Chapter Text
Jesse should have listened to his friends.
He thought he was above it, that rush he heard about, when you get your first ever payment. They had all told him that he would be tempted to spend it on something lavish, something ridiculous, an expense that would only draw suspicion from those who knew him.
Of course, he assured himself, he wouldn’t go out and buy a Camaro, or something. But the business was just starting. Hell, he could take a little bit out. Right?
God, it was silly, how excited he and Mr. White had been, both whooping like children over a fat stack of cash. Self control had never been his strong suit, it was true, but again, he wasn’t going to spend it. He was certain. Not yet.
So why couldn’t he stop thinking about surgery?
New Mexico summers were brutal, and Jesse couldn’t remember the last time he wore shorts. Year round, his uniform was baggy jeans, a hoodie, and a hat. It was the only thing he felt comfortable in.
Yeah, the jeans made his legs look short and stocky, and on the hotter days, it felt like there were a thousand fire ants under his beanie. What other outfit communicated “man” as well as that? It was what his friends wore, what the guys on the street wore, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be caught in just a t-shirt around them.
Sometimes, he confided in Mr. White. Asking him if he looked like a regular dude. If his chest was uniform enough in his binder. Mr. White wasn’t the best judge of that, he quickly realized, anyone his age would see someone with short hair and go “boy.” When he asked about his voice, if his facial hair was too patchy, his wrists too delicate, he would be greeted with a “Jesse, what the fuck are you talking about?”
And it was irrational. He was well aware. For ages, he was on hormones, and despite his wiry frame, he played the part passably enough. His voice was deep, though he worried he was trying too hard, like a caricature of masculinity.
Every time he got upset, started thinking too hard about it, he had a coping mechanism at an arm’s length. Drugs, parties, maybe delving into a new video game for hours, or his bed. There were days when he would sleep till five, six in the evening because he didn’t want to face himself. He didn’t need some stuffy old psychiatrist to tell him he had a problem.
The problem was staring him in the face. It was imprinted into his bruised ribs and cloaked under an extra large lounge tee.
“Yo, you, uh, you with your wife right now?”
“Oh! I’ve been meaning to catch up.” He paused. “Yes, Junior is doing just fine.”
Jesse rolled his eyes and set the receiver face down on his night stand. “Ugh.”
The sliding glass door squeaked open over the speaker. “Jesus, Pinkman, I’m having a family dinner. I told you not to call me on the landline,” he could hear him hiss through the phone.
“Yeah, yeah. I need a favor from you, okay?” His heart was hammering in his chest, and he didn’t know why.
“Make it quick.”
“I need you to pretend to be my dad.”
There was a shuffling on the other end, and he stared into the glowing keypad expectantly. “Hello? Mr. White?”
He struggled with his syllables for a second. “Are you joking? Listen. I’m the one who decides when something like that is necessary. And whatever sort of stunt you’re about to pitch, I can tell you, I’m not going along with it.”
He flopped back on his mattress. “Nah, it’s not related to cooking. I swear. It’s not about the business at all. I just need someone to go with me.”
“Go with you where? Cut to the chase. My wife is glaring at me, Jesse.”
“The hospital, yo, I’m getting this big operation, and I need someone to help me out a little.” He shut his eyes, grimacing. Something about needing others, talking about his body, it was humiliating. “Look, I’m--I’m gonna be pretty fucked up, and I need you to be my dad and wheel me out, all that. In case the nurses ask. ‘Cause like hell my parents are gonna do it for me.”
“I don’t have time for something like that. I’m sorry I can’t be at the damn hospital, no questions asked. And what kind of surgery is this, anyways? You didn’t tell me anything about a surgery.”
His mouth was dry. “It’s for my…”
“Speak up, Jesse, I can’t put it on speakerphone.”
“My…” He spat it out as quickly and quietly as he could.
“ What? ”
“I’m cutting my tits off, bitch, alright?” Now, his face was as red as the sweatshirt he had on.
“Oh.” There was a pause. “Well, why didn’t you just come out and say that?”
“Because I thought you’d be weird about it! You should be. It’s weird. ” He brought his knees up to his chest, sinking into the bed. “Forget it. I’ll get Skinny to do it. It’s gonna take some explaining. I haven’t told him anything.”
“Anything? You mean your friends don’t know?”
“No, Mr. White. They don’t know. And I didn’t plan on telling them. But I don’t have a plan anymore. All I know is that I can’t keep living like this. With these.”
Again, silence on Mr. White’s end. “I can help you out. But you need to stop calling here. Call my cell. And give me the date. I’ll be there.”
“Wait, are you serious?” He clutched the phone to his cheek like a moth clung to a lamp.
The patio door slid open once again. “I mean that. Have a lovely evening. Right. Bye-bye.” He heard Skyler, who he knew as his wife, ask about the caller. It ended.
Jesse exhaled the biggest exhale of his life, and jumped up, punching the air, spouting all manners of happy expletives. He swallowed the lump in his throat. It was finally happening. He had waited for this, well, forever. Why was he so nervous, then? What if he regretted it? How many days would he be useless, and in pain for? More than asking for help, he hated being useless. A sitting duck. What if by the time he had recovered, Mr. White replaced him? That was unthinkable. Dialing his cell, he left him a voicemail with the date and time. He was booked for this coming Monday. When he made the appointment, his hands had been shaking, and he could barely stutter out his insurance information, his confidence evaporating.
It was six in the morning when Mr. White knocked.
“Ready to go?” He had in his hand one of those water bottles with the teat on it that athletes used, an orange, and a cold washcloth.
“Yo, what’s all this? ” Jesse slipped into a slightly less unseemly sweatshirt, his hair unkempt and his mouth still thick with sleep.
“I researched your procedure. I thought you might like having these afterwards. And well, for the wait.”
He scratched his head and yawned. “You sneak out?”
Giving the orange a toss, he raised an eyebrow. “She didn’t notice. I told her I had a CAT scan in the morning, but I didn’t tell her when.”
“Wow. Badass, Mr. White.” His eyes were heavy and bleary, and the streetlamps looked like little planets.
“Don’t be a smart alec. We’re past this.”
The drive to the hospital was silent, the sun but a pink streak on the horizon. He used to hate the color pink. Now, he didn’t mind. But he still wouldn’t wear it. Maybe after the surgery, he would feel safe enough for that.
“Can you turn on the radio?” His head lolled, in a fight to keep his eyes open. He dragged his hands down his face, pulling down his lips and eyes, and Mr. White grumbled. The radio garbled to life, and modern country sounded through the car. “No, god, no cowboy shit.”
His lips creased. “You control it, then. I’m trying to focus on the road.”
Jesse scoffed, but in the corner of his eye, Mr. White’s expression softened. Cranking the dial, the car pulsed and hummed to a rap song that made Jesse drum his fingers and nod to the beat.
“Settle down, please. You’re rocking the vehicle.”
“Oh, c’mon, you know you wanna dance.” He started beatboxing, albeit badly.
Mr. White’s forward gaze was unwavering. “I don’t do that.”
“Maybe not in front of me, ya don’t.” He threw up double peace signs, bobbing his head.
“If it’ll get you to be quiet, take the fruit.” The orange landed in Jesse’s lap.
“Can’t eat after midnight before the operation, yo. You’ll have to deal with me till then.” The beatboxing started up again.
“Jesus Christ.”
Unsurprisingly, the hospital was emptier at this hour. Jesse sat with Mr. White in the stiff waiting room chairs, a seat of space between them.
“You can’t even have water?”
“Nah. I thought you did your research.”
Mr. White side-eyed him. “Well, I was a little more focused on what the procedure itself was, rather than get into the semantics of it. So excuse me for that. I was trying to be thoughtful.”
He bounced his leg, scanning all the medical posters and pamphlets that adorned the area. “Sorry. I appreciate it. I swear.” A little kid holding an inhaler sat across from him. Jesse gave him a wave, and the kid glared. “It’s just that I’ve been reading about this my whole life. Since like, middle school. I always thought my parents would be the ones sitting out here with me. You’re the only one I have to, you know, celebrate with.”
“Don’t expect me to throw you a party, Pinkman. I need you, my assistant , to recover quickly. This is nothing but a business strategy.”
“Alright, whatever. Business strategy. If that’s how you look at it.”
If Jesse squinted, he could see the man sitting next to him, the famed Heisenberg, as his own father. They both wore khakis and boring dress shirts, and wore those same old guy loafers. Maybe, just once, he could imagine being taken care of. Having someone to hold his hand as they wheeled him back into the sterile, cold, operating room.
“Um, Jesse? Are you here? We’re ready for you.”
He swallowed. “Oh, yeah, that’s me.” Bracing on the armrests to stand, his arms were jelly. The nurse handed him a paper-thin robe, and a plastic bag for his clothes.
“Go on and get undressed in this here room, and sanitize really well when you’re done. Okay?” She smiled, and he put on his best stoic expression.
He looked back at his partner. He was gripping the side of the chair, as if he was about to cross the room, but he remained seated. There was hesitation in his posture. Was he going to join him? Say a few words? That was unlikely. It was just a business strategy, and this whole thing made him a liability.
“Sir, are you with Mr. Pinkman?”
Mr. White gave a single nod. “Yes. He’s my son.”
At once, his throat was tight, and his eyes were stinging. Standing there, clutching the robe, he felt so vulnerable, like a little kid, lost in the supermarket, the world around him the store. At that moment, he wanted to be someone’s son more than anything. He heard their exchange in the background, but his head was pounding with nerves, drowning it out.
“Great. Here’s some instructions of how to deal with the wraps, the drains, all of that. He’ll need you to help him for the first week or so. Make sure he doesn’t do any heavy lifting, or have him put his arms up too high for the following three weeks.” She handed him a packet, and Jesse felt like he was looking at the two from a block away. He knew he was spacing out, but he didn’t want to do anything about it.
He was sinking into his body, his old body, for the last time.
Jesse stared at himself, tying the plastic strings on the gown. He wondered what thirteen-year-old him would think, looking at his body, his face right now. The trade he came into, and everything he lost because of it. He had lost so much. It was all his fault.
And now, he was risking losing Mr. White, in the pursuit of vanity, essentially.
No. It wasn’t vain. It was necessary, he told himself. That was because it had to be anything but selfish, for him to render himself unable to work.
He didn’t remember much as they carried him back on the rig, a sedative drip already in his arm. The nurse remarked how anxious he seemed, and he must have agreed, because everything was fuzzy and he was shivering in his skin, which felt pleasantly warm. The last time he went in for surgery was when he broke his collarbone falling out of a tree. He shattered it so badly, they had to operate, and they gave him a mask with a sickly sweet gas. Jesse wore a cast for weeks, and he couldn’t ride his dirt bike, couldn’t turn his head without pain. Now that he was older, they forwent the flavored stuff. He was thankful for that. The smell of it made him nauseous. Oh. He was falling asleep, and for once, he wasn’t trying to resist. When he woke up, he would be alone, but when he closed his eyes, he thought he saw a figure standing at the end of the hall, watching over him.
“Jesse. Jesse. Can you hear me?”
“Mmph. G’way.”
“ Jesse. ”
The first thing he noticed was that the entire top half of his body was pulsing. It didn’t hurt, but when he reached over to touch his chest, the nurse jogged over.
“Don’t lift your arms too much, bud. Don’t move around too much, ‘kay?”
“Woah.” He laughed. “I feel drunk. Yeahhh .” He looked down. Beneath the thick bandages, the surgical binder, he could hardly see a difference. But when he ran a hand across it, despite the dull ache, it was flat. There was no tissue, no lumps, like his chest had been at its flattest before.
Mr. White, a neck pillow in his hand, was standing over him. “I’m going to take you home, alright? Are you able to walk, Jesse?”
The nurse tsked. “Give him a while, sir. He’s going to be kind of out of it.”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, I’m in a bit of a time crunch, and I need him in the car.” He handed Jesse a paper cone of water. “Drink.”
Fuck, his mouth was dry. It was worse than the time Badger dared him to eat a packet of silica gel.
“Augh. Yeah.” Tilting it up to his cracked lips, he swished it around in his mouth, gulping all of the water down. That was the whole cup? That was hardly enough. “Need more.” His voice broke with his effort.
His partner sighed and backed into the hallway, the water cooler gurgling as he refilled it. Again, he downed it in one go. “Thanks...uh, dad.” Again, that tight feeling in his throat. Why was he all choked up? It was funny. Asking Mr. White to be his father, that was funny.
He smiled, a hint of a laugh escaping. “Of course, son. Now, are you feeling up to leaving?”
“I feel great, man.” The words came out on autopilot. He wasn't terribly sore, paralyzed with pain like he thought he would be, the thrumming in his ribs faded with his sock feet touching the linoleum. Mr. White put a hand on his back as he stood, rubbing it as if he was comforting a crying child. The motion was familiar, calming, but the dissonance between the tenderness of the imagined familial portrait, and his harsh, calculating ways was too jarring to brush over.
It was a perfect day for him. Overcast, mid-sixties, but he couldn't enjoy it. He was supposed to be inside, recovering. Mr. White had a classical station on, and he was gently humming to a Bach bouree. Scary. This man could shoot a person dead, and he still came across as an unassuming soccer parent, or someone lame like that. Like his own parents. Who didn't give a shit about him, frankly, or they would be here with him, driving him back, setting up a spot for him to rest.
Each bump in the road was a stabbing pain, as the meds subsided. He swore that the only time he saw Mr. White pleased was when Jesse shut up. That stung. He only ever wanted to do good by him, more than anything, especially if Mr. White just scoffed at him in return. It only drove him to try harder.
The Bach piece came to a crescendo, and with vigor he had never seen Mr. White voluntarily exert, he started conducting with the hand that wasn't steering. As his motions sped, so did the car, and Jesse watched mesmerized as he got lost in the music. That was, until, the station wagon dipped hard into a pothole, and Jesse hissed.
“Can you slow down, yo?” The unpleasant sensation left as soon as it arrived, but the memory lingered. His voice came out more gruff, more pointed than he would have liked.
Evidently, Mr. White didn't like it either.
“Stop bitching. Be glad I'm doing you a favor.”
“I'm not bitching, bitch .”
“Then pipe down.”
“But it hurts.” He didn't intend it, but the words came out as a pathetic whimper, and he sunk into his sweatshirt, ears burning.
“Well, suck it up.”
That was what he needed to hear. Mr. White was right, he needed to stop being such a pussy about it. What was a little soreness, anyways? He had been jumped before. He had knocked out a few teeth picking the stupidest of fights. Fucked up a perfectly good set of braces. His dad was furious. Jesse remembered spitting a bracket into the sink, splattering the pristine white porcelain with red. Even when he looked like some sort of monster, swollen and bruised, his mother had to cajole him into going to the doctor, repeating his “I’m fine” mantra. That was the last time he let his guard down. His mom just held him as he blubbered, misshapen maw buried into her arms, more frustrated than hurt.
Pain was a fact of life, and complaining about it got you nowhere. The meth industry was his cruelest teacher.
He must have sensed the tension from the backseat, because Mr. White slowed down the car, easing over the speed humps. Jesse let his eyes flutter shut, relaxing his clenched jaw, falling in and out of a shallow slumber. Even sightless, he sensed that home was near when Mr. White made a particular turn.
“Have you ever driven stick, Jesse?” His tone was startlingly paternal.
Grunting in return, he shook his head no.
“Look.” Mr. White slung his arm around the adjacent headrest, eyes meeting his from the front. “When you shift, you want to ease off the gas, and ease down on the clutch.” He fussed with the stick, and the car lurched. “Off the gas, down on the clutch. Off, down. Gas, clutch. Understand?”
Jesse shook himself awake. “Wha...yeah. Clutch, gas.”
The older man sighed. “You’ll get it.” He mumbled something about kids these days driving automatic, as he drove through the neighborhood. “This is you.”
He hissed again, rising from the seat, gingerly lifting the buckle. He sucked his teeth. “Sweet. Can you, uh, can you--”
“--I can help you out of the car, Jesse. Grab onto my arm.”
Jesse stood on the landing, one gentle hand draped on his chest as if he was bracing a pregnant belly. He eyed his open palm, expression glazing over.
Mr. White raised an eyebrow, seeing him hesitate. He sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what this is like for you. But you have to understand, I won’t be here for you all the time. Skyler, she’s already suspicious of me as it is, and if I stayed the night, well, you see where I’m going with this.”
“S’okay.” All the energy was sapped from him, just being on his feet for a minute or so. His hair was soaked with sweat. He hadn’t realized how tense he had kept himself since leaving the hospital. Jesse stepped down, gripping Mr. White’s rigid forearm, and he felt that same hand on his back.
“Christ, Pinkman, you smell like sick people. And you’re all damp.” As Mr. White led him to the door, he must have looked like a feeble old man.
“Can’t take a shower. Stitches.” He groaned, his head bowing with exhaustion. “Sorry.”
The smell of his room was so comforting, he nearly collapsed as soon as he walked in. He heard Mr. White rustling with paper behind him. “Pamphlet says you have to rest propped up. I brought you something to support your neck.” He opened the door to his bedroom, rifling through his pillows. “You need some new ones. I can fold these in half, see, these are what you call a dead pillow. I’ll need about four of these to even make a decent stack…”
Again with his meandering grumbling.
“Mr. White.”
He whipped around, before recollecting his unaffected air. “Yes?”
“Can you give me a haircut?”
“I...I can do that. Do you have clippers, Jesse?” He straightened his glasses.
“In the cabinet. Bathroom.” He drew out an exhale. “I’m hot as hell.”
Mr. White practically lifted him up, with how much he didn’t want to be standing, sitting him on the counter. “It’s probably the anesthesia.” He draped a towel around his shoulders. “Now, we can’t have the trimmings irritating the dressings. You have to keep your workspace clean to prevent contamination, remember? Chemistry?”
“ No .”
He shook his head. “Of course you don’t. Chin down.” The cool metal of the clippers whirred against the nape of his neck. “That must be a weight off.” Chuckling, the small guard grazed his scalp, and Jesse felt the air conditioning from the vent above him clean on his skin. It tickled, and he squinted, locks of hair falling past his brow.
“I don’t remember anything from your stupid class.” Jesse yawned. It hurt.
Mr. White chuffed. “At this point, I don’t either. I’m going to trim behind your ears.” Careful hands folded the cartilage down, buzzing off anything that could have been lingering behind it.
“You, ah, ever cut hair before?” He looked back, and Mr. White promptly pulled the clippers away.
“Yes. I cut my own when I was diagnosed.” Jesse was about to interject, but Mr. White cut in. “Look forward, please.” The blade was nipping at the flyaways along his forehead.
“Right.” He yelped as he pushed him firmly back into the sink, freezing water rinsing away the scraps. “Hey!” He stared up at Mr. White, whose face was staunch with concentration. He was handling Jesse like some sort of craft project. “A little warning next time, yo?”
Mr. White didn’t answer, guiding the faucet to the trickier spots. Tossing the dirty towel on the ground, he nodded. “All done.” When he saw Jesse look in the mirror, he grabbed his wrists. “Don’t raise your arms. I know you’re going to try and rub it. Don’t.”
He lolled his head, body heavy and achy. Fighting Mr. White on this was his instinct, but instead, he realized it was getting harder to keep his eyes open. “Mm. Couch.”
“Couch? Can you walk? Do you need water? Ibuprofen?” There were a slew of questions to answer that he didn’t want to answer.
“Gonna sleep.” Zombielike, he slid off the counter, and Mr. White almost fell over himself to grab him.
“Oh. Alright. Yes.” He floundered, sitting Jesse on the sofa, sliding the neck pillow behind him. “Can I get you anything else, Jesse?” He sounded frustrated, but Jesse was too zoned out to care.
“Just...just sit here.” Finally, he was able to sleep. A weight sank down next to him, and he saw the dim glow of the flat screen through his eyelids. His head was resting on Mr. White’s shoulder. He didn’t care. And if he imagined hard enough, he was a long-haired kindergartener, his face pressed against his dad’s corduroys.