Work Text:
"It's late," Mr. White said, groggy, pissing Jesse off.
"When you asked me what kinda man 'having you' made me, what did you mean?"
What Mr. White was saying earlier that night: it was all he could think about. When he got out of the shower and put on his boxers, he had paced in the living room holding his phone, debating making a call, sweet everythings on a loop in his mind.
I’ll have all the money and power in the world, and you’ll have me.
You, Jesse. You are everything to me.
Everything I have is because of you.
What kind of man does that make you?
It was a blessing compared to the previous nights of absolute anguish and dissociation. Don't get him wrong: he still felt like he was getting sucked away into nothing and shat out a tube. But the anger and curious dread over Mr. White's latest round of manipulation was a distraction from child murder.
The bastard took his sweet time to say, "It's up to you to decide what it means." Like Jesse had earned the right to decide if he was Heisenberg's bitch or not.
"You clearly meant something more than what you said. You always do."
"You seem to think I was implying something. What do you think I was implying?" Like he had called on him in class. Everybody shut up so we can hear Jesse's opinion on this!
"Instead of me trying to figure out how you work and fucking that up, could you just tell me?"
"Jesse, this has to be up to you—"
"Save it."
Silence.
"If I have you, then what does that make me? If it's our money, then what does that make me? If I'm everything, then what does that make me?" Jesse waited for Mr. White to admit the obvious but probably stupid conclusion, and when that didn't happen, he continued. "I'll tell you what that makes me. It makes me your family, right? 'Everything I do, I do for my family?'"
"How does that make you feel?" No confirmation. No denial. Just more bullshit.
"Uh!" he noised, not knowing what to say. "How does that make you feel? It's your logic, dude."
"I feel good about it."
Jesse sighed. He was confused, but he was right, and weirdly grateful he wasn't getting disowned again—kinda pathetic. He didn't dare ask what type of family member he was supposed to be in this situation. He was equally afraid of the two most likely answers.
"I think, your whole family would all want you to take the deal, so..." And he was speaking for himself which was so fucking crazy. Not bad. Not good either. He felt, like, a sudden pressure to be a good influence on the guy who took shit from no one: the meth kingpin who had forgotten how to mourn. In a rare moment Jesse felt he had wisdom Mr. White lacked, but there wasn't a soul around to hear it.
Mr. White didn't even answer. Of course, now was the time he stopped talking. Afraid of saying something he'd regret, Jesse attempted to get off the phone. "Look, I should let you sleep. Please..."
"Jesse."
"Are you still losing sleep over Drew Sharp?" he croaked, being way too nice with the phrasing. He didn't say, "You aren't losing sleep over Drew Sharp." He didn't say, "This call woke you up, didn't it? It's not even that late."
"Yes, Jesse, I've been losing sleep for a culmination of reasons. The deaths I've witnessed, not to mention the ones I've participated in, not to mention all the times I've confused or upset my family."
"You don't sound like you care." Jesse waited for indignation but it didn't come, so he doubled down. "You don't! You sound like you're giving a speech. You sound totally chill all the time unless I'm upset and you're trying to sound sincere."
"To be honest, Jesse, I do my best to compartmentalize. Do you know what that means?"
"No." And he did not like the sound of Mr. White-professed honesty.
"It means I keep things separate: emotions, memories, entire areas of my life. This is what allows me to keep going, in spite of everything. If I can keep myself occupied, yes, I can switch off the guilt. Now that may sound callous to someone who consistently overwhelms himself with the weight of the world, who pathologically feels guilty for things wholly outside of his control, but as you grow older you'll learn that at some point, later will have to be good enough. No: you cannot keep stalling life to beat yourself up, son."
What the fuck? "I ain't stalling. I'll keep living and I'll have five mil. What's wrong with that?"
"You didn't let me finish," Mr. White said, "I try to keep the disparate aspects of myself separate, but you make that difficult. Case in point: you're my business partner, and my family..."
Those words triggered a warmth in Jesse's hands and arms and face. He couldn't help himself. Apparently the heat energy had to turn to motion energy or whatever scientific explanation because he flailed his free hand in a way that would have looked angry or dismissive...
"...When you're upset, I start to feel the emotions I've sectioned off. It may read as insincerity, but I assure you, I can feel. That's why I don't want to lose what we've built together."
...had he not, continued the motion for far too long, up and down, up and down, in, excitement? No, he was clearly frustrated and aggressive and overwhelmed and disturbed and ready to punch Mr. White in his smug fucking face if he were only there physically. That's what it looked like.
That's what it looked like.
"That's why I don't want to lose you."
Jesse sniffled, and oh fuck he was actually tearing up now, and after a few unbearable moments, he says, "After we take the deal, I'll still be there, y'know?"
Then he hung up before Mr. White could ruin the hope he was starting to have. He needed to believe Mr. White would ultimately do the right thing, if pushed.
He needed to believe Mr. White would put him, and the rest of his family, first.