A/N: This is set in Season 3 on the night of "Fly." It's also a prequel to my story "The Chihuahua and the St. Bernard," but can be read separately.
"Jesse, seriously, bro. Come on, you gotta stay!" Badger says.
He's all up in Jesse's grill and shouting in his face. Badger's got an arm on Jesse's shoulder, wobbling for balance like the heels on that chick wearing a mouse costume that's just black lacey shit and mouse ears. Badger jerks his chin over to the group of girls in skanky Ninja Turtle costumes that look like Shredder did their dry-cleaning 'cause it's skin city, bitch. They're sharing the same cushion of Badger's couch and a bong the same transparent silver color of Jesse's old Game Boy from eighth grade.
Everything in Badger's basement has been here since at least fucking middle school: the tan wood-paneled walls, curly like off-white carpet that always looks like it's covered in popcorn, and that god-awful peach sherbet pleather couch with its sharting noises and 80's vibe so strong he swears the thing's got shoulder pads instead of armrests. He's just waiting for George Michael to like bust out of the board game closet any minute.
Skinny Pete shoots Jesse pleading, wounded puppy-dog eyes, which is like weird as hell when he's dressed as a Stormtrooper. "Yeah, there's like three of them and three of us. If you bounce, you'd be messing with like the mathematics of getting pussy."
Jesse knocks Badger's arm off, waving his own arms around the room, eyes wide. The entire ground level of Badger's parent's house is filled with people, like crowded to the point Jesse would be giving the guy more props if crystal vapors weren't wafting their way into his nostrils like the heat coming off a cooling apple pie in an episode of Looney Tunes. Jesse never understands how Badger's folks can't smell all the meth that gets smoked down here. Maybe it's 'cause they look like a pair of tall, pale, lifeless celery stalks drained by a vegetarian fucking vampire. He hasn't been around them much since Badger's mom drives a truck and his dad works the graveyard shift as an orderly at Albuquerque Memorial. One of the few memories Jesse has of them is of a weekday night freshman year, sitting across a table of soupy meatloaf and store-bought mashed potatoes while they both watched an MMA fight and passed a pack of L & M cigarettes back and forth. They weren't the kind of parents to make small talk at dinner. No, they're the kind that let Badger stay here rent-free while the dude brags about having a whole floor to himself like it's part of some sort of dope mansion instead of his parent's basement.
Honestly, the room's way too small, especially for a Halloween party crammed with tweekers. Badger's iPod playlist is a confusing mix of Sublime, Biggie Smalls, and Destiny's Child. But, no matter what song's on, there's at least six guys in Dark Knight Joker getups moshing into lamps and shit. Plus, that ain't even the worst of it. Listening to "Bills, Bills, Bills" is sort of terrifying when a roided-out, shirtless Michael Meyers is fucking a half-naked "sexy" Elmo into that framed photo of a seagull Badger lifted from the Crystal Palace. If Jesse has to stay here for longer than three minutes, he's gonna snort something, even if it's Fun Dip powder off of Rainbow Brite's ass.
"Man, that's one chill Luke Skywalker costume."
Jesse turns his head to a passing red Michael Jackson jacket on a black chick so gaunt she could be in bizarre late-night infomercials for crack.
He grits his teeth. "I'm Anakin, yo!"
His stupid outfit wasn't even Jesse's idea 'cause he knew he shouldn't be at this kind of party the second Badger brought it up last Friday at the arcade over on Azul. He's been clean for months now; even refusing the morphine pain med shit the hospital offered him after Mr. White's asshat of a brother-in-law went apeshit on him a few weeks ago. Jesse's face is still getting better with a couple of purple marks on his cheeks and a trace of a cut on his upper lip. Regardless, Jesse didn't want to spend a night in a black long-sleeved shirt, black leather vest with old beepers hot-glued to the belt around it, brown pants, a hooded brown robe, and one black leather glove.
He tried telling Badger he didn't want to go over their game of skeeball, but the guy was all like, "you're totally gonna look so badass with Skinny and me escorting you around like we're your straight-up posse."
"What escort me around your fucking rec room, Badger?" Jesse said. "Yeah, I'm gonna look boss as shit with two dudes covered in white plastic following me around your air hockey table."
"It's an air hockey and pool table; two-for-one, yo! And, don't even act like you don't get psyched about our air hockey tournaments." Badger suspiciously eyeballed the place before taking out a king-sized Snicker bar from his pocket and shucking off the wrapper. With his mouth full of caramel and peanuts, he said, "It ain't like you got Halloween plans anyway. You don't do jack shit anymore. Like, are you gonna pass out candy with your boyfriend Heisenberg and make out with him?"
Jesse couldn't roll a lame ten points when he heard that shit coming from Badger. It's not like Badger knows anything, but getting his dick diddled by his ex-Chemistry teacher ain't something he wants anybody joking about. And, yeah, he guesses using like the term "diddled" makes Mr. White sound more pedo than he actually is since it was Jesse who first walked into the guy's apartment, drunk with a boner and a bone-crushing fierce need for a distraction to not go back to the glass. After that first painful-as-shit night, the past seventeen days have gotten sort of better. Maybe it's like 'cause the guy's fifty and has a life's worth of practice beating off as a science geek. But, Mr. White's handjobs are on the same level of art as Blue Sky. Jesse's fucking dreaming about them for god's sake. Not to mention the sick "good boy, Jesse, good boy" shit that comes out of that goateed motherfucking mouth, making Jesse come like he's twelve again with the Penthouse he found while rollerblading behind a K-Mart.
So, yeah, Jesse decided spending like an hour at Badger's costume party was better than stroking himself on his futon while thinking about the nerdiest old dude he knows. Jesse literally spent the whole day with Mr. White, chasing a fly around the lab that he finally killed. He'd actually had to sedate the guy with sleeping pills in his coffee since he was acting so fucking weird. Jesse tucked him in on the couch in the break room before he went home to change into his dumbass costume. He wonders where Mr. White is now.
This party would have been at least decent if anybody knew who the hell he's dressed as. Shit, he's had five Luke Skywalker guesses, a Han Solo, and an Indiana Jones from a tubby Mexican guy wearing braces and a red Teletubbie jumpsuit who looked just way too young to even be at this shit.
"Don't listen to her, bro," Badger says. "We got the power of the half shell minus the purple, nerdy, smart one…."
Skinny Pete snaps his fingers. "Donatello!"
"Whatever, yo. Just shut up, I'm trying to talk." Badger wiggles his eyebrows. "Like I was saying, we got a pot of turtle stew just waiting on my sofa for some grade-A dick, if you know what I mean."
Jesse shakes his head, squinting. "Yo, you know people use that expression when they're being subtle, right?"
Badger blinks. "What expression? Turtle stew?"
"Man, we don't got time for being subtle," Skinny says. He fiddles with the Stormtrooper headgear-mask-shit he's been carrying around, darting his eyes low to the ground like he's nervous about something. Leaning closer, he lowers his voice. "Listen, yo, I haven't gotten laid in like two days. I'm getting the shakes."
Jesse shrugs, turns away purposefully from Big Bird over there having a sunny day with a meth pipe in his beak. "Then get some other dude and go for it. Why's it need to be me?"
Badger and Skinny trade guarded glances like Pokémon cards under the cafeteria table.
"What?" Jesse says.
Badger coughs out this super awkward laugh. "Hey, like I'm not trying to get homo or anything, but, uh, you're sort of the hot one, like the Beyoncé of our group."
"Ain't nobody wanna fuck Destiny's Child without Beyoncé!" Skinny says. He stretches up on the toes of his Jordan's like when he gets pissed off or excited. "Everybody knows that."
"Yeah, Jesse, like we'll totally let you have your pick, and Skinny and I'll take the leftover turtles," Badger says.
Jesse takes another look at the couch and "Say My Name" of course is playing. And blond Leonardo is either staring at him or the green Led Zeppelin poster behind him. It's hard to tell with her swaying, eyes all lazy and sluggish like she's got maybe one light on upstairs, though it's a nightlight under a bedside table that's two flickers away from dying. He has to admit it'd be nice to undress something soft and like yielding underneath him for a change, maybe be like lucky enough to risk getting lip-gloss smeared on his cock, but he's not gonna take advantage of someone that far gone. Working someone over when they're drunk is fucked up, which really is something everybody should know. They should know it even if that plastered-face son of bitch is crying beneath somebody twice his age with his pants down, fucking begging for it 'cause feeling anything else would be too much.
"Yo, sorry for like going solo and dating Jay-Z or whatever, but I for real got to go."
He turns immediately, half-sure the craziness that came out of his mouth didn't actually get said as he walks off and hears Skinny slam his helmet down. Jesse feels a little guilty for ditching them, but then so does everything else Jesse's been doing lately. What's the difference?
Jesse can hear a train somewhere close as he switches off the ignition. He taps the bass line to a song he can't quite place across the steering wheel, wishing he was the kid in the sweet cardboard Buzz Lightyear costume hoping inside the passenger seat of his dad's Honda CRV with a to-go cup. Jesse wants to live on a planet where Halloween still means Reese's cups and watching Casper past his bedtime and getting that attention he'd pushed away for those first eleven years when he was still an only child, before Doogie Howser was born. He's done a fine ass job pushing his parents away now. Buying his house back the way he did wasn't burning what was left of the shitty, rickety rope bridge they still had between them. He fucking dismantled and blowtorched that shit to ashes. Unless he can learn to use the Force and levitate his way across the chasm, there's a good chance he ain't gonna be seeing them before Jake's high school graduation, if then.
He's out of his car now, rubbing the base of his palms into his eyes and squinting under the flaring fluorescent light posts of the Denny's parking lot to make sure this shit's actually in front of him. Placing his hands on the familiar puke green hood only proves it really ain't a hologram.
"Yo, what…the hell?" Jesse rips his leather glove off, shoving it into his pocket. His breath's coming out in quick puffs into the cold dark like he's chain-smoking or something.
Jesse can't believe his shitty luck. He went to Denny's at nine o' clock wanting to get stuffed with pancakes, and out of the three different fucking locations in Albuquerque, he picks the one where Mr. White's eating. So what if Jesse was thinking about the khaki Dockers-wearing tool? It's not like he's got brain powers that make people show up. If that was true, Mr. White would have seen Jesse orgasm a lot more than the guy already has.
"Fuck," Jesse says.
It shouldn't be so easy for him to think the words "orgasm" and "Mr. White" like they're fucking "Chewbacca" and "Wookiee." The side-by-side comparison of that shit doesn't line up exactly, but Jesse scored like a 500 on his SATs, so whatever.
Jesse walks in a damn circle like a dog freaking out over an ambulance for like a solid two minutes before he's like fuck it and storms into the restaurant. The place is bright as shit, totally dead aside from a fat redheaded lady with a chubby son going ham on a hot fudge sundae. The kid gapes with a mouthful of vanilla ice cream when Jesse walks by their table. He looks like he's been crying recently: eyes all red, tissues around his plate, foam robot costume torn in places like some punks tried to beat him up.
Jesse smiles at him, stacking his fists to swing an invisible lightsaber as he makes a couple of electric-y noises. He swipes his imaginary weapon, now one-handed, towards his other arm, and pretends to slice the hand off. Drawing it back into his sleeve, he scrunches his face up in pain. The round, little guy's totally eating this up, even clapping when Jesse manages to "severe" his left leg and hop on the right. His mom claps too, nodding with a tight smile like she's about to get emotional. Jesse nods back.
When he glances up, he sees Mr. White standing by the men's room in what looks like a brown bathrobe. He's watching Jesse with this…well…Jesse might call it fondness if nobody important was listening. The dude's smiling, takes a hand out of his robe pocket to wave and then gesture to the booth a few tables over by Jesse's left.
Jesse slides across the bench seat closest to him, notices there's coffee but no plates.
"I was sitting there," Mr. White says.
"Yo, I thought you wanted me to join you." Jesse imitates Mr. White's hand motion from a few seconds ago.
"No, I mean, I was sitting on that side. It's where my coffee is placed. It's where I'd like to continue residing while I eat."
Jesse curls his tongue to the back of his molars, jaw out, mouth slack. "Yeah, well I'm sitting here now, so you can either not be a total bitch, but you know, normal for once and take the other one or just…."
He dials the volume down a notch or two since there's like an eight-year-old twenty odd feet away. "You can suck my dick."
Jesse isn't sure why exactly he's being kind of an asshole, butting the end of his lightsaber into the ribs of a sleeping multi-tentacle Sarlacc. It's not really the chillest thing to interrupt a guy in his bathrobe, drinking coffee alone and provoke him into getting angry. But, maybe that's what Jesse wants.
Mr. White sets his palms on the pale grey surface of the table and leans in enough for Jesse to hear a joint pop. "It would only be fair, now, wouldn't it?"
Jesse shuts his eyes 'cause he doesn't want to see Mr. White staring down at him the same way he does in bed with his knuckles trailing Jesse's stomach, using the back of his hand to rub him like his pet. He's given Mr. White exactly thirteen blowjobs in the past seventeen days, getting zero himself. There's no way in hell Mr. White's gonna do that shit for him and Jesse knows it. His cock on the other hand's not so bright, readily twitching in his oversized brown linen pants like that big space worm thing that tries to eat the Millennium Falcon.
"Is that what you want, Jesse?"
Jesse startles a little when he feels something warm against his mouth. And, it's just fucking instinct and shit to let his tongue take like the tiniest dab to see what the fuck it is. The faint tangy taste lets him know the thing's Mr. White's finger and from the shape, it's the dude's thumb. He doesn't know what part of him thinks it's totally cool to like barely wrap his lips around the digit and flick the end with his tongue. It fucking happens anyway.
Mr. White playfully pulls Jesse's lip down, making a plop as it meets his chin. He chuckles. "Good boy, Jesse."
It is way too early in the night for that kind of shit. Hearing those three words is a screeching, flashing red emergency light to change the subject as quickly as possible.
He opens his eyes, clears his throat, and grabs a menu like he doesn't already know he's getting a Build Your Own Grand Slam with extra bacon.
"Yo, speaking of normal," Jesse says. It feels like it's been a long time in their conversation when that was relevant, but he's working with anything he's got. "Why are you wearing a bathrobe?"
Mr. White swats the menu out of Jesse's slack hold. "I'm not wearing a bathrobe. It's an overcoat, you little imbecile, and a very nice one. I inherited it from my father."
Jesse scowls and drops his eyes past the end of this so-called coat to two hairy knees. "Then why in the hell do you got it on with no fucking pants?"
"It's a lengthy story. But, the gist is that I needed to drive back out to the lab for our unused insect spray. There's seems to be a fly infestation in my apartment as well. I'd been in bed a number of hours and couldn't fall asleep, so I threw on what was closest. I hadn't anticipated getting two flat tires in the process with no spare and a temporarily expired cell phone battery. Since I was down the block from here…."
"Yo." Jesse plops his chin on his hand, making a dramatic snoring noise. "If this is the short version, remind me never to be like, 'Gee, Mr. White, please explain the ecological significance of Yellow Stone' or some shit."
Mr. White like examines him. "I'm genuinely surprised you knew how to even pronounce half of what you said."
Jesse licks the corner of his lips, smirks. "Yeah, this mouth's good for lots of stuff."
Mr. White lurches a step forward, and Jesse doesn't know what to do about it until he realizes this ponytailed, bony-looking guy in an apron with a platter, reading from a green slip of paper, accidentally bumped him.
"I got a Grand Slam with three scrambled eggs, hash browns, and bacon." He's got a strong Southern accent too. Seeming to notice he knocked into a customer, he slaps on a grin. "Excuse me, Sir, I didn't see you there. Where would you like your food?"
Mr. White surveys the table before sitting next to Jesse. He pats the space in front of him. "This will do fine."
"Alright, alright," he says. "My name is David. Let me know if you gentleman need anything else. I'll let your son look over the menu. Nice Mace Windu costume, by the way."
David nods at Jesse, sets down a glass of water with a straw and disappears into the kitchen before Jesse can correct everything that came out of that dude's mouth.
"Who exactly is Mace Windu?" Mr. White says.
Jesse fucking Frisbee-tosses the laminated sheet. "I'm Anakin Skywalker, yo!"
Mr. White makes an "o" shape with his mouth, eyebrows and hands raised. "Seems to be some sort of sore spot, I see."
"Yeah, and I see you're on the same side of the table as me," Jesse says. "We on like a date or something?"
"I don't know, Jesse. Are we?" He chews a forkful of toasty, golden-brown hash browns, doing that pensive narrowing of his eyes. "What are the odds that the two of us arrive at the same Denny's fifteen minutes apart on Halloween, both wearing brown coats? I think in the realm of romantic comedies, an instance like this would be called serendipity. How did you wind up here anyway?"
Jesse shrugs. "I was at this Halloween party over at Badger's. It was alright or whatever, but there were a ton of guys, you know…."
Jesse scratches the side of his face and scans the restaurant to notice the kid's too short to see him and Mr. White, and the mom's got her back to them. He can vaguely hear the little guy spouting off about something, talking super-fast like he's completely confident or naïve enough to believe somebody's really listening and cares. Jesse's convinced they're too far away to hear him.
He fidgets with his straw wrapper. "They were like using and stuff. I split and thought I'd stop for a bite on my way home."
Mr. White makes a slight noise of acknowledgement, kind of a grunt. And it's not like Jesse wants a slap on the back and a crisp new D.A.R.E. sweatshirt for another successful night of not getting high, but Mr. White could say something.
"Would you like any of my food while you're waiting to order?"
Jesse's a little touched by the offer until Mr. White holds a strip of bacon out like he wants Jesse to eat it straight from his hand, which would be like the only straight thing about it. And shit, his stomach and dick are apparently the two dumbest back-row-of-the-classroom, playing-paper-football, drawing-tits-in-the-margins-of-tests dipshits 'cause one of them is half-hard and the other's groaning like a sliced-open tauntaun. Scanning the room again, he doesn't see anybody looking back, so he dips down, slipping the delicious fried pork between his lips to the middle of his tongue and bites.
Every single crunch is totally worth it. Jesse hasn't had anything to eat since that cold Wild Berry Pop-Tart he wolfed down with a Mellow Yellow in like ten seconds on the way to lab. He tries to move to take a sip of water, but Mr. White's other hand cups the back of his head and pulls him forward.
"Be a big boy and finish it, Jesse," Mr. White says. His blunt nails dig in his hair and scrape the base of Jesse's scalp in a way that makes Jesse want to drool. "You're slobber is already on this piece, so you might as well."
Jesse sucks his teeth like he's mad. He tips his mouth back to the bacon anyway, taking the rest of the piece in with enough space to lick at the puckered webbing between Mr. White's thumb and pointer finger. Jesse's head is released and he straightens with a snicker. "Now it's on your hand."
Mr. White tries to shake the spit off and frowns. "I'm continually impressed by your high level of maturity."
"Yeah, well, you're like the fourteen-year-old girl trying to share a side of the booth with me and talk about rom-coms. Which, you know I've never even seen that many to know what kind of shit people in those movies do in diners, unless you want me to fake an orgasm."
"I don't think that will be necessary."
Jesse takes that sip of water he wanted, clicking an ice chip between his teeth, and he's thinking of saying something like, "'course not" when he feels that all-fucking-encompassing hand creep up his inner thigh and like suction itself firmly on his crotch. He presses against the warm pressure for like one hyperspace second before he's like get you're shit together, Jesse, and makes a desperate two-hand grab on Mr. White's arm.
He hisses when the fingers around him constrict. "Mr. White, cut it the fuck out, we're in a restaurant."
"I'm aware of this, Jesse." Mr. White casually scoops some eggs in his mouth with his other hand and drops the utensil to wipe at his goatee with a napkin. "Are you aware that you have an erection in a restaurant?"
Mr. White's grasp lessens this time before it seizes up again, drawing in with gradually tightening pulses that remind Jesse of something.
"The Force is strong in this one," Mr. White says.
Jesse actually laughs 'cause no way is Mr. White fondling him like he's sucker-strangling some dipshit, moron Stormtrooper. The noise Jesse makes might briefly turn into a moan when he feels Mr. White twisting him. He tries to shove the guy's arm away again. It's fucking stuck there like the zombie prop hand shooting out of his neighbor's front lawn, which Jesse knows 'cause he tried to kick the shit out of it that night Mr. White left him high and dry and hard.
They'd met with Saul real late on a Thursday and afterwards Mr. White had pretzel-contorted Jesse's body to get Jesse straddling him in the front seat of the Aztek. Jesse barely had enough time to grumble out a "Yo, what the hell? We're still in the fucking parking lot. Saul's gonna see us," before Mr. White was unzipping his khakis, smirking and saying, "I'll take my chances." Then the steering wheel was jabbing Jesse in the back even with Mr. White reclined, grunting as Jesse planted his ass on Mr. White's erection, Jesse ridding the guy with his shirt gathered under his arms and Mr. White's nails scraping at his ribs. Mr. White got a call from his wife, which he fucking answered balls deep inside of him, and he apparently needing to get Holly eardrops. Yeah, he had enough time to blow his load, but not enough to even lend Jesse a limp hand. And, Jesse fell asleep that night with a stomachache and a fractured pinkie toe.
"Okay," Jesse says. "Joke is like dead, undead, and shot-in-the-brain-stem dead again, Mr. White. You can fucking let go of me now."
Mr. White's hand shifts to pat him on the top of his leg. "I know you tried your best, son."
Jesse squints. "What?"
Oh man, Jesse so didn't notice that David was back. "Decided what you want?"
"Uh, yeah, yeah, man," Jesse says. He definitely notices Mr. White smirking. "I'll take a Grand Slam with pancakes, hash browns, and extra bacon."
"Sounds good, my man. I'll have that out in a jiffy." He winks, slipping his pen behind his ear.
The moment Jesse's staring at the back of David's swaying ponytail, Mr. White buries his hand back between Jesse's legs. His fingers find the tip and squeeze and Jesse clamps his jaw down like super tight.
"Jesse, this isn't a joke. I want you to feel good."
Jesse wants to argue that he'd feel a lot better not getting like potentially humiliated or fucking arrested for this, but Mr. White's tugging the elastic of Jesse's pants and boxers down in a move faster than Han can whip out his gun.
Jesse chokes out a quiet, high-pitched sound he didn't know he could make. "No, Mr. White, please, no, Mr. White…"
He fists Jesse's trembling erection. "Shh, it's okay Jesse. Let me take care of you."
Every small teenth of Jesse wants to be disgusted with Mr. White, wants to claw the guy's hand to gory, pulpy shreds until it looks like it belongs in an Eli Roth movie, wants to slam himself in his car and get the hell out of New Mexico. But, his cock is calling the shots. And all it wants is to do is grind up and forward, up and forward, up and forward.
"That's it, Jesse," Mr. White says behind the lip of his raised coffee mug. "That's a good boy."
Even with all the shit going on, Jesse has a pinpoint of enough clearness to understand that well, shit, he's rocking out with his cock out in a fucking Denny's with this son of bitch's hand wrapped brutally around him like a bratty toddler beating the table with his fork. And, damn it, if Jesse ain't liking it enough to dribble out the jelly of the jam hands in this whole temper tantrum scenario shit Jesse's imagining. The one and only highlight is that Jesse's robe is still covering him. Actually, he and Mr. White have so many similar baggy brown sleeves that if Mr. White keeps eating with his free hand, it's kind of like an optical allusion and you can't tell what shit belongs to who. It's like this douchebag planned it that way.
Jesse bites his lip at a particularly spastic stroke before it slows down so much he wants to cry. It's so distracting, he's not at all aware David delivered his food until the plate's there and David's gone as Mr. White says "Thank you."
He's honestly not that hungry anymore, brain shifting from food to fucking sweet, sweet release 'cause Mr. White's making plucking motions along Jesse's nuts like he's playing a scrotum-shaped guitar. Part of him thinks he should at least attempt knocking the dude's arm away again, but then that fat ginger mom is standing by their table with a giant grin.
"Oh, I hate to bother you two, but my son is insisting I get your autograph," she says. She wipes some sort of crust crumbs from her green cardigan, sliding over a face-down copy of her receipt. "That was some performance you put on, and he's a huge Star Wars fan. He'd love it to pieces if you signed it as Anakin."
"Yeah," Jesse says. He seriously hopes it didn't sound nearly as pornographic as it probably did. "No…no, problem."
Jesse reaches out for the ballpoint with a shaky hand.
"Oh, dear, are you feeling alright?"
Mr. White's thumb presses flush against Jesse's slit with enough pressure that Jesse groans through his teeth. He might pass out.
Mr. White offers the woman a consoling sort of smile. "My son is hypoglycemic. Sometimes it gets the best of him."
"Sweetheart, I'm sorry. I promise I'll get out of your hair in a jiffy and let you continue your dinner," she says.
Jesse makes a noncommittal gesture with his chin and scrawls out the best signature he can manage. He wonders when the hell "jiffy" became such a popular fucking word as he slides the stuff back to her.
"Thank you so much. This was really kind of you, darling." She pats him on the cheek right as Mr. White digs three fingers in Jesse's taint.
And, oh shit older women love clapping him on the face or touching his shoulder and shit, but it's never happened during a handjob. Jesse feels all kinds of confused and messed up, doesn't want to be in this kind of three-way at all.
Thankfully her hand is gone in a motherfucking jiffy, but she's still standing there. "Before I leave, I wanted to let you know how adorable I think it is that you and your dad coordinated your costumes the way you did."
"Pardon?" Mr. White says.
"I mean, you're clearly Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi," she says, bright orange and beaming like a jack-o'-lantern that won't shut up. "It's just so refreshing to see a father and son spending time together on Halloween. I can't even tell you how rare wholesome family fun seems to be nowadays."
Mr. White nods with a grin. "Tell me about it."
His fingers slide and snap themselves around Jesse's hilt and Jesse takes a long slug of water.
"Have a good night, and Happy Halloween," she says.
"Same to you." Mr. White waves.
It's then that he stops all touching and pulls away with a sticky sound Jesse knows they both heard.
Mr. White gestures to Jesse's food and wipes his hand on his napkin. "Alright, clean your plate. I want to get out of here soon. My car's still only has two functioning tires, and I forgot to call Triple-A with the restaurant's landline, so I'd greatly appreciate it if I could stay at your house tonight, if you don't mind."
Jesse glares at Mr. White. "Are you… fucking…serious? I'm like so…I mean, like….You're just gonna…."
"Going to what?" Mr. White spears a glob of his eggs. "Come on, Jesse, I don't speak whatever fractured language you're doing. What are you asking me?"
Jesse swallows a good dose of disgust along with his syrup-heavy chunk of pancake 'cause Mr. White understands him perfectly and there ain't no negotiating his way out of blue balls with this guy. Shoveling in a couple forks of hash browns, Jesse notices Mr. White's smiling again.
"At least she knew who you were," he says.
"Yeah, I'm like super psyched."
Jesse chomps down on a huge bitch of an ice cube 'cause he'd heard on the Discovery Channel that there's a one in a million chance he'll hit a nerve ending that'll kill him instantly. It doesn't do anything to him aside from make him chillier. He's still alive, next to Mr. White in a Denny's on Halloween, sporting a lame Anakin costume and a violent boner. Shit.