the sink like it just committed a felony.

Jesse groans. Buzzkill. He pushes back from the table and starts to wander around the room, tipsy and bored, looking for something vaguely interesting.

So there's this lame-looking stereo system sitting on a sideboard, and Jesse, feeling bored, just goes and hits the play button.

"I see the crystal raindrops fall, and the beauty of it all—" Some shiny-sounding, smooth jazz, super corny romantic song comes out. "Just the two of us, we can make it if we try—"

Jesse clamps a hand over his mouth to hold it in, but he bursts out laughing.

Mr. White rushes in, flustered. “Jesse! Don’t touch that!”

“Oh my God,” Jesse wheezes, cracking up. “You actually listen to this stuff?”

“Shut up! Turn it off, now!”

“Why, man? It’s got a vibe!”

Mr. White growls—“Dammit!”—and starts frantically mashing buttons on the stereo. But instead of stopping the music, he somehow cranks the volume. Jesse loses it again, practically wheezing with laughter.

Then Mr. White just snaps.

He lifts the entire stereo off the shelf—and slams it to the floor.

CRASH. Metal and plastic hit hard.

Mr. White is left standing there, breathing like he just ran a marathon. Jesse stops laughing and stares.

“Dude… Mr. White. What the hell?” he says slowly. “You didn’t have to smash it.”

“Shut up. That song…” Mr. White’s voice is tight, fists clenched. “That song… you wouldn’t understand. You ruined it.”

“What?” Jesse points at the wreckage. “ You broke it.”

“I’m done explaining.” Mr. White presses a hand to his temple, shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry. I’m just… tired, maybe. Just—forget it.”

Jesse doesn’t get it, but whatever—it’s not like Mr. White flipping out or breaking stuff is new. He lets it slide. Just walks off and drops onto the couch with a whump.

Apparently, even that’s a problem.

Mr. White snaps around, eyes sharp. “Jesse. Aren’t you leaving?”

“What? I mean, yeah… eventually. I’m just chilling for a sec. I drank kind of a lot, you know?”

“You should go. Now. It’s late.”

“Late for what, man? I’m not a kid.”

“I said—don’t sit on that sofa!”

Mr. White marches over, all twitchy and tense, trying to pull Jesse up. That only makes Jesse more stubborn. He digs deeper into the couch, resisting.

“Bitch, back off!”

“Jesse!”

“What’s so bad about me sitting here?!”

“Because you’re starting to act exactly like my original script for tonight, dammit!”

“Your—what? What are you even talking about?!”

They wrestle pushing and pulling, until Mr. White loses balance and stumbles—landing right on top of Jesse, heavy.

“Whoa!”

Jesse’s about to yell Get off me! but before he can, Mr. White scrambles off him, surprisingly fast for an old guy.

His face has gone pale. He stares at Jesse with the expression of someone who just hit the wrong button of a nuclear warhead.

“Uh… Mr. White?” Jesse squints, waves a hand in front of his face. “Hey. You good?”

The guy just nods. No words. Still in shock.

Jesse leans in, voice softening. “Yo. You okay, man? I don’t know what’s going on, but you’ve been acting kinda… different tonight.”

“Yeah…” Mr. White coughs, throat raw. “There’s just been… a lot.”

“Huh.” Jesse shrugs, then puts a hand on the guy’s knee, like, trying to comfort him. “Whatever it is, hang in there, alright? I’ll head out soon. But, seriously—thanks, Mr. White. For all of this. The food, the… everything. It meant a lot to me.”

Mr. White doesn’t quite answer. Just makes a vague noise.

“I was actually looking forward to tonight,” Jesse says. “We haven’t really talked, not for real. Work’s been heavy, and with Gus and all… it’s been nonstop. But this? It was cool. Let’s keep hanging in there, you know? Together.”

“Jesse…”

Jesse nods, earnest. “And I’m sorry if I’ve been kinda hard on you lately. It’s just—man, you were being cold, and I guess I got a little… lonely or something.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. But tonight showed me something. You really do care, huh? You see me as a partner. That means a lot.”

Mr. White’s sitting weirdly stiff, like even his spine doesn't know what to do with this situation. “...Right,” he says awkwardly. “That’s… that’s good to hear, Jesse.”

“Yeah,” Jesse grins, nods—and then they just… kind of sit there, staring at each other. Silence stretches. Feels like maybe something else should be said, but nothing’s coming.

Mr. White moves first, maybe about to say something, but right in that moment Jesse’s getting onto his feet, with a sudden urge to pee. He hops up from the couch.

“Yo. Were you saying something?” he asks, glancing down at Mr. White.

“No. Nothing.” Mr. White waves it off quickly, like he just reached for something that wasn't there. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Mind if I use the bathroom?”

“…Go ahead,” Mr. White mutters, sinking into the couch like gravity got stronger. He presses a hand to his forehead. “And keep it clean.”

“Jeez, chill.”

Jesse heads down the hallway, opens a couple doors before finding the bathroom. There’s one of those weird jars with sticks poking out—smells fancy. His mom had one of those. He snorts a little.

He does his business, careful not to splash (because apparently that’s a big deal now), washes his hands like a model citizen, and heads back out.

At least, he thinks he’s heading back.

Instead of the door to the living room, he opens the wrong one, to the left—and stops cold.

It was a door to the bedroom .

*

Sinking deeper into the couch, Walt rubs at the space between his eyebrows.

Jesse’s off in the bathroom, finally giving him a moment alone—and Walt lets out the long, exhausted sigh he’s been suppressing all night. Dinner had turned out far more stressful than expected. It had already been enough, he thinks, just dealing with Skyler and her rejection. And now Jesse, too. Jesse had barged into the evening, and Walt had to manage him—had to invent excuse after excuse for all the elaborate preparations that were obviously—painfully—never meant for the boy.

And on top of that, the atmosphere between them had grown... strange.

Not overtly, not explicitly, but something off had crept in. A tension that did not belong in an ordinary evening between two men. Of course, it could be just his imagination. Residual mood—he’d set the scene for someone else, after all. The wine, the music, the table—all of it designed to evoke tenderness, intimacy. That’s all it was.

But still. When Jesse admitted, quietly, that he’d felt lonely lately...

For a moment, Walt had nearly leaned into it.

No.

Absolutely not. That wasn’t what had been happening. He hadn’t entertained any improper thoughts. Certainly not toward Jesse. That would be absurd. Inappropriate.

He forces his mind elsewhere, shakes the feeling off like a coat he refuses to wear. Focus on the upside. The win. Jesse is appeased. Thoroughly. Just as Walt planned. No more coaxing was necessary. From now on, he can return to his usual clipped, commanding tone. Jesse will follow. He always does.

Walt exhales, this time with satisfaction. A mess, but a successful one.

Jesse still hasn’t returned from the bathroom. Walt considers pouring another bourbon while he’s gone—but that’s when he hears footsteps coming back.

“Jesse,” he calls without turning. “Would you mind clearing the table? And starting the washer, if it’s not too much trouble.”

He expects the usual ‘hell no’ or something equally adolescent. But no reply comes.

Curious, Walt turns—and freezes. Jesse is standing a few paces away, looking pale. Still. Too still. He’s not just silent—he’s wary. Like Walt’s a snake in the grass he just now spotted.

“Jesse?” Walt half-rises, voice tight. “What’s wrong?”

“Mr. White… I…” Jesse stammers, eyes darting. “I’m sorry. I’ll just say it upfront—I can’t. I can’t do this—I don’t want to.”

“What? The dishes?”

“No, man, not that…” Jesse glances uneasily toward the hallway, licks his lips like they’ve gone dry.

“What is it?” Walt straightens and strides over to him, following Jesse’s gaze. There’s nothing, he thinks—at least, not at first. But then—

It hits him.

The bedroom. The bedside table. The… arrangement. Obvious, romantic, unmistakably screaming ‘let’s have sex tonight’ . He left everything out.

Which means Jesse saw it.

“I—it’s not what you think!” Walt blurts, hands raised in frantic defense. “That’s not—that’s not what it’s supposed to be!”

He steps forward, but Jesse recoils with a startled breath. “Yo, man, I—I’m seriously not into that, okay? Sorry, but no —”

“No, Jesse, listen to me! That wasn’t—just hear me out, alright?”

“Don’t touch me!” Jesse panics when Walt grabs his arm, struggling violently. “Let go—HELP! Somebody—!”

“Jesse! Quiet! Just LISTEN!” Walt tightens his grip. “Give me one minute and I can explain everything!”

“Let GO!”

“It’s a misunderstanding! I didn’t invite you for—anything improper! Just hold still! Listen!”

The more Walt pleads, the worse it gets. Jesse’s yelling now, flailing. And then—WHAM—he lands a solid kick to Walt’s shin.

Walt doubles over with a grunt of pain, and Jesse yanks himself free, bolts toward the door.

“Jesse! Wait! Get back here! ” Walt bellows, limping after him—but the front door slams before he’s halfway across the room. “Coward! Where do you think you're going!” he roars uselessly after him, then collapses onto the couch with a grimace, clutching his leg.

His shin throbs like fire, and all he can do is curse under his breath.

*

“Jesse. Please believe me. There’s nothing to worry about.”--- “Enough already. I know you’re reading this. Pick up the phone.”---

It’s the third time this morning Jesse’s gone back through the messages—scrolling with twitchy fingers through texts that came in overnight. His eyelids are heavy from barely sleeping. He sits curled up in a chair, groaning and rubbing his face before snapping his flip phone shut. Grabs his cereal bowl and starts half-heartedly munching.

He really, really doesn’t want to go to work.

If he goes to the lab, he’ll have to see that asshole. Spend the whole day next to him, side by side. And Mr.White is definitely gonna bring up last night. Probably won’t stop blaming him for it. Jesse’s stomach turns just thinking about it.

He’s made a lot of jokes in the past, sure—but never, not once, did he seriously think Mr. White was actually into him. Not like that. The guy never showed any signs. And honestly, Jesse figured if someone like Mr. White wanted something, like getting into Jesse’s pants or whatever,  he’d just say it—or, more likely, order it. But this? This roundabout setup, the candles, the fucking flower petals on the bed? That’s a whole different level. Sneaky. Like he’d been planning it for a while.

Now that Jesse thinks about it, last night had felt off from the start. And if the ‘end goal’ really was that … then yeah. It all tracks.

He didn’t sleep much. Even after getting home, his nerves were fried. Took him forever to fall asleep, and when he finally did—A dream. A weird one. About him and Mr. White. Doing… stuff. Naked kind of stuff. The details are fuzzy (thank God), but he sure can say it was wild . He woke up drenched in sweat, heart racing, scared as fuck.

Just remembering it makes his whole face go hot.

This is all Mr. White’s fault. Every last bit of it.

Still, if he’s being honest…before everything went weird last night, Jesse had actually started to think Mr. White was kinda okay again. The guy had been nice. Like, weirdly nice. Full-course dinner, no yelling, actually listening when Jesse was talking (probably). After all that crap with Mike and Gus, Jesse had thought—hey, maybe they’d patched things up. It kinda moved him, even.

He sneaks a glance at his phone. Starts feeling a little bad about ignoring the calls.

But, whatever. He’s got work, like it or not. And if he’s too late, knowing Mr. White, the guy might show up at his place and barge in —and that would officially be The End. So Jesse grabs his phone and keys and drags himself upright. He gives himself the weakest pep talk ever and shuffles out to the car.

Sure enough, once he gets to the laundromat, Mr. White’s car is already in the lot. Jesse groans, lights up a smoke just to stall, then finally forces himself down into the meth lab dungeon.

Clank, clank. His footsteps echo down the spiral stairs. Mr. White looks up in his hazmat suits like the frickin’ gatekeeper to hell. Jesse breaks eye contact immediately and beelines for the locker. Changes clothes. Pretends to be busy checking gauges and charts. Acting normal.

Of course, that’s when Mr. White strolls over, clearing his throat like he rehearsed this part.

Normally this is where he’d scream about Jesse being late. But today? His pace is slow, weirdly careful.

Jesse freezes.

“Jesse?” Mr. White’s got this fake-ass smile like he’s talking to a raccoon he doesn’t wanna spook. “Um, so…there was a car accident nearby this morning, I saw. Traffic was awful. Did you see it?”

Jesse keeps his eyes locked on the gauges, sweat prickling down his back. Traffic? Really? That’s the icebreaker?

“Uh…yeah. Sure.”

“Oh. Good.”

Silence.

Jesse’s just about to explode when they both speak at once.

“Listen—” “By the way—”

“Sorry, what?”

“No, you go.”

“Dude, what is it?”

There’s a beat. Then finally, Mr. White exhales like it physically pains him. “It’s about last night…”

Jesse braces himself. Here we go.

“There was a… misunderstanding. I realize how things might’ve appeared, but that’s not—there were reasons.”

“Reasons?” Jesse squints. “Like what?”

“I can’t say.”

Jesse just stares. “Seriously? You know how sketchy that sounds, right?”

Mr. White seems to wrestle with his own thoughts for a moment…then either gets flustered, or just plain gives up.

“Look. That’s it. What’s done is done. Understood? It’s over. We’re putting a lid on it and never speaking of it again.”

As soon as he says his piece, Mr. White heads off toward the far end of the lab like he’s fleeing the scene. No chance for Jesse to respond. Apparently, that’s not part of his rights.

Jesse glares at the back of his shiny-ass bald head. Typical. Dude drops a line like “never speak of this again” and expects everything to go back to normal. Jesse lets out a long sigh, rubs the back of his neck, and decides to focus on the cook. If he starts thinking about Mr. White’s behavior again, he’ll lose his goddamn mind as well.

The rest of the cook goes…about how it always does. They’re deep into routine by now—minimal talk, just enough coordination for shared tasks, occasional check-ins when numbers need confirming. Jesse’s fine with that. Safer that way. No unscheduled weirdness.

Still, he keeps glancing across the lab. Watching Mr. White.

Did he mean what he said? That there were no ‘improper’ motives? Jesse’s not sure. His thoughts won’t shut up. What if he was lying? When did it start? Is he still thinking about… stuff? Like, ‘improper’ stuff? Is he just waiting for another opening? Gonna trap Jesse in a corner and logic his way into something gross? On the counter over there, maybe, or—

God. What the hell is he even thinking?

Jesse scrubs a hand over his burning cheeks. This is why sleep matters. He slaps himself lightly on both sides of the face and heads off to get the hand truck.

Rolling the truck across the floor, he keeps sneaking looks at Mr. White just to be sure he didn’t somehow catch Jesse’s thoughts telepathically. But the guy’s buried in his own work, focused. Good. Jesse exhales, relieved.

Afternoon ticks on. One of the more mind-numbing steps: operating the lever, draining product from the tank into trays, hitting the stop at the exact fill line, switching trays, repeat. It’s autopilot. Jesse’s brain drifts. Starts thinking about that Ice Road Truckers episode from last week. What would his truck look like if Jesse had one? Flames on the hood? Or skulls?

“JESSE!”

He jumps—Mr. White’s suddenly right there , yelling almost in his ear. Jesse hadn’t even heard him come over.

Mr. White’s  hand clamps down on the lever and jerks it hard. Jesse whips his head toward the tray and—crap. The blue is nearly overflowing.

“Whoa. That was close…” Jesse mutters, his heart still thudding against his ribs.

“ Focus, will you?” Mr. White snaps, dead serious.

“Yeah… sorry.”

They almost wasted a part of the batch. Jesse breathes out in relief—thank God it didn’t spill. But now that the panic’s fading, he becomes very aware that Mr. White’s still got his hand over Jesse’s own on the lever. Even through the latex gloves. And why does it suddenly feel like they’re standing way too close? He can almost hear the guy’s breathing. Can feel his chest against Jesse’s back.

This has never happened before. Jesse goes stiff, skin buzzing. His ears are burning.

Then, maybe realizing something’s up, Mr. White drops his hand and pulls away. Quick. 

Jesse turns to look at him—and yeah, the guy looks tense. “Sorry,” Mr. White mumbles.

“For what?” Jesse shoots back, glaring—but his cheeks are definitely red, and he feels stupidly self-conscious.

“I just…never mind.”

They stand there, facing each other, awkward as hell. Jesse’s brain is like, what even IS this?

And then— CLANK. The sound of the lab door swinging open makes them both flinch. Footsteps echo.

Up on the catwalk, leaning on the railing, stands Mike. “Hey,” he says, nodding toward Jesse. “You. When you’re done here, I’ve got another job. Meet me at the Los Pollos parking lot.”

Jesse’s still winded—takes him a few seconds to process. “Uh… yeah?” He swallows hard. Feels like he got caught doing something wrong, even though he didn’t do anything. “Parking lot. Got it. Yeah.”

Mike squints down at them, unreadable. Maybe he clocked the weird vibe, maybe not. Either way, he just snorts quietly and walks off without another word.

Jesse and Mr. White glance at each other, in tangled silence, not quite sure if Mike just saved their asses or not.

*

Something’s off with Jesse Pinkman.

It’s been several days since the incident , and from what Walt can observe, Jesse’s behavior has only gotten stiffer by the day. The boy seems to be avoiding him; he won’t meet Walt’s eyes. Keeps as much distance between them as possible. When spoken to, he either gives no verbal answer or sticks to the short ones, a few words mumbled, tops. He seems distracted, too. Sloppy with his work.

At first, Walt had hoped it would pass—that Jesse would calm down on his own. But that’s clearly not happening.

Walt, of course, has a pretty good guess as to the reason. Jesse now sees him as some kind of threat. A predator, waiting for the first chance to make a move on him. It’s utterly absurd—laughable, really—but this is Jesse. The boy’s always been prone to dramatics.

Still… circumstances being what they are, Walt knows he can’t afford to wait this out. Not now. Tensions with Gus are at a boil. Any crack in the foundation between him and Jesse is an opportunity for that man—one that could be exploited, twisted.

Lately, Jesse’s been getting sent off on errands with Mike. Which, in Walt’s mind, only adds fuel to the fire. No doubt Mike is feeding him poison—seeding suspicion. If Jesse confided in him about that night, Gus and his men would leap at the chance. They’d paint Walt as some kind of sexual offender. Use it to pull Jesse further out of reach.

Just thinking about it makes Walt’s grip tighten on the pen in his hand. He nearly hurls the clipboard at the overhead security camera on impulse.

Instead, he swallows the rage. Breathes. Keeps control.

He has to get ahead of this—talk to Jesse directly, again . This time, tell him the truth : that the whole thing was a misunderstanding. That he had been expecting dinner with Skyler that night, not Jesse. That he’d simply forgotten their plan. Jesse might get angry, sure—but better anger than fear. This is damage control.

With a sigh, Walt finishes jotting down the last of his calculations and sets the clipboard down. He looks toward Jesse.

The kid is over by the trays, packing up the product. Earbuds in—white wires trailing down either side of his face.

“Jesse,” Walt says. No response.

He walks up behind him and pulls the cord free.

Jesse yelps and flinches, spinning around wide-eyed. The moment he sees Walt, he instantly takes two steps back. His face looks like someone just whispered a death threat in his ear. “Jesus—you scared the crap outta me!”

“It’s already noon. Let’s take a break,” Walt says, tilting his head toward the break room.

Jesse freezes, clearly uneasy. “Uh… I’ll come later.”

“No. Now.”

“Just go on ahead, man. I said I’ll follow.”

“No.”

“What the hell, why not?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Jesse stiffens even more. “...Talk about what?”

Walt gives a small shrug. “The other day…you know. When you came over to my place…”

“Oh,” Jesse says quickly, trying to sound casual. He runs a hand down his face, eyes darting everywhere but at Walt.

Walt turns and heads for the break room. After a beat of hesitance, Jesse follows.

The door clicks shut behind them. Walt turns to face him. This has to be quick and clean, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

“Jesse. Just hear me out, and don’t get upset. There’s something I need to apologize for. That night—”

But Jesse suddenly grabs both of Walt’s arms, stopping him mid-sentence. The boy’s expression is deadly serious as he nods. “I get it… You don’t have to apologize, Mr. White.”

Caught off guard, Walt narrows his eyes. “Hm?”

“I mean, this is about the other night, right?” Jesse licks his lips, clearly nervous. “I… I’ve been thinking about it a lot since then. And I finally made up my mind.”

“Made up your mind?”

“Yeah.” Jesse’s cheeks flush faintly. “If you’re serious, then…I think I’d be okay with being in that kind of relationship with you.”

Walt stares, speechless, mouth halfway open before he closes it again. The curveball Jesse’s just thrown him is so wildly unexpected, it takes a moment to even shift mental gears.

“Jesse, I—”

“I said, you don’t have to apologize,” Jesse cuts in quickly. “You were gonna say sorry for freaking me out that night, right? But it’s cool. I’m not… I’m not hung up on it anymore.” He ducks his head, cheeks flushed, almost bashful. “I mean, really, I should be the one apologizing. Saying stuff like no homo and freaking out? That wasn’t cool. You finally worked up the nerve and I totally shut you down. That was crappy of me.”

What on earth…

Walt lets out a stiff, awkward laugh. He has no idea how to pivot this conversation back onto solid ground.

—But maybe…maybe he doesn’t need to.

If Jesse believes this version of events—if he’s satisfied with it—then maybe this entire mess resolves itself right here and now.

And his grip on Jesse remains steady.

Jesse, picking up on his silence, suddenly frowns. “Mr. White? Wait…are you saying like, you changed your mind?”

“Well, no, that’s not—”

“For real?” Jesse’s eyes brighten a little. “So…does that mean you and I—”

There’s no backing out now. The performance has to continue. Walt steels himself, then reaches one hand—stiffly—around Jesse’s waist. He gives a small, forced smile.

“Yes. I meant it.”

“…Mr. White.”

Jesse’s face melts into something dazed and sweet. He steps in closer, placing his hands lightly on Walt’s shoulders.

This is bad. 

This is escalating—and fast. It’s clear Jesse is expecting him to make a move next. To kiss him.

Walt starts to sweat. Maybe he should stop this. This kid standing in front of him is young enough to be his son. He’s—well, Jesse Pinkman , for god’s sake. The same Jesse who once put chili powder in meth.

But Jesse is looking at him now like he’s waiting . Soft-eyed. Hopeful. Admittedly, the boy’s good-looking, pretty , even. There’s something almost delicate in his features, Walt suddenly notices. Something naive. Breakable. Something that begs to be ruined.

Walt swallows hard. Just one kiss. One simple gesture. That’s all it would take to keep Jesse close. To keep control.

And if that’s all…maybe it isn’t such a big deal.

Walt slides a hand behind Jesse’s neck, gently pulling him in until their lips meet. Jesse doesn’t fight it—his mouth, soft and eager, presses against Walt’s, sending a jolt through him. A low groan escapes Walt’s throat. Okay… It doesn’t feel exactly wrong as he expected, he admits. 

Frankly, far from it.

He could even say it feels rather… inviting. 

Eyes closed, Walt leans in, starts kissing Jesse back. His tongue meets Jesse’s in a tangle and the raw, wet heat of another body hits him like a long-forgotten drug. Jesse lets out a small, choked whimper, and Walt’s blood surges. Once it starts, he can’t stop —The kiss turns rough, hungrier than he planned. He yanks Jesse closer by the small of his back, rubbing him there, feeling up the lean lines of his body through the hazmat suit. His other hand tightens on Jesse’s neck, almost on instinct.

Maybe he grips too hard—Jesse squirms, twisting slightly away, and that only stokes Walt’s fire. He grabs Jesse’s chin, forcing their eyes to lock and dives back in, kissing him like he’s staking a claim. 

“Mr. White—” Jesse gasps, voice cracking.

“It’s okay, Jesse,” Walt murmurs, breath ragged, his hand slipping lower, past Jesse’s waist. Through the layers of fabric he finds the tight curve of Jesse’s ass and gives it a possessive squeeze . 

“ Shit ,” Jesse groans, clinging to Walt’s shoulders.

What the hell are they doing?

Jesse stares up at him, brow knotted with momental panic. The same exact question is carved into his face. Walt’s growing hard by now, and according to what is pressed against his thigh, the boy’s right there too. 

Walt clears his throat, holding Jesse’s arm. “Jesse, wait—We need to rethink this. Later, when our heads are clear—”

“No way,” Jesse whines, pressing himself tighter against Walt, all stubborn heat. 

“Hey!” Walt scolds him, voice sharp. “Do you understand where we are right now?”

“Who cares, man?” Jesse leans in, face inches from Walt’s, breath hot. “Too late now, yo. C’mon, just a bit more.”

“Jesse, what the—”

Jesse’s tattooed hand slips between them, fingers tracing the bulge in Walt’s hazmat suit, teasing slow and deliberate. The touch sends a shock of pleasure through Walt, and he groans, low and ragged. Damn. This is too good .

“Look, Mr. White, you’re like, super hard, yo,” Jesse breathes, hot against Walt’s ear, his hand wrapping around the shape of Walt’s cock, squeezing just enough to make him flinch. “You want it bad, huh? I’ll get you there.”

The promise of release floods Walt’s head, drowning out reason. Nothing screws with a man like that need. “Jesse…” he mutters, voice thick.

Jesse yanks down the zipper of Walt’s hazmat suit, frantic, and drops to his knees. Walt’s pulse spikes at the sight—Jesse Pinkman, right there, face inches from his crotch. It’s unreal, like a fever dream, and it sets Walt’s blood on fire. Part of him screams he’s been waiting for this, a sick thrill clashing with a stab of guilt— should he let this happen?

Just do it. He'll suck you off good , you know that … No, not here… However…  

Lust wins. Walt rests a hand on Jesse’s head, gives a sharp nod. Just this once. One time only. Let this happen, let Jesse suck his cock for good, then it’s over. They absolutely won't do anything further. 

Yes, that sounds like a plan. 

Jesse’s hands move fast, desperate, like he’s starving, yanking open Walt’s pants. He tugs down Walt’s briefs, slightly damp with sweat and precum, and Walt’s cock springs free, right in the boy’s face.

“Holy shit…” Jesse mutters, grabbing it quick. Wraps his lips around the tip. He hums, a muffled “mm,” brow furrowed like he’s figuring out the best way to suck.

The warm, wet heat of Jesse’s mouth nearly makes Walt lose it, teetering on the edge. He barely holds back, hips twitching away. “Je-Jesse…slow down, alright? Easy now, son—”

Jesse doesn’t listen, not a damn bit. He works Walt’s cock with a slick, perfect rhythm, like he’s done this before. His tongue flicks, teasing the sensitive spot under the head, and it’s fucking unbearable . Walt’s mouth hangs open, head thudding against the door, no sound left. His rock-hard erection pulses, ready to blow.

The thought hits Walt—this is Jesse Pinkman , sucking him off in the lab’s break room, dodging the cameras. This lab, where they’ve fought, bled, survived together… It sets him on fire, arousing him more than he can handle.

Panting hard, Walt braces himself, ready to let go. His cock throbs, wild, and he comes , thick spurts filling Jesse’s mouth, coating it like he’s marking a territory.

When it’s over, Jesse pulls off with a wet pop , licking his lips with a smug grin. “Yo, Mr. White, how was that? Killed it, right? Been practicing in my head, yo. Oh, and I’m, like, always told I’m a pro at going down on girls.”

Walt’s drenched, heart hammering, barely standing.

“Mr. White?”

He waves a shaky hand. “Jesse—give me a second, damn it…”

“Sure, man,” Jesse says, still on his knees, carefully tucking Walt’s spent cock back into his briefs. “Yo, so like, after work…can I swing by your place? Take our time, keep this going?”

“Keep going…?” Walt’s eyes widen, a cold spike of alert cutting through the haze.

“Yeah,” Jesse says, cheeks flushing red. “I’ll give you everything , Mr. White. We can go, you know, like, all the way.”

“All the way…”

Walt’s brain splits, reason screaming against a dark, greedy pull. He didn’t plan to go this far… but Jesse’s body, his for the taking, maybe just this once? The blowjob was that good—why not see how much further it goes? Fuck him once, feel what it’s like, just to know. If it feels too wrong, he’ll back out last minute, toss out some bullshit about morals, talk Jesse down.

“Mr. White? You in?”

“Fine…” Walt swallows, throat tight. “Come prepared.”

*

“Oh— fuck, Mr. White,” Jesse moans , deep in his throat, clutching Mr. White’s soft bed sheets. ”Holy shit—”

Mr. White’s grabbing Jesse’s knees, spreading them wide. Fucking him into mattress like a man possessed. He thrusts hard, his thick cock sliding in and out of Jesse’s tight, stretched ass, balls smacking slap slap with every move.

“You like it, Jesse?” Mr. White growls.

“Shit, Mr. White, so good, yo… hittin’ all the right spots…”

Mr. White groans. “I’m gonna come again —”

Mr.White’’s stark naked, sweat dripping, glasses crooked. Jesse’s hole, already pumped full from earlier, is slick and messy as Mr. White rams in deep, unloading hot cum inside. He keeps thrusting, smearing cum inside Jesse with his dick, all thorough like he’s marking his territory. Like he’s trying to put a freakin’ baby in him .

Jesus fucking Christ if this old bastard doesn't know how to fuck . 

Jesse moans, voice pathetic, coming hard, splattering up to his chest. Till his head starts spinning.

Mr. White, mouth slack, groaning like he’s losing it, keeps pounding till he’s drained dry, then pulls out and collapses on Jesse. Wrecked and all teared-up, Jesse wraps his arms around Mr. White’s neck, clinging tight.

It's been three days since Jesse went over to the guy's place and they went ‘all the way’ for the first time, but they’re keeping going at it every damn day, finding any excuse to fuck. Three days straight, yo. Crazy they’re not sick of it, but when it feels this good, who cares? Shit’s getting wilder every day.

Still sprawled on top, Mr. White rubs Jesse’s hips, kissing his neck over and over. That goatee tickles like hell.

Jesse, half-embarrassed, shoves at him. “Yo, bitch, get off, you’re heavy as fuck.”

“Am I?” Mr. White smirks.

He’s gotta be messing around, pinning Jesse harder to the bed. It tickles like crazy, and Jesse, cracking up, tries to wriggle free. Mr. White grins, yanks him back, and plants a soft kiss on his lips.

“Mr. White…”

Jesse shuts his eyes, goes still, letting it happen. Mr. White keeps at it, kissing slow and soft, smooch smooch, hand cupping Jesse’s cheek. Jesse loses his lips open, humming low, melting into the sweet-ass kisses.

“Yo,” Jesse says finally, blinking his eyes open, smacking Mr. White’s side. “For real, I gotta shower, man. Let me up. My ass is crusted with cum, yo.”

“That can wait,” Mr. White says. Seems like the guy's extra needy today. He pulls Jesse back down.

“Hey!” Jesse laughs, protesting, but he can’t dodge the kisses. He runs his hands over Mr. White’s thick-as-hell chest, letting the guy do as he pleases for a while. 

“Man, Mr. White, you’re, like, way into cuddles and shit, huh? Total shocker, yo,” Jesse says, sprawled out. 

“Got a problem with that?” Mr. White shoots back, smirking.

“Nah, but…” 

“I guess not, ” Mr. White says, all smug. “Especially for someone who was all over me, moaning loud enough to wake up the whole neighborhood.”

“Shut up, yo,” Jesse snaps, cheeks burning. “Ain’t true.”

“Oh, it’s true.”

“It ain’t!”

“Wasn’t it good?”

“…Who knows.”

Mr. White raises an eyebrow. “You know your face is an open book, right? You’re adorable, Jesse, really.”

“You serious now?” Jesse groans, mortified. “Stop sayin’ creepy-ass shit, Mr. White.”

Flustered, he tries to sit up for real, but Mr. White grabs his wrists, pinning him to the mattress. “Hold on, Jesse,” Mr. White says, voice low and cutting. “Tell me the truth. How good was it? What’s the thing that did it for you, mostly? My technique? My cock? You like it from a man, or just from me?”

“Goddamn, so pushy!” Jesse huffs, squirming. “What’s with all the questions, man?”

“I’m the first man you’ve been with, aren’t I?” Mr. White presses, voice low. “When you saw my erection that first time, what ran through your head? Were you in awe? Did it put you to shame?

“Yo, what kinda rude-ass question is that, prick?”

“Answer me, Jesse.”

Jesse sighs, heavy, rubbing his buzz-cut head. “I dunno, man… guess it’s good ‘cause it’s you, alright?”

Mr. White lets out a satisfied huff, finally easing off and letting Jesse’s wrists go.

Jesse shakes his head in disbelief as he slips out of bed. What the hell’s wrong with this psycho, he thinks, half-exasperated, half…thinking it’s sort of sweet? Maybe?

He hops into the shower, dries off, and throws on just a T-shirt and boxers. Lights a cigarette. He’s thirsty, so he heads toward the living room. Mr. White’s still sprawled somewhere in bed, probably not even dressed.

As Jesse gulps down a glass of water, the landline starts ringing.

After two or three rings, the voicemail picks up. Mr. White’s voice drones from the answering machine: “This is the residence of Walter White. Please leave your name and message after the tone—”

Jesse snorts a little. Hearing Mr.White’s voicemail is kinda hilarious.

There goes beep , and then a woman’s voice:

“Walt? Aren't you home? It’s me—”

Jesse freezes. He knows that voice. It’s her. Mr. White’s wife.

“Tomorrow’s Junior’s competition day, right? Could you come pick him up after it’s over? Don’t forget, okay? Also, sorry about last Saturday—I know we were supposed to have dinner, and I bailed last minute. If you have time next week, maybe I’ll stop by again… Anyway, don’t forget to pick him up.”

Beep. Call ends.

But Jesse is stuck.

Last Saturday. Dinner plans. Canceled last minute.

The memory hits him like a freight train. The weird energy that night. The flowers on the table. The sappy music in the stereo. The bedroom .

Mr. White always calls Jesse a moron—but Jesse’s not that much of a moron. He gets it now. All of it.

He just stands there, frozen, heart sinking.

Footsteps approach. Mr. White ambles into the doorway, robe on, looking relaxed. “Jesse? What are you doing just standing there? Go get dressed. It’s still early—we could order in Chinese or something.”

Normally, Jesse would be thrilled to hear that. But right now? Screw Chinese.

He turns toward the bastard, silent, barely holding back tears, glaring.

Mr. White finally seems to notice something’s wrong. He squints. “What’s wrong?”

“You lying piece of shit,” Jesse spits, pointing sharply at the phone. “That dinner with me the other night… You forgot , didn’t you? I just heard it—your wife said—”

Mr. White freezes. Just for a second. Then comes that look. That fake-ass, oh-crap expression he always makes when he’s caught. He raises both hands like he’s about to talk his way out of it. “Jesse. Just listen. I was going to explain, I swear. It wasn’t a lie—it was just…well, it is complicated—”

“You prick— ” Jesse shouts. “You told me—You said you were serious! About…about us!”

“Did I?”

“You bastard! ” Jesse hurls the glass in his hand. Mr. White ducks. It shatters against the floor with a loud CRASH.

“Jesse!” Mr. White snaps.

“You’re still banging your wife, aren’t you!”

“ What? Where does that even come from!”

“It comes from you being a two-timing bastard!” Jesse yells, storming up to him. “You and your wife were probably on a dry spell or whatever, and I just happened to be around, so you decided to trick me into bangin’ you, huh?”

“Jesse…” Mr. White sighs—freaking sighs, like he’s the one exhausted. “That’s not what happened. Not even close to it. Stop being ridiculous.”

“Oh, who’s ridiculous here? You old cheating perv!”

That must strike a nerve. Mr. White’s face goes sharp. “Excuse me?” he snaps, puffing his chest out as he steps closer. “Why are you so upset to begin with? Stop being a brat. Honestly, Jesse, you were the one who misunderstood and started all this. I never said I’d left my wife. Don’t try to pin this on me.”

Misunderstood …? Jesse’s mouth clamps shut. He can’t even argue, not really—not when it’s probably true. He practically begged Mr. White to make him his freakin’ side bitch . The frustration bubbles up inside him, mixing with the sting of humiliation, and his eyes start to burn. He bites down hard to keep the tears from spilling.

“You get it now?” Walt says, cool and smug again. “So stop pouting already—”

Wham! Jesse doesn’t let him finish. He throws a fist straight into Mr. White’s face.

Mr. White stumbles back with a gasp, hand flying to his nose. Then his eyes snap up, furious. He swings—Jesse tries to block it, but Mr. White’s slap catches him hard across the cheek.

“Agh—damn it!” Jesse cries out. His lip is busted. He tastes blood. “You asshole—”

Furious now, Jesse grabs both of the guy’s arms and shoves him hard into the kitchen counter, smashing the bastard’s back against it. Mr. White recovers quickly, grabs Jesse’s shirtfront, and hurls him off.

They crash to the floor with a loud bang , knocking over a stool. Jesse grits his teeth through the pain.

The bastard’s on hands and knees, panting as he fumbles around for his glasses. Jesse gets up unsteadily, walks to the table, and snatches his car keys.

“Where are you going?” Mr. White barks. “Jesse! Stop right there!”

But Jesse doesn’t look back. Barefoot, rattled, he stumbles out of Mr. White’s house and slams the door behind him—loud enough to make sure the whole damn neighborhood hears it.

*

Goddamn it, Walt mutters under his breath.

His right eye throbs with a dull, persistent ache. Since the incident yesterday—since Jesse stormed out—he’s spent hours pressing ice packs to the swelling, trying to keep the bruising down. But the discoloration is only getting worse. Every time he catches his reflection in the lab’s polished steel surfaces, it’s a fresh, infuriating reminder. And that sharp pain in his back, from being slammed into the counter? That still flares every time he bends or reaches too fast.

And this—this is not just some minor workplace “inconvenience.”

Walt glares down at his wristwatch. It’s been over thirty minutes since their scheduled start time, and still no sign of Jesse. Late? Or just planning to skip entirely? What the hell is that idiot thinking?

CLANK. The sound of the lab entrance.

Walt spins around, ready to tear into Jesse—but it’s not him.

From the catwalk above, one of Gus’s goons—Tyrus, or something like that—stares down at him with that usual condescending indifference.

“Where’s the other one?” Tyrus says, voice flat, cold. “Leave him at the pet shop or something? When’s the cook starting?”

“Jesus. It’s only been thirty minutes,” Walt snaps, jabbing a finger toward his watch.

“Is there a problem?” Tyrus asks, eyes like ice.

Walt hesitates. For a beat too long.

Letting them know there’s been trouble between him and Jesse? That would be dangerous.

“No. There’s no problem,” he says tightly. “Pinkman called—said something came up. Personal errand. He’ll be late, but we’ll make up the time. Nothing to worry about.”

Tyrus snorts through his nose, lips curling into a faintly mocking smile. Then, without a word, he turns and walks out.

Walt seethes, jaw tight.

This is about more than bruises. It’s about control slipping—and Walt knows it. Jesse, that little shit, had better show his face soon. 

Walt gets to work alone, still coiling in anger. There's nothing else he can do. He waits it out, all day, hoping Jesse might show—but he never does. By mid-afternoon, Walt gives up, changes out of his lab gear, and heads out in a rush.

He speeds all the way to Jesse’s house.

“Jesse! Jesse, I know you’re in there!” Walt shouts, banging on the door with his fist, jiggling the doorknob. “Open up!”

No answer. His mind begins racing—what if Jesse’s passed out again on drugs, almost overdosed? What if someone’s taken him?

Just as panic starts to swell, the door finally creaks open.

“Yo…keep it down, the whole damn neighborhood’s gonna hear you.”

Jesse’s wearing the same baggy T-shirt and those neon-green-patterned loose boxers from the night he stormed off. His eyes are red—crying, probably, and a big purple bruise blooms just below one of them. He slumps in the doorway, hand on the knob, shoulder drooping.

“…Jesse,” Walt says, scanning him up and down. “Why didn’t you answer?”

“What do you want?”

“What do I—?” Walt barges in, shoving past Jesse with a hand to his chest. The cigarette tumbles from Jesse’s fingers. “What do I want? You think I came here to borrow a damn bottle opener?”

“Hey! You can’t just barge in like that!”

“Why didn’t you show up? Tyrus came down to check on us. You know I can’t do the work alone. You know what’s at stake here!”

Whether he feels guilty or not is unclear—Jesse just lets out a long groan and scrubs at his prison-cut hair. “I know, alright? I skipped one day.”

“Jesse. I’m being serious.” Walt grabs both his shoulders, forcing him to face forward, staring into those rebellious blue eyes. “Whatever you think—whatever happened with my wife, or didn’t happen—that’s not what matters right now. Forget it. This is about survival. Yours and mine. You cannot pull something like that again. You hear me? You show up.”

Jesse hesitates. Then looks away and gives a small nod.

Walt exhales a little and reaches up to brush his thumb gently over the bruise on Jesse’s cheek. “…Does it still hurt?”

“Obviously,” Jesse mutters, scowling—though when his eyes land on Walt’s own blackened one, he huffs a quiet snort. “You look like hell too. So much for handsome.”

“While I was gone… no one came, right?” Walt says, tension threading into his voice. “Mike didn’t show up? Hm? Or anyone else on that matter? Tell me the truth.”

“No, no one came ,” Jesse swats Walt’s hand away, clearly annoyed.

“Are you sure?” Walt narrows his eyes, watching him closely.

“Dude, yes! God, stop grilling me—”

Walt grabs Jesse’s head with both hands and crashes his mouth against his.

“Mmff—!” Jesse protests, but Walt doesn’t back off. He pushes Jesse up against the wall, kissing him hard and hungry, bruised lips clashing.

“Mr. White—!” Jesse twists his head to break contact, shouting in outrage.

“Jesse… I’m saying this because I care about you. You understand that, don’t you?”

Jesse just stares at him like he’s speaking in a foreign language.

Walt gently strokes the bruise again. And this time, he kisses Jesse slower. Softer.

He kisses him again and again, and maybe it’s just reflex, but Jesse starts to give in, kissing back slow and hesitant. His fingers clutching Walt’s shirtfront sweetly, one leg hooks around Walt’s. A thrill surges through Walt, sharp and dangerous.

“Jesse…” he growls, low and hungry, pressing his growing erection against the boy.

“Hey, what’re you doing?” Jesse pushes back, voice dripping with disbelief. “Are you seriously having a hard-on, like right now ?This ain’t the time, yo. I’m still pissed about yesterday—”

“Enough—Come here,” Walt snarls, seizing Jesse’s neck, dragging him to the couch. Jesse winces, pain flashing across his face, tries to resist, but Walt’s grip is iron—he’s not stopping.

“Mr. White, yo—”

Walt shoves him face-first onto the couch, yanking Jesse’s boxers down, baring his ass. Lust consumes him, uncontrollable, his cock throbbing painfully. He doesn’t wait—takes Jesse from behind, fast and rough. He grips Jesse’s hips, bruisingly tight, slamming into him again and again, proving something—to Jesse, to himself—before unloading inside with a guttural grunt. A rush floods Walt’s body, electric.

“Fucking bastard…” Jesse mutters, panting, voice raw as he collapses onto the couch, spent, like all the fight’s drained out of him.

Walt’s just as wrecked, breath ragged, pants still around his ankles as he slumps onto the couch beside Jesse. He leans back, sinking in, head spinning with the dizzy haze of the adrenaline crash, trying to ride it out.

“What the hell was that, Mr. White?” Jesse snaps, still shaky as he hauls himself upright. “Seriously—what’d you even come here for? To lecture me or screw me? Make up your mind.”

“I don’t know…” Walt says, dazed.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean it, Jesse. I don’t know anymore.” Walt slumps back against the couch, head lolling to one side so he can look at Jesse. “Even I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Jesse scowls, lips moving silently: What the hell?

Walt lifts one hand half-heartedly, waving off the conversation. He closes his eyes.

“Yo,” Jesse says again, and there’s a flicker of concern now. “Mr. White…you okay? Seriously losing it or what?”

Walt tries to look at themselves, objectively. Two men, beat-up and bruised, one a dying married man, the other a skinny, low-life junkie. They’re both sitting on a couch in the middle of the day, wrecked after an act they couldn’t control—didn’t plan for. Covered in the evidence of sex, and totally at a loss.

“Jesse…” Walt murmurs, still hollow. “What do we do now? Should we stop doing this? Quit this kind of…relationship? If that’s what you want—if it’s really what you want—I’ll stop. And I should’ve told you about Skyler earlier. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

Jesse doesn’t say anything. But after a moment, he shifts closer. Slowly. Then leans in, resting his head on Walt’s chest. His fingers toy with Walt’s shirt for a while, until he finally mutters:

“I don’t wanna stop…”

Walt feels the last exit slipping away.

He exhales and slips one arm around Jesse’s shoulders, letting his hand drift absently along Jesse’s arm. “You mean that?”

“Yeah…”

Walt turns, presses a kiss to the top of Jesse’s head. His buzzed hair is so soft. Walt shuts his eyes, leans into the contact—and for a split second, he’s a boy again, lying back in the summer grass, never once wondering how he got there.

*

“Hello?” Skyler says, cradling the receiver between her shoulder and ear.

“Skyler, it’s me.”

Walt.

She rolls her eyes, already exhausted. “What now? Another one of your problems?” The door chimes— ding —as a customer walks into the car wash. She flashes them a practiced smile, then lowers her voice, cupping the receiver. “If this is anything sensitive, I’ve told you a thousand times—not over the store line. Call back later.”

“No… it’s about my visitation day this week.”

“Oh, right. When were you thinking?”

“Saturday—if that still works for you.”

“Hold on,” she mutters, bending under the counter to pull out her planner. “Okay. That works.”

“Good. I’ll come by at the usual time, then.”

“Fine.” She wraps the phone cord idly around her finger.

“There’s… one more thing,” Walt says, hesitating. “Something I should probably mention.”

“What?” she asks. The customer is still wandering the gadgets shelf.

“There’s… someone I’ve been seeing. Recently. A person. Fairly often. In a…close capacity.”

There it is—his classic guilt-talking voice. Skyler absorbs it for a beat. Then: “Well isn’t that just lovely, Walt,” she says, dragging the sarcasm out. “Congratulations. Thanks for letting me know!”

“Skyler, I didn’t plan any of this—really—I didn’t mean for it to happen. And I thought maybe we could reconcile, but then this just—just developed , and I know it’s not something to be proud of, but I thought, well, I should be honest, right? I mean, communication is important, and—”

She wants to slam the receiver down, but of course, he’d just call again. He always does.

“That it, Walt?”

“Wha—yes, I mean… that’s all I needed to say…”

“Great. Saturday it is.”

She hangs up before he can get another word out. Exhales sharply. That conversation drained her more than a double shift ever could.

Honestly, she couldn’t care less who Walt’s tangled up with anymore. Maybe she’s mildly curious—whether it’s someone she knows. But it’s probably just some idiot, some dumb young thing who doesn’t mind chasing married men. Or a stripper, maybe, looking for a payday.

She half-smirks. Might be entertaining to press him for details on Saturday. Hell, she could invite the mystery guest over for dinner—Walt would just about combust. 

The image alone gives her a little satisfaction.

The customer heads to the counter, and she smiles again, all polish and poise.

As they leave, she calls after them with a bright, “Have an A1 day,” and punches the numbers into the register, padding the charge before sliding the bills into the till.

Ka-ching. Music to her ears.