Chapter Text
Jesse hadn't smiled this much in weeks. "No way, dude. You're lyin' to me."
"I'm not, I swear!" Jake laughed. "As far as I know, it's still stuck up there. When school starts again, I'll let you know if it's gone or not."
"A rubber chicken?"
"It was one of those little sticky ones. We all thought it would come down after a little while, but it's been months. There's some pencils stuck in the ceiling, too, from people who've tried to get it down."
"And no one thought to get a ladder or anything?"
"Nah, the band directors don't care. I think they want to know how long it'll stay stuck, too."
Jesse shook his head, grinning so hard his face hurt. He was almost back to their parents' house, but he really didn't want the day to end.
He'd had a fucking blast going to the museum with Jake. He'd learned a little, but mostly he'd just enjoyed watching his kid brother geek out over the exhibits and ramble about all the extra information that he knew. Most of it went way over his head, but it didn't matter. He just liked seeing Jake happy.
There was one thing he wanted to talk about, though, in case he didn't get a chance to do it later. He kept meaning to bring it up, but everything was going so well he didn't want to ruin it.
"Look, man, not to be a complete buzzkill but… I gotta ask you something."
Jake looked over at him, worried.
"That joint that Mom and Dad found… I know it was a long time ago, but was that a one-time thing? Or is that something you do a lot?"
The way Jesse saw it, if Jake had just been experimenting, he would have been a hell of a lot more careful. Leaving one lying around suggested a carelessness born of having gotten away with something so many times that you aren't worried about it anymore. Jesse would know.
"It's not—it's not a lot," Jake said hesitantly. His shoulders were hunched. "It's just… sometimes, y'know? When everything gets to be too much and I just need to shut my brain off for a bit."
"How often, then, if you had to just ballpark it?"
Jake shrugged. "I dunno. It's just that I do so much, between soccer and band and school… I'm always doing something. Sometimes I just want to slow down."
Jesse looked at him, tried to make himself appear relaxed. "Look, I get it, okay? I'm the last person to tell you what to do, or try to throw any stones from my glass house. I started smoking just as young as you, and I was a fuckup even before that. I just don't… I don't want you to fall into the same patterns I did. You've got so much potential."
"That's what everyone tells me," Jake said bitterly.
That made Jesse pause. "You don't like it?"
He squirmed a little. "It's just—it's a lot of presure. Everyone expects me to be perfect, but what if I'm not? What if I can't be?"
No one had ever expected Jesse to be perfect. All his life, he'd been told that he was lazy, that he'd never amount to anything. And they'd been right—all he had to show for his life was a ton of crystal meth and a trail of bodies in his wake.
He tried to imagine it from the other side. Jake played soccer, two instruments, spoke two languages, and had a wall full of academic awards. Part of him wanted to be angry. Jake had everything, he had their parents' approval, something Jesse had tried so desperately to get for so much of his life.
But on the other hand, it did sound exhausting. Jesse had no idea how Jake could fit all of that information into his brain and not explode.
"Fuck perfect, then," he said. "It's your life, no one else's. If you need to slow down, maybe not try to do everything all the time, that's okay. You're already miles ahead of every other kid your age. Give 'em a chance to catch up, mybe."
Jake was quiet for a moment. He looked like he was thinking hard, but he didn't say anything else.
"I'm sorry I wasn't really around when you were little," Jesse continued. He didn't regret leaving his parents' house—he'd needed to get out of there—but leaving Jake had probably been the hardest thing he'd done up to that point. "For whatever it's worth, I think you're pretty cool to hang out with, yo."
Jake smiled. It was a small, shy thing that made Jesse's heart ache with how familiar it felt. "Thanks," he said. "You're not so bad, either."
Jesse parked in front of their parents' house and caught his mom peeking through the curtains. He reached over to ruffle Jake's hair, maneuvering to still get him when he tried to duck out of the way.
Diane was already coming outside to rescue Jake from his delinquent kidnapper. Jake rolled his eyes, but unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door before she reached them. "We should do this again."
"Absolutely," Jesse agreed. "You ever done the go-karts at the arcade?"
"Yeah! Or what about that laser tag place?"
Jesse fought a grimace. He wasn't really eager to go back there. "Sure, sure."
Diane was standing with her arms crossed, halfway to the sidewalk. There was nothing Jesse wanted less than to make small talk with her, and he had to get to the lab anyway, so he just waved awkwardly. "See ya later."
He felt a little lighter after that. Even the prospect of going to the lab wasn't enough to dull his spirits.
Mr. White noticed. "You seem happier today,"
Jesse grinned. "Yeah."
He raised his eyebrows as they pulled on the hazmat suits. "Oh? Let me guess, is it that girl you were seeing? Andrea?"
Jesse's face fell as he thought of her. She had told him to stop sending her money. It wasn't like he could explain how he was involved with her brother's death. All she knew was that he was, and she wanted nothing more to do with him. "No. I haven't seen her in a few weeks."
"Ah. Someone new, then?"
Jesse shook his head. "Nah, man, it's nothing like that. I took my little brother to this science museum exhibit he was wanting to see. It was all about, like, magnets and electricity and shit. We had a good time."
"I don't think you've mentioned your brother before."
"I don't really see him much. He was little when I moved in with my aunt, and my parents don't really want me around him."
"How old is he?"
"He's twelve. Almost thirteen. And about a hundred times smarter than me."
"Maybe I should have him be my lab partner, then."
Jesse flipped him the bird. "Fuck off."
Mr. White smiled. Jesse hadn't seen him do that in a while. "That's good, Jesse. That's good. And what about, ah, your friend Nacho?" Something about the way he said Nacho's name set Jesse on edge. "You seen him much lately?"
Jesse shrugged, trying to act casual. Why would Mr. White ask about that here, in the lab? He did his best not to look at the camera, always following them around. "Not outside of, like, work."
"But you were seeing him?"
Jesse turned away, taking extra time to open up a barrel and tried to get rid of the flush on his cheeks through sheer willpower. "Why you gotta say it like that, man?"
"I'm just asking!"
"He was helping me repaint my house, but that's done now." Jesse didn't want to talk about this where Gus or his men might be able to hear. Sure, Gus probably already knew that he and Nacho were friends, but he didn't want to hand out free ammunition. And god forbid Gus figured out his stupid faggy crush. "He just wanted to make sure I didn't immediately start using again. Gus probably put him up to it."
The worst part was that Jesse hadn't seen much of Nacho lately. Ever since the cartel meeting, Jesse had barely even caught a glimpse of him. Even before that—he'd been distant for almost a week. It seemed like he had new bruises every day, but Jesse couldn't talk to him for long enough to figure out what the hell was going on.
"I see. How is that going?"
Jesse slammed the barrel shut, probably harder than he needed to. "Fine." Two days ago he'd lashed out at his NA group, so he could never go back there.
He stomped over to their little break area while they waited for that part of the reaction to finish. In the meantime, he opened up a bag of Funyuns and plopped down onto the couch, shrugging out of the top half of his hazmat jumpsuit.
Mr. White sat next to him, reaching for the bag. Jesse held it protectively against his chest. "Get your own, bitch."
"I only want one," Mr. White cajoled.
Jesse rolled his eyes, but held out the bag.
He ate one singular Funyun. Jesse couldn't tell if he actually enjoyed it. "What's wrong, Jesse?"
Jesse scowled. The camera didn't have a view of this part of the lab, but it could still be bugged. "Nothing."
Mr. White rested a hand on the back of Jesse's neck. It was cold, but he couldn't help leaning into it. "Jesse, talk to me."
"What do you care," Jesse grumbled. The most Mr. White had paid attention to him in the last few weeks was solely to convince him to poison Gus.
"I care about you, Jesse."
Jesse sniffed. He shouldn't fucking give in to this. Why did he always fold like a lawn chair every time Mr. White said one nice thing to him?
Why was he even upset? He'd had a good day so far.
He found his cheek resting on Mr. White's shoulder. He smelled like chemicals and old man, and Jesse had no idea why that was so comforting.
He was just lonely. Nacho was avoiding him. He hadn't seen Badger and Skinny Pete in, like, two weeks.
He thought about waking up with his head pillowed on Nacho's warm chest. He thought about the way Nacho tensed and shrugged Jesse off when he'd tried to touch his shoulder.
At least Mr. White was here, even if he wasn't who Jesse really wanted right now.
"I know," he said quietly. "Thanks."
He jolted awake to the sound of someone pounding on his door.
It was three in the morning. Jesse threw on a shirt and scrambled down the stairs, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes even as his heart pounded.
Fuck, he hadn't even thought to grab his gun.
He tried to think, his brain running on overdrive with adrenaline. An intruder wouldn't be knocking (except that Jesse had knocked on Gale's door before shooting him), and police would be yelling at him to open up.
When he looked through the peephole, the figure on the other side was familiar.
Jesse threw open the door. "Yo, what the hell?"
Nacho leaned heavily against the brick, one bloodied hand under his opposite arm, clutching his side. He looked awful, blood staining his shirt and smudged on his face. "Hey."
Jesse pulled him inside. He stumbled and leaned heavily against Jesse. "What the fuck happened to you?"
When he was sure that Nacho wouldn't just collapse, Jesse let go of him and looked nervously outside. Gus's spies were hard to spot, but he didn't think he saw any cars that were out of place.
"I'm fine. Might've gotten stabbed a little."
"A little?" Jesse demanded. When he rounded to look at Nacho again, he was already halfway to the bathroom. "What are you doing, sit down—"
"I'm fine, I'm fine," Nacho insisted. His words were slightly slurred. "I just need to clean it up."
"Fuck you, if you didn't need help then why'd you come here, bitch?" Jesse gripped Nacho's shoulders and started dragging him over to his futon. Nacho didn't resist.
"Your place's closer."
"You—" Jesse could have throttled him if he wasn't so scared. "Sit down, I'll be right back. And try not to get any more blood on my couch."
He came back with a first-aid kit. "Where are you hurt?"
Nacho winced as he took his hand away from his side. Whoever it was had slashed through his shirt, just below his shoulder blade.
"We're gonna have to get that off so I can see it," Jesse said, and was halfway through wrestling the shirt up over Nacho's head before he realized he had not thought this through, and suddenly he had an eyeful of pecs.
Okay. Be cool. Be cool.
The sluggishly bleeding gash helped Jesse focus. It didn't look too deep, thankfully, and Nacho had been pretty steadily putting pressure on it. Jesse balled up the bloody shirt and let Nacho hold it against the wound once more while he doused a cotton ball in antiseptic. "I dunno how to do stitches, so you get regular-ass bandages."
"You have a lot of stuff in that kit."
"I get beat up a lot."
Nacho blinked, then furrowed his brows. "You're too small."
Jesse rolled his eyes. "Thanks, asshole. Are you drunk?"
"Maybe." Nacho clenched his jaw as Jesse started to clean the cut, wiping the blood away. His whole body went rigid as he stared straight ahead, expression carefully blank. It probably stung like hell, but he didn't make a single sound. It was almost worse than if he had screamed.
"What the hell happened, anyway?" Jesse asked as he taped the wound closed with butterfly bandages. Nacho probably could have done this himself, honestly, but it would have been in an awkward spot for him to reach, and even with a mirror he wouldn't have been able to see it very well.
And Jesse—Well, Jesse wanted to take care of him. As stupid as that was. As if Nacho Varga could ever need his protection. As if this invincible man with his stupid broad shoulders could possibly need the help of some useless, "too-small" junkie.
Except… Nacho came to him. When he was hurt, even claiming he didn't need help, that Jesse's house was just closer, he still trusted Jesse enough to come here. Maybe because he considered Jesse to be completely harmless, but—
Looks like you had it handled.
He trusted Jesse enough to let himself be seen like this, with his walls down, almost vulnerable in a way Jesse hadn't seen him since that night at the safe house, when Nacho had told him he was supposed to be dead.
He was done putting on the bandages, but Nacho's skin was so warm beneath his cold hands, and Jesse didn't want to stop touching him yet. Nacho didn't push him away either; he just looked at Jesse with an inscrutable expression, his brow slightly furrowed, his lips slightly pursed.
It took longer than it should have for Jesse to realize that Nacho never answered his question. "Yo, you gonna tell me what happened or just stare at me some more?"
It was a hypocritical thing to say given Jesse had been staring just as bad, but his heart was pounding and his skin was starting to prickle. He had to break the tension somehow, stop his brain from conjuring all kinds of unrealistic scenarios.
Nacho blinked and shook his head a little, then looked down as a small, almost embarrassed laugh left his lips. "Right. Um. I've been fighting. Street fights. I used to do it a lot when I was younger; it's sort of how I got on Tuco's radar. But the more involved I got with him, with the cartel, I didn't fight as much."
Jesse stared at him. "You were at fight club. Is that where you've been all fucking week?"
"Yeah. Just… to blow off steam. And I guess I've been winning too much, and some people lost a lot of money betting on the fights. Some guy said he'd pay me to throw some fights so they could make their money back. I told him to fuck off. Then as I'm leaving, I got jumped. One of 'em had a switchblade, got a lucky hit in."
Jesse crossed his arms. He had no idea whether this was hilarious or infuriating. "You got stabbed at fight club."
Nacho grinned. Jesse wanted to kiss it off his stupid pretty fucking face. "You should see the other guys."
He buried his face in his hands. If he looked at Nacho for one more second he was going to do something stupid. "I can't believe you. Play video games or some shit. Take up knitting. Do you not have any other way to 'blow off steam'?"
Nacho swallowed. His gaze fell just below Jesse's eyes, not quite meeting them. "Only things that are even more dangerous."
"Dude. Get a normal hobby."
He laughed. "Yeah. Yeah, I should."
Jesse realized he was still kneeling awkwardly in front of the futon. He started to pack up the first aid kit, just shoving everything back in the bag. He could reorganize it later. Sitting next to Nacho, he unfolded the futon so they could lay on their backs.
He'd be content to stay here for the rest of the night, honestly. He could go back to his own bed, but… he didn't want to, not without Nacho. And inviting him to share like they had before felt too charged somehow. Stepping over the line he was still too scared to cross.
"Yo, aren't you supposed to not talk about fight club? Pretty sure that's, like, the first rule."
There was a brief moment of silence, and then a snort as Nacho giggled.
His laugh wasn't particularly pretty, but Jesse thought it was the best sound in the world. "Jeez, you really are drunk," he said. Fuck, he was so done for. He didn't even have a chance.
Nacho's expression slowly sobered. "I shouldn't have come here," he mumbled. The shadows cast by the lamp on the other side of him shrouded most of his face in darkness. "I'm sorry."
"What? No, man, I'm glad you did." He was glad that he at least knew now the source of Nacho's recent bruises. At least he wasn't… carrying out hits for Gus, or something. "Look, you've always had my back. I've got yours too, 'kay?"
Nacho turned onto his good side to face Jesse. A chain glinted around his neck. Jesse had seen it before, but while it usually disappeared beneath Nacho's shirt, he could now see the pendant that hung from it. It looked like a religious medal, but Jesse couldn't see it well enough to make out who it depicted. "No, I mean—you're in recovery."
Jesse huffed out a small breath. "I spend most of my time in a meth lab. Pretty sure I can handle seeing a drunk person."
Nacho didn't reply to that. He just looked, his warm brown eyes seeming to stare right into the depths of Jesse's soul. He wondered what Nacho saw there. If it was as black as he sometimes thought. Would Nacho mind, or would he keep looking anyway?
Eventually, Nacho turned back over to face the ceiling and closed his eyes. He made no move to leave.