Chapter Text
Walter hums a little tune to himself as he drives to work on a chilly, dry day in November.
One year ago, in an abandoned arcade somewhere in Albuquerque, Walter did something he never thought he would: he gave up. And he did it not for his family, or his pride, or his daydreams, but because a pair of tearful blue eyes were pleading for it. Walt had told Jesse his plan to kill Gale—ridiculous, and unnecessary, and horrifying in retrospect—and Jesse had just shattered, clinging to him in the dark and begging him to think of anything else. To stop fighting the inevitable and accept the consequences of his actions for once in his life.
He hadn’t used those words, exactly–this is Jesse after all–but Walt had gotten the gist of it. And as he held him, his wedding ring uncomfortably tight around his finger, he realized he was right.
So, Gale lived. Walt hid Jesse away while he negotiated with Gus at a distance. His terms were simple: he would train Gale as a protégé for the next three months, gratis, then walk away, never contacting either party again. He would never breathe a word of the operation to anyone. And if for whatever reason he didn’t keep his end of the bargain, well—Gus knew where Jesse lived. Surely that was enough of a bargaining chip, though it was not one Walt intended to test.
Surprisingly, Gus agreed, and even let him take his usual pay for the duration. Walt hasn’t heard from him since their arrangement ended, and he aims to keep it that way.
Walt swallowed his pride and got back in touch with Elliott, accepting a well-paying position at Gray Matter. He and Skyler amicably agreed to part ways, with Skyler having full custody of the children—though he has visitation privileges. She’s in some sort of serious relationship with Ted Benneke now, who has already moved in. Walt would be bitter if it weren’t for Jesse.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Speak of the devil.
Thx for not leaving coffee for me JACKASS >:(
In Jesse speak that’s basically, “I love you. Be safe at work today.”
Walt texts him back, though he really shouldn’t do this while driving.
I’m sorry, is the coffee maker too complicated for you?
Which is Walt speak for, “Love you too.”
*
Their relationship was already kind of weird and sexually charged, so Jesse wasn’t shocked that it turned out the way it did when they officially left the meth business. He’d offered to let the guy move in with him when shit went south with his wife, and then suddenly they were way too close to each other all the time, and then they were showering together to ‘save water’ during a drought, and then they were offering friendly hand jobs (“just dudes helping dudes, yeah?”). Until finally Jesse was brushing his teeth next to Mr. White one morning and realized, holy shit, this was gay gay.
He's not even upset about it, which is the weird thing. Maybe he’s always been kind of gay on the inside and it took a codependent clusterfuck of murder and mayhem to finally get him to realize it. Though there’s a lot less of that now, thank God. It's insane to think about how cleanly they walked away from it all.
He never thought this is how he'd be spending his twenties. But for the first time in a long-ass time he's happy. They don't talk about the bad shit, but they know it's there, buried deep in a closet somewhere, and having Mr. White on his side is what gives Jesse the strength to forget about it most days. They know exactly what's in each other's pasts, so there's nothing to hide or lie about. Ironically, it's probably the most innocent, honest kind of affection Jesse's ever shared with anyone.
They’re on the couch and Mr. White has remote control privileges, which is perfectly fine, because it’s chilly and dark outside and Jesse kind of just wants to curl up against his warmth and fall asleep in his lap like he’s a kitten or something. Now that he can do this kind of thing with him he wants it all the time.
“Are you hungry at all?” Mr. White– Walt –says, and Jesse can feel the rumble of his voice way deep down inside his chest.
Jesse grunts a non-answer, which makes Mr. White start to pull away.
“No, stay,” Jesse mumbles, drawing out the ‘no’. “You’re really warm.”
“I also haven’t eaten since breakfast, so you’re going to have to cope without me for a bit.”
“You’re such a prick . You want me to freeze to death.”
Mr. White takes his hand and kisses his fingertips. It’s so weird. Feels good, though. Like every touch of his lips is a little flame of heat. “Not to death. Just enough that I can warm you up later. Thoroughly. In our bedroom. Do I need to spell it out, or–”
“Okay, okay, enough,” Jesse relents. He reluctantly lets him go, the chill immediately seeping into his skin. As revenge he tosses a throw pillow at him. Mr. White catches it, smiling, then leans down and kisses him on the head.
“Love you,” Mr. White says. It's so easy for him to say even when Jesse can't say it back. Then Mr. White kisses him again, on the lips this time. Lingers for just a second too long, but before Jesse can turn it filthy Mr. White’s pulling away for good.
Jesse watches him go into the kitchen and then settles down on the couch, kind of miffed about being cockblocked. He grabs the remote and flips through the obnoxious amount of TV channels they’ve got now. He settles on a baseball game, although he knows fuck-all about baseball, and his horny ADHD brain is hyperfocused on just how thoroughly Mr. White is going to warm him up later anyway.
*
Walt used to love Christmas, even in a (usually) snowless Albuquerque: the nostalgic crooning of the Rat Pack singing carols, the festive twinkle of holiday lights, Christmas Eve services at church, family gatherings with spiced wine that went late into the night. The last few Christmases with Skyler have admittedly not been very joyful, and Walt realizes now that it's mostly his own fault. At a certain point, he got weary of his life–and stopped trying to enjoy anything at all.
Jesse makes him want to start trying again.
“I just–you know, don't want to go too fast with him,” he tells his therapist at his weekly session. She's a no-nonsense professional who doesn't make him talk, which is probably the only reason he does it so readily. He's never missed a session since he started right after parting ways with Fring.
Because, well. He can freely admit it now: he has problems. Issues with boundaries, with an inflated sense of self importance. He's never going to be cured, and he's still going to screw up. There are days he feels that same restless boredom seeping in. But he wants to at least try to learn to deal with it in a healthy way. For Jesse.
No more death. No more greed. No more fear. That was the ultimatum Jesse asked for, though not in as many words.
I don't wanna do this anymore, he'd said. And neither should you.
“Has he expressed that things might be going too quickly?” Dr. Delaney asks.
Walt racks his brain, but can't think of a moment Jesse ever said anything specific. Jesse seems cautious of their budding relationship, which makes sense, but content. Walt is wary of the day that mere contentment won't be enough.
“No, no. Nothing like that,” he says. “It's just that we met under…traumatic circumstances. And sometimes I wonder if he only feels obligated to stick around, as a result of that shared trauma.”
“If he did want to take a step back, how would that make you feel?”
Walt thinks about it. He clenches his jaw. “Awful. Sick to my stomach. Probably angry, even though I know I shouldn't be.”
“And what would you do?”
“I'd want to try and convince him to stay,” he says. The idea of losing Jesse even hypothetically is a thought he doesn't often entertain. It turns his guts to ice. Jesse makes him feel alive, and without him, he would turn back into a shambling, myopic corpse. “But look, you don’t have to tell me that's not the right answer. In the moment, I just don't know whether I'll remember that.”
“You love him,” she says, but in an almost disinterested way as she scribbles in her notepad. “You'll remember.”
Walt is driving home later when he passes a Christmas tree lot. He stops on a whim, but knows he'll never be able to get a full-size fur loaded with just his Aztek. He buys the scrawniest, tiniest tree they’ve got on display and ties it to the roof of his car, then heads back home. It's so small he can carry it easily through the front door, where Jesse is sitting in the living room alone with the TV off, and a sketchpad in his lap he's been scribbling random spirals into. Walt doesn't think about how odd that is.
“Got a tree,” he says sheepishly, stating the obvious. Maybe Jesse will think the gesture is too corny.
But Jesse just gives him a weak smile and helps him untie it and prop it up in the tree stand it came with. They fill up the water dish and empty the packet of nutrients into the bowl. On the drive home, the tree must have lost a lot of needles. It looks barren and twig-like–Charlie Brown Christmas Special levels of ridiculous.
“I'll dress it up,” Walt says. He heads for the front door, intending to go buy some decorations or at least some goddamn tinsel, when Jesse blocks the way.
“Need to talk to you about something,” Jesse says.
Walt only now notices how pale and shaken he looks. His stomach drops. His first thought is that Jesse's broken his sobriety, which would be disappointing but not the end of the world. Addiction can be complicated. He remains calm and squeezes his shoulder reassuringly.
“Whatever it is, we’ll get through it,” he says. “Did you slip?”
Jesse shakes his head. “No, no. It’s not—not that.”
“Did you fail a test at school, or?”
Another head shake. Walt waits patiently.
Jesse sighs. “My parents invited me over for Christmas.”
Oh. Is that all?
“That’s—that’s great, Jesse,” Walt says, trying to be happy for him.
Jesse’s relationship with his parents has been rough for a few years now, so it’s nice to know that they’re finally allowing him back into their lives. Jesse’s been sober almost a year, is working on getting his gen ed credits completed in college, and even has a part time job doing data entry. He’s worked hard for that stability. Still, Walt doesn't like the idea of Jesse's parents meddling in what they have–because surely they would have concerns. He certainly would.
Jesse closes his eyes. “They didn’t just invite me.”
Walt stares at him.
“They want to—well, meet you, I guess.”
Walt snaps his hand back like Jesse’s burned him. “I’ve already met them.”
“Yeah, when I was in high school. Like ten years ago. They want to meet you as my—fuck, boyfriend, I guess. Jesus, sounds so much more gay when you say it out loud.”
Jesse scrubs a hand over his face.
“Why did you tell them we were dating in the first place?” Walt demands. “Is that really something they needed to know?”
Jesse gives him a confused, furious look. “What the hell was I supposed to do, keep you a secret forever? Either that or I just don't talk to them again. Would that make you happy?”
Yes, Walt nearly says, but Dr. Delaney’s voice interrupts that train of thought.
“No,” he says, more gently. “No, you–you deserve to be on good terms with your folks, Jesse. I'd never want to get in the way of that. This is just–a really uncomfortable situation.”
Jesse scoffs, but he's not angry at him. “More uncomfortable than me showing up to my parents’ fancy ass cabin in Angel Fire saying, ‘By the way, mom and dad. You remember Mr. White? He fucks me now. I get dick from Mr. Fucking White. Also we might have killed a couple dudes while selling crystal meth but hey, it was self defense—’”
Walt gets stuck on the wrong part of that. “A cabin in Angel Fire? That's easily three or four hours away.”
“Right,” Jesse says, miserably. “We'd be there for the weekend. In the guest bedroom.”
Walt runs his hand over his head, through the short hair he's been growing out these last few months since his cancer went into remission. Two or three days out in the wilderness with Jesse’s parents watching him the entire time? The weight of their crimes hanging around their necks? He can't think of a worse way to spend the holidays.
Then again, he is–against all odds– serious about Jesse Pinkman (if someone told him that two years ago, he would have laughed in their face). He wants to start over with him, build new lives together. Getting on good terms with his family seems like a prudent way of doing that, and proving to Jesse that he meant every word of his promise to him.
“Okay,” he says, more to himself. He doesn't want this at all, but it's important to Jesse, and it's only a few days. It's not like he had other plans. “I'll go with you, okay? If this is what you want to do.”
“It's really not,” Jesse says, but he sounds relieved. He tangles their fingers together, squeezing his hand. It's such a sweet gesture that Walt softens. “I'd much rather just stay here, fuck, and bake some gingerbread or something. But I mean–this is the first time they've asked me to do anything with them in a long time.”
“You don't have to explain,” Walt says. If Jesse asked him to walk naked into a pit of venomous snakes he’d probably grumble and then start stripping. “I'll do it.”
*
Mr. White is trying to be careful about how he chooses to spend his salary and the windfall Fring left him–after being laundered, of course–but Jesse convinces him to splurge in preparation for their trip. Jesse's mouth might be on his dick most of that conversation, which probably helps.
The next day Mr. White buys a flashy Mercedes, but painted all black, to Jesse’s disgust.
On December 22nd they load it up and head out to Angel Fire. It's been a while since Jesse's been up to his parents’ cabin–which is actually a timeshare, because they're not that fucking rich–and he forgot how gorgeous the mountains are when they're covered in powdery glistening snow. He watches the landscape shift from the passenger window in a trance.
In a way, the drive reminds him of those days back in the RV. It wasn’t always terrible. If they were driving, or cooking, or just sitting in companionable silence watching the sunset, it felt good. Like everywhere was their playground, and like everywhere was home.
Jesus, have they always been this gay?
They only get briefly lost once they approach the resort town and can't find the meandering road leading to the cabin. Mr. White– Walt– grumbles and bitches at the built-in GPS a lot but they finally make it once Jesse remembers the way.
The cabin’s nothing too fancy, and hasn't been updated since the 80s, but it has three bedrooms and a killer view of the snow capped mountains. Still, Jesse can tell Mr. White is weary when he sees it. There's not a whole lot of room for avoiding other people. Maybe Jesse can come up with something for them to do together out of the house.
Jesse's getting his bag out of the car when the front door opens, and his little brother Jake is casually strutting towards them with his earbuds in. He's grown a lot. Jesse's been looking forward to talking to him one-on-one again this trip.
He pulls Jake into a hug, then messes up his hair.
“Quit it,” Jake says, but he's only half annoyed and grinning. He smooths his hair back down. “I didn't think you'd actually come out.”
“I told you I'd be here,” Jesse says, acting offended. “I always keep my promises, dude.”
“No, I meant…” Jake wriggles his brows and looks in Mr. White's direction, who's still pretending to fumble with his suitcase in the trunk. “You know. Come out.”
Jesse rolls his eyes. “Oh, ha-ha. You're so fucking clever. I've never heard that one.”
Jesse messes up his hair again. Jake makes a frustrated noise and tries to neaten it, but it's too late now. Total disaster.
Mr. White finally comes over with the suitcase, looking cold and exhausted and out of place after the three-hour drive. Jake seems suddenly and understandably nervous. It's gotta be weird to find out your brother's dating a guy, and a nerdy, old-ass, scary looking guy on top of that.
“Jake, this is Walt,” he says, and the word doesn’t feel right in his mouth but if he showed up calling his much older boyfriend ‘Mr. White’ he’d really look like a bad case of Stockholm syndrome, which, okay, maybe . God, why does ‘Walt’ have to be the oldest-sounding name in the book? “He's, um. We're together.”
Walt lets go of one of the suitcases to shake Jake’s hand.
“Pleasure to meet you, young man,” Walt says. “Jesse’s always going on and on about the famous Jake Pinkman. Graduating early, aren't you?”
Jake perks up. Kids are always happy to talk about themselves. “Well, I won't be able to graduate for a couple of years, at least. But I'm on track to completing some college credits.”
“What are you planning on doing?” Mr. White asks. “Have you decided?”
“My dad wants me to be a doctor,” Jake says, wrinkling his nose. “But I’m thinking I’ll become a journalist. I’d kill to have a Pulitzer.”
Walt laughs.
“Jake, would you mind helping us get the car unloaded?” Jesse asks, because he’s freezing his nuts off.
Jake nods, and heads over to the Mercedes. He does this eyebrow wriggle thing at Jesse again, as if to say, so he's a rich old creep, huh? Then he pulls out the remaining bag and suitcase and follows them to the door.
The inside of the cabin smells amazing, and is all decked out in red and gold, and warm and shit. Mom must be making her homemade eggnog in the tiny kitchen, and the familiarity of it makes Jesse kind of teary-eyed. He never thought he’d be welcome here ever again. He blinks the tears back and calls out.
His mom appears moments later, pulling him into a tight hug. All the hassle of the stupid trip was worth it for the look on her face.
“I'm so glad you could make it,” she says, drawing back to look at him. She makes a surprised sound when she sees he's foregone the usual baggy pants and hoodie combo for dark wash jeans and a cable knit sweater, because he wants to make a good impression. “You look so clean. It's a miracle. How was the drive?”
“You'll have to ask him,” Jesse says, jerking his head in Walt’s direction. “He did most of it. Where's dad?”
His mom gives him a nervous smile. “Oh, sweetheart, you know your father. He's in his office, making some last minute calls for work. He'll be done in a few hours.”
Weird, but okay.
Jesse introduces Mr. White and his mom to each other, though it's really more of a reintroduction.
“Nice to meet you, Diane,” Walt says, cordially, shaking her hand.
“We've met,” she says, beaming. “It's been about…nine years now?”
“Seems like only yesterday. And decades ago,” Walt chuckles.
Jesus, get a room.
“I think the last time we saw each other was at a PTA meeting,” Diane says. “You were always so patient with him, you know?”
Jesse balks, because no he wasn't. Then again, Mr. White had been the only one who seemed to give a shit at all, so maybe that's a form of patience in itself.
Mr. White and his mom start talking about boring-ass crap like mutual acquaintances and property values and the homeowners association, so Jesse and Jake leave them to it and bring the luggage to the guest room.
It's pretty cramped, but tastefully decorated, and the quilt on the bedspread looks cozy. He and Mr. White agreed to keep their hands to themselves for the trip—who knows how long that’ll last—but Jesse thinks it’ll be nice to curl up against him, watch the snow fall. They can be all romantic and shit.
Jake wanders off so Jesse starts unpacking. He took only a few things, packing light, but Mr. White is kind of a freak and brought most of his clothes, all his toiletries, and shit he probably won't even need like a waffle maker, eleven paperback novels, and his swim trunks. Jesse doesn't know why he thinks he might need to go swimming on a mountain in the middle of winter, but who's Jesse to disagree?
He's almost finished when his dad peeks into the room.
“Yo,” Jesse says, awkwardly, because he never has any idea whether his dad actually wants to see him or not. He misses being a kid, how easy it was to just get visibly excited to see his old man, and run up to give him a tight hug with his scrawny arms.
Oh no! You’re crushing me! His dad would cry out dramatically. Diane, help! He’s squeezing my lungs out! This is the end!
“Jesse,” his dad says, super impersonal, like he's greeting the help or something. “I'm glad you decided to join us. I'm sure your mother was happy to see you.”
Because I’m not, it seems to imply.
“Yeah,” Jesse says, tone light, because if his dad's not going to try then he should. “Jake, too. I mean, it's been a while since we were all together like this.”
His dad sighs, stuffing his hands in his trousers, like Jesse's presence is in itself a hindrance. That he only invited him out here as an act of charity. Jesse quickly figures out what must have happened. His mom pleaded and begged, and his dad eventually gave in. He's allowed to be here for that reason alone.
“I saw you brought your…” His dad gives him a look of disgruntled confusion. “What is he, exactly?”
“I told you, we're together,” Jesse says, not flinching from his gaze. “I was pretty clear about that on the phone. And if that's going to be a problem, then…”
“Not at all,” his dad says. Yes . “I just hope you know what you're doing.”
Jesse looks away and takes a deep breath. Counts to three. Whirls back around to say something nasty, but his dad’s already gone.
*
Walt spends the afternoon chatting with Diane. They sit down in the breakfast nook over coffee and talk about the past few years, though in Walt's case he deliberately avoids discussing more recent events because he and Jesse haven't agreed on a story yet. Meanwhile, Jesse spends some time with his little brother, Jake, sledding out behind the cabin.
Diane starts making chicken enchiladas for dinner and Walt offers to help, glad to have an opportunity to ingratiate himself with at least one member of Jesse's family. It's actually very pleasant, listening to carols on the radio and dicing up vegetables while she rambles about her life and Jesse’s childhood. He can see a lot of Jesse in her. They’ve got an airy, compassionate warmth to them—like if sunbeams were people.
“I’ve never had enchiladas with cream cheese,” Walt says.
“It’s not necessarily authentic,” Diane agrees. “But it gives them a wonderful richness. They’re Jesse’s favorite. When he was little he would always ask me to make them on his birthday.”
Walt chuckles. “Well, maybe you’d consider sharing the recipe. I could surprise him.”
“That’s a great idea,” she says. “I’ll write it down for you. It’s so easy in a pinch.”
Her husband, Adam, eventually comes out of his tiny office for introductions. When he enters the kitchen he doesn’t acknowledge Walt at all, at first, which Walt finds a bit strange but doesn’t mention. Adam kisses his wife on the head and says something quietly to her before finally turning to his guest.
When he shakes Walt’s hand he gives him a cool, appraising look, and Walt can tell he's sizing him up. He can detect a little bit of hostility there–understandable, given the circumstances–but he's not going to confront it head-on. He doesn't need to cause any problems for Jesse. Even if the condescension is radiating off the man in waves.
“It’s been a few years, Walter,” Adam says, politely, somehow managing to make his name sound like an insult. “Are you still working at Wynne?”
“No,” Walt says. “Thank God for that. I’m a chemical engineer at Gray Matter now. We’re working on smart fabric applications.”
“Moving up in the world,” Adam says, though he doesnt sound particularly impressed. If anything he sounds suspicious, though it’s possible Walt is being paranoid.
“Can't beat a 401k and stock options,” Walt agrees, tersely.
Adam crosses his arms over his chest. “So how exactly did you and Jesse—”
At that precise moment Jesse and Jake enter the cabin, soaking wet with melted snow and gasping at the hit of warm air. They're both laughing.
“Dad, the lake froze over,” Jake says. “It’s completely rock solid. Do you think we could—“
“--Don't track mud on the flooring, please,” Adam says. “You'll warp the wood.”
“Sorry,” Jesse and Jake say in unison. They share a conspiratorial look, and break out into giggles again. Then they head upstairs to change clothes, presumably, laughing all the way.
Adam works his jaw, but shifts back into pleasantness quickly.
“Kids,” he sighs to Walt. “Listen, I have a new bottle of scotch I’ve been meaning to break open. Would you care to join me?”
Walt nods, eyes wide in feigned surprise at his generosity, but he’s not an idiot—this will be an interrogation. One he definitely deserves, but not for the reasons Adam thinks. “Of course. Thank you. It’s been a while since I’ve had a good strong drink.”
*
When Jesse comes back downstairs, dressed in dry warm clothes, he immediately notices Mr. White and his dad are absent. He’s about to try and track them down before his dad can saw his boyfriend’s dick off, because he kind of needs that, but his mom reassures him and wrangles him into finishing up dinner instead.
Jesse’s in charge of the salad, but it’s slow going because he keeps nervously pausing as he chops up romaine to see if he can hear any muffled screaming. He and Mr. White have done a pretty decent job of distancing themselves from their criminal past, listening to the lawyer’s advice, practicing self-forgiveness, yada yada yada, but the weight of all of it is super heavy sometimes.
If his dad thinks Mr. White is just a creep, that’s one thing. They can deal with it. If he knew about all the other shit, he’d go full scorched earth. Is it even possible to build a life after so much bad shit happened before it?
“I didn’t even know you were gay,” his mom says offhandedly, looking almost distraught at the possibility, like she’s somehow failed as a parent for not noticing something he tried painfully hard to hide.
“I’m not,” Jesse says. “I mean, like, not all the way. It’s complicated.”
“You were a perfectly normal little boy. You were always a little sensitive, but…”
Jesse flinches, but manages to not cut his finger off. “Ma. It’s called bisexual. Google it.”
“Is that the term?” she asks, genuinely curious. Then she shrugs. “Well, whatever you are, you know I’ll always support you. I’m not sure I agree with your taste in men but that’s none of my business. Does Mr. White treat you okay?”
“ Jesus, ma.”
“I’m serious. Is he good to you? Does he make you do anything unsavory?”
Jesse rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Actually, he keeps me chained up in the basement and only lets me out to piss or suck his–”
“ Jesse , watch your mouth.”
“He’s—he’s good, yeah. A real prick sometimes. Like, he’s the kind of guy who’ll go off on his waiter for the stupidest shi—stuff, and he’s always harping about crap that doesn’t matter , but ever since we started whatever the hell this is, he’s been real respectful and a perfect gentleman. To me at least. Does that make you feel better?”
She smiles as she slides the enchiladas out of the oven. “As long as Mr. White makes you happy, that’s what matters to me.”
“God, please don’t call him ‘Mr. White.’ That’s so fucking weird.”
“ Language .”
*
“Do you want a cigar?” Adam asks.
Walt is tempted, but he would rather not irritate his lungs while his cancer is in remission. He tilts his glass of scotch in his direction. “This is more than adequate. Thank you, though.”
“Of course—you’re a guest here, after all,” Adam says.
Adam lights his cigar with a wooden match before tucking the matchbook back into his pocket. He sits back in his leather office chair and they fall into what could be a comfortable silence, but Walt isn’t fooled. He can hear Jesse and his mother in the kitchen. They seem to be in good spirits, but Walt can’t make out the words.
“Jesse tells me you paid for his rehab,” Adam says, flicking the ash from his cigar into an expensive-looking ashtray.
Walt nods. “That’s correct.”
“That’s really something,” Adam says, but he doesn’t sound impressed. “Out of the goodness of your heart, huh? No strings attached?”
There’s no correct way to answer that question, no way to say that Walt felt responsible for Jesse after their adventure with homicide and a Mexican drug cartel and Gustavo Fring’s industrial meth operation. But staying silent would probably be worse.
“It was his idea,” Walt says, swirling his glass. “And yes, there really weren’t any strings. I just wanted to help him get better. That’s all.”
Adam hums, contemplatively.
“I suppose I should thank you,” Adam says. He takes another drag on his cigar. “Nothing Diane and I could say would convince him it was in his best interest to sober up. It all went in one ear and out the other. But he’s—God. It’s like he’s pulled a complete one-eighty. Going to school, finally holding down a job. I’m proud of him.”
“So am I,” Walt agrees, glad the conversation is becoming less antagonistic. “I’ve always thought there was some kind of spark in him. If only he’d apply himself.”
Adam stares at him. “Oh?”
“He was a decent student,” Walt says, stupidly. He takes a sip of his scotch. “I could see it in him. Even then.”
Adam’s expression darkens, and he opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else, but then Diane calls him from the kitchen. Adam snuffs out the rest of the cigar in the ashtray, then gets to his feet. He lays a hand on Walt’s shoulder, smiling gently, then leans down to speak close to his ear.
“If I ever find out you touched him when he was still in school, I will kill you,” Adam says. He claps his shoulder.
*
Jesse doesn’t have a clue what his dad said to Walt, but it must have been pretty fucking bad for him to look so distracted and weird as they’re sitting down for dinner. While his mom puts out the fancy china serving dishes and his dad argues with Jake over whether or not to let him have a sip of wine, Jesse leans close across the table so that they won’t overhear.
“You okay?” he asks.
Walt blinks himself out of his daze, then gives him a super fake appeasing smile. “Of course, sweetheart. It’s just been a long day.”
Jesse’s so distracted by the pet name that he forgets what he was going to say.
His mom starts to pour him a glass of wine, but he shakes his head and grabs the pitcher of water on the table instead. He takes this shit seriously. He technically could drink, if he wanted to, but he’s scared he’ll end up using it as a crutch. Becoming a raging alcoholic just because he can’t do meth anymore? Pass.
Once the five of them are gathered around the table, with some sort of Christmas piano collection tinkling quietly in the background and the whole cabin smelling of pine trees and spice, his dad offers to say grace. Jesse has to nudge Walt to get him to bow his head. Apparently this was not a common practice in the White household, but the Pinkmans are really into that Jesus shit.
“…and thank You for bringing Jesse back into the light and to our table,” his dad finishes.
Okay, that's super uncomfortable. It’s like his dad takes every opportunity to remind him he’s a fuck-up, even after Jesse’s done everything he can think of to make it right. Normally this might set him off, but he’s not going to embarrass Walt in front of his family by throwing a tantrum. He quietly cuts into an enchilada, which admittedly, he’s been looking forward to all afternoon.
Jesse is quiet for a little while.
Mr. White and his mom and dad continue talking about sophisticated shit like the stock market, and their careers, but Mr. White always winds up talking about Jesse: his job, and his art, and his volunteer work at the local dog shelter. Jesse realizes with some glimmer of pride what Mr. White is doing. He's talking him up. Trying to make him look good for his folks.
“So how did you two end up together?” his mom eventually asks.
“Rehab,” Jesse says around a mouthful, too quickly.
“Church,” Walt says at the same time.
Walt gives him an exasperated look from across the table, and Jesse hopes he didn't just contradict anything he's already told them.
“Did you also have a drug problem?” his dad deadpans at Walt.
“Not at all,” Walt says, and Jesse waits with bated breath for him to work his devil magic and smooth this over. “I was a recovery mentor for Narcotics Anonymous. Meetings were always happening at my church, so I volunteered. Jesse and I just happened to reconnect through those meetings. Isn't that right, Jesse?”
Jesse nods, stupidly. “Yeah. Yeah, Walt was all over that twelve step shit.”
We definitely, definitely did not manufacture felony quantities of meth, yo.
“Is that ethical?” Adam asks, then takes a sip of wine.
“I never mentored him personally,” Walt clarifies. “That would be unethical. But we had dinner a few times, and, well. We really clicked.”
Walt gives Jesse a fond look, and Jesse almost believes the bullshit himself. That they really did meet at a drug counseling session and slowly and carefully established a relationship. Jesse doesn't know if it would have actually worked out that way, if true. He doesn't think he would've given Walt a chance. Only blood and tears and bonds forged in fire could make him do that.
Does that mean this isn't what he really wants? The thought makes him kind of upset, because if he's sure of anything it's that he doesn't want to imagine life without him. It'd be like cutting his own heart out.
He's thought about this a lot, when he's lying in bed not able to sleep. What he should do is turn himself into the cops, confess everything, push Walt away, throw himself on his sword metaphorically and find Jesus or something. His future would be spent behind bars, glumly watching the world move on without him. Alone.
That's what he should do.
Suddenly, he's lost his appetite. He stares at his plate and tries to ignore the burn of tears in his eyes.
“Are you guys gonna get married?” Jake asks, and Jesse thinks his brain literally makes a record scratch sound.
His dad is glaring at Mr. White, like he's the one that suggested it.
“No,” Jesse says, quickly, and then kicks himself, because he doesn't miss the way Mr. White looks a little hurt at how fast he sprung on that one. But Jesus, they've been together officially for maybe six months now. They've barely started figuring out normal human communication, let alone romance. If they go too fast, too soon, then–then Jesse might just end up pushing him away.
As soon as Mr. White realizes he's not worthy of all this adoration and worship , that he's just some fucked up little ex-meth addict who never learned how to read super good and destroys everything he touches, he'll dump him. Mr. White's got money and class and a future and a fixed up brain now. He can chase any piece of ass he wants.
“That’s sweet, but we haven't really discussed that, son,” Walt says. “We're taking it day by day.”
“Good,” Jesse's dad grumbles, stabbing his enchilada like it's offended him. “No sense rushing into anything.”
Jesse gulps down his water, mortified.
*
After dinner they light a fire in the fireplace, have some eggnog, and play low-stakes poker together in the den. Antagonism of their afternoon conversations aside, the mood lightens considerably once they're all a few drinks in and laughing around the table. Adam compliments Walt’s incredible poker face, Jesse catches Jake cheating at least twice, and Diane is surprisingly good at the game (apparently, she spent her college years as a croupier in Vegas). Walt ends up twenty dollars richer, but gives it to the boy, Jake.
Then at around ten the family goes to bed and it's just himself and Jesse downstairs. Jesse pulls Walt onto the couch and they lounge there with Jesse pressed against Walt’s chest, a soft cashmere blanket thrown over them. The fire crackles cheerily. In the dark they watch some Christmas specials on the TV–Rudolph and Frosty–though Walt isn't paying much attention.
He still can't believe he's allowed to do this. Touch Jesse, hold him close, lazily stroke his soft tattooed wrist, breathe in the scent of his hair. He doesn't understand. If he's learned anything today it's that Jesse is still so young, and good, and that even if Walt becomes the best man he can possibly be–stable, wealthy, with clean hands and conscience–it still won't be enough. He won't ever be enough. He's just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Jesse kicks him hard under the throw blanket.
“Yo,” Jesse says. Then he sighs, flopping his head back on the sofa pillow, when that doesn’t get a response. “Are you gonna be weird about this all weekend?”
“I’m sorry?” Walt mumbles, feigning ignorance.
“Blow me. You’ve been acting like this all night. What’s your deal?”
Walt shakes his head, hesitating.
“Your father accused me of having illicit intentions toward you,” Walt admits. “I don’t exactly feel great about that.”
Jesse looks stunned for about three seconds, and then honest-to-God giggles. “Holy shit.”
“It’s not funny,” Walt pouts.
He waits for Jesse’s laughter to subside, but it takes an insultingly long time. By the time he’s calmed down he’s wiping tears from his eyes.
“I mean, if you really think about it, this is pretty fucked up,” Jesse says, and his tone is teasing but Walt stiffens a little anyway. “You did blackmail me into cooking meth with you. That was a pretty significant thing that happened. In case you forgot.”
“No, I didn’t forget, ” Walt says, bristling. He cups Jesse’s face with his hand, and his breath hitches at the way Jesse looks at him. “There’s a lot of things I’ve done in our relationship that I regret, but I never would’ve—I never would’ve done what he accused me of.”
Jesse turns his head a little, pressing a kiss to his wrist. Then another one. “Which is what, exactly?”
Walt is quiet for a moment. “He implied that I was involved with you when you were a student.”
“So what? Is that really any worse than the truth?”
Jesse's trying to make him feel better, but failing. Walt moves to pull away, intending to get up and go outside and think , but Jesse grabs him hard by the chin and kisses him with more teeth than necessary. It's a biting, dominating sort of kiss, so unlike him that it stuns Walt into staying exactly where he is. Jesse pulls back, but keeps his grip on him. Searching his eyes.
His point has been made.
“You don't get to pull this shit with me anymore,” Jesse says. “Don't go falling down that hole in your head where you're some old pervert preying on my helpless ass, beating yourself up over it. Like yeah, I’m busted, and it was partly your fault, but so are you. So now you’re fucking stuck with me. Okay?”
“Okay,” Walt says, interrupted when Jesse kisses him again.
It's much gentler, this time. Walt presses him down against the couch with his weight, and Jesse makes a pleased sound. Jesse can be soft and sweet, but Walt should never let himself forget that he bites, too, and when he's in the mood for it kisses like a filthy tramp. The innocence Walt fears destroying is already dead.
He should trust by now that Jesse knows what he wants.
*
What Jesse particularly wants is the kind of love that makes his entire body shake. He thinks back on their vow to keep it PG over the weekend. They lasted six entire hours. Go figure.
Mr. White pulls Jesse's sweater out from where it's tucked inside his pajama bottoms and runs his hand over his back under the fabric. Maybe this makes Mr. White feels like a creep, with his big hands rough on Jesse's skin, pushing his thighs apart, yanking his head back by the hair so he can tongue his mouth better, but Jesse thinks that's what makes it hot as fuck.
Mr. White touches him like he wants to ruin him but is holding himself back. Maybe someday Jesse will ask him for it.
“What do you need from me?” Mr. White asks, sucking a bruise into his neck.
Jesse’s breath hitches at the sharp pleasure-pain. “Anything, baby.”
He’d be fine with making out with him like this the rest of the night, until their mouths are tired and he’s falling asleep wrapped in his arms. But he’s already pretty damn worked up, between the coziness of the fire and Mr. White’s rough hands on his skin and the sound of his low, pleased sounds as he tries to pull him closer and closer like he wants to crush him.
Jesse grinds up against him, smirking at him when he feels his interest. Mr. White closes his eyes and just kind of breathes all shaky and ragged, like he's trying to control himself. Jesse keeps shifting up into his hard dick, biting his lip.
“ Jesse ,” Mr. White warns, and makes a feeble attempt to pull away.
Jesse tugs him right back, and he doesn't try again. Jesse presses his face right up against his, nuzzling his jaw as he moves right up into his cock. Mr. White’s got his fingers clenched in Jesse's sweater.
“You want this,” Jesse says. “You want it. Say you want it, baby.”
“Your parents are upstairs,” Mr. White says, but he's losing it. He runs his palm down his back, hesitates, then squeezes his ass, yanking his body closer. “Can you stay quiet?”
Jesse bites his earlobe, then whispers in his ear. “Can you?”
Mr. White actually growls and then grabs him by the arm, turning him over again so that his back is pressed against his chest. Jesse gasps, excitement flooding him, because that's just how his body reacts to being grabbed and pulled and tossed around like a ragdoll.
If it's him, it's okay.
Mr. White yanks down his pajama bottoms, but the blanket is still on top of them, so it feels kind of cozy and sexy and sweet. Jesse whimpers when he hears him pull down his own pajama pants, then whimpers louder when he feels Mr. White's cock pressed right up against his ass. He grinds back into it, appreciating the hiss between his teeth.
Mr. White spits on his hand, then palms his own cock. Jesse expects him to just take him like that–which would suck but he'd probably let him–and instead he gently nudges Jesse's thighs open, slipping between them.
“That's it,” Mr. White says, once he knows he understands. He kisses his neck, then wraps his spit-slicked hand around Jesse's cock. Jesse squeezes his thighs around him instinctively. The mood changes entirely from frantic and desperate to warm and intimate. “Just like this, sweetheart. Perfect.”
Jesse closes his eyes as Mr. White starts fucking his thighs slowly. He's stroking Jesse's dick in perfect sync with his achingly slow thrusts. Jesse feels warm from head to toe, and so so good, wrapped up in his love and his desire. He stays quiet, or tries to, gently rocking back into him, breath hitching whenever he kisses his neck or touches him just right.
“Do you like this?” Mr. White whispers in his ear.
Jesse nods, head lolling onto the throw pillow. Yeah, this is good. Like, sinking into a hot bath on a cold day kind of good. He starts getting lazier in his movements, until eventually he's letting Mr. White do all the work, basking in the perfect dizzy heat of it.
“Don't stop,” Jesse murmurs. “Please, baby, don't stop…”
Mr. White starts saying other things, hushed and barely audible, but Jesse picks out the important bits. So perfect and so good for me and I love you. Jesse bites his lip to try and muffle the moans that threaten to escape, but it’s not enough.
“Shh,” Mr. White says into his skin. He's breathing ragged now, too, moving a little faster. “Oh, Jesse… Jess…”
Jesse's close before he's even ready for it. He reaches back for him, breathing hard, but it's super difficult to touch him at this angle. Mr. White strokes him faster, kissing at his clumsy fingers where they're pressed against his mouth, and Jesse–
They hear a noise.
Mr. White slips out from between his legs and wraps his arm snug around him, and they feign sleep, the blanket covering them for the most part. Jesse can't see for certain who the intruder is but from the footsteps it sounds a lot like his dad. His dad–presumably–shuffles around the hallway and into the kitchen, turning on the light. He spends way too fucking long in there, getting a drink or something.
Go away, Jesse thinks, brow furrowing. Fuck, he's so turned on right now it hurts. He can feel Mr. White breathing hot against the back of his head, and knows he's frustrated too.
His dad finishes up whatever he's doing and turns the light back off. When he's in the hallway he stops for some reason, just standing there. Jesse almost screams. Then his dad turns and goes back upstairs.
As soon as they hear the upstairs bedroom door shut, they move at the same time. Jesse squirms around to face him while Mr. White settles on top of him, getting his hand around both their cocks to stroke them together.
“Please, please,” Jesse whines under his breath.
Mr. White fits his free hand over his mouth. Jesse loves the way it feels, being restrained like this, unable to move, his noises muffled by Mr. White’s hand. He grinds up into his fist, moaning and squirming unashamedly, the way Mr. White likes it–like he wants every time to feel like the first time. Like he's taking his innocence again and again.
They wind up coming within moments of each other. Jesse thinks he dies, for a few seconds, his blood rushing in his ears, his hips jerking mindlessly, his mouth wet against his hand. Mr. White is dripping down his thighs. He lets go of Jesse's mouth just so he can kiss him again.
After, once they’ve caught their breath, Mr. White gets some hot washcloths and cleans the both of them up. They go back to laying on the old sofa and finish watching whatever corny stop-motion special is on the TV, though Jesse is so loved up and dazed he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on in it. He’s half asleep when he hears the words whispered against his head.
“Why are you still here, Jess?”
Jesse knows he doesn’t mean that literally. And there’s a lot of things he could say, like that he still feels all fucked up and broken and rotting inside, but Mr. White knows about all of it–all of his sins–and makes him feel normal . Mr. White makes him believe that it was all a bad dream, that they really are exactly what they appear to be. Jesse loves his meticulous obsession with making things perfect, and his protectiveness of him, and the forgiveness he’s given them both.
More than anything, he just loves him.
Instead, he says: “‘Cause you’re here, too, idiot.”