Plateau

The TV flashed colors and blared sounds that meant nothing to Jesse, who stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the black box without seeing. With one finger he tapped on the remote, flipping past some man as he shouted some advertisement loud enough to make Jesse's head throb harder. Besides that short motion, his body had not moved in a couple of hours, much less from where it slouched in the chair. At least, not since he'd finally swept up all the glass and slept off the rest of the crystal. As if that wasn't enough, some alarm had rattled furiously while the sun was still climbing up, and while his mind whirled blurrily he had hurled the clock at the wall. The shards scattered across the floor of his bedroom as he swore at the realization of what he had just done, and now, hours later, he still hadn't swept them away. Having cleaned up the last of the pieces of the lamp that Mr. White broke, Jesse didn't feel like moving again anytime soon.

The sound of a fist on wood, too far away to have come from the television, jolted him out of another attempt to rest. His hair stood on end and he thought to himself that no way in hell was he gonna let Mr. White in again, not after what had just happened. The familiar voice shouted muffled commands through the door, demanding that Jesse let him in, and Jesse squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that he would sleep again, for days this time, and Mr. White would fuck off.

The pounding increased, insisting on an answer now, and Jesse leapt to his feet so quickly that his vision swam with darkness for a couple of seconds. Even so, he stumbled forward to the front door, heart thumping in his chest like it had seconds after he had snorted up that meth the night before. This was no artificial high, though. He tried to swallow the fear but it gathered like a lump in his throat when he flung open the door and faced Mr. White, who was breathing normally and his eyes were clear, so maybe he was actually seeing instead of just wandering around in a daze. "Yo, what the hell do you want?" As Walt stepped forward to enter the apartment, Jesse held up both his hands. "Are you still drunk or high or whatever? 'Cause I ain't dealing with that shit again."

Rolling his eyes, Walt brushed past Jesse and said, "No, no, of course not. It's been three days since I…was last here. I've had some time to think."

"Uh huh. 'Last here.' Wait a minute, three days?" Jesse lost his sarcastic tone to an incredulous one. As he worked his mouth to come up with a response, he followed Walt to where he stood in the living room, surveying the television where it droned on and the magazines and unwashed clothing strewn around on the floor. "I've been here for three days?"

"You haven't left?" Even as he asked, Walt sounded bored, and Jesse knew that Walt's mind was far from the question. Instead, he was kneeling on the floor and lifting up the magazines, the clothes, even sliding his hand into the cushions of the chairs.

Watching the search, Jesse narrowed his eyes. "Um, any reason you're all up in my stuff?"

"I'm just…." Pausing, Walt squinted through the space in the cushion and sighed. "Just looking for my glasses."

"So if it's been three days, how come you didn't come get 'em earlier? Seems like somethin' you'd kinda need, huh?"

"What does it matter to you?"

Jesse's lips parted in shock and, for the second time, Walt left him fumbling for words. "You ever gonna give me some explanation for last night, or—or three days ago, or whenever the hell you came over here and snorted up my stash? And like, what the fuck was up with you grabbing on me?"

After that, Walt actually looked up at Jesse. While Walt expected the rough language, he blinked in surprise now, finally understanding that he wouldn't be able to blow off Jesse with a half-baked excuse this time. "What are you talking about?"

Spreading out his arms incredulously, Jesse laughed in disbelief. "Do you, like, remember anything? Or did the crystal screw you over that bad?" Jesse wondered if the bastard had actually forgotten everything that had happened, like he had promised they both would, except it wasn't really something that Jesse thought anyone could wipe from their memory. If it was possible, he would have done it already and he'd be as clueless as Mr. White.

But now Walt was glancing down, unable to meet Jesse's glare. "I…was hoping that was some kind of dream, or a—a hallucination, maybe brought on by the meth. Apparently not."

"When I woke up, my ass hurt like somebody shoved a jackhammer in it. So yeah, I'm pretty sure that it wasn't a dream, yo." Just looking at Mr. White made his stomach twist up against his chest, so Jesse turned around and stalked across the floor, pacing aimlessly.

"I can't apologize enough for my behavior, Jesse. I was…not thinking clearly." Though Jesse snorted at that, loud enough for Mr. White to hear, he continued anyway. "It was inexcusable, and I don't expect you to forgive me. But try to understand—you know how it feels to lose someone you love—imagine if they left you because they simply couldn't stand the sight of you any longer."

Yeah, that sucked, Jesse admitted to himself. It sucked hard, and he knew that Mr. White had done all that wheeling and dealing for the sake of his family only to watch it all go to shit. But Jesse wasn't about to muster up a whole lot of pity. I can't stand the sight of you either, bitch. The retort tugged at his mind, begging to be hurled at Mr. White, but the dark circles under his eyes stuck out more than usual and his lip quivered so slightly that Jesse almost didn't notice and then Mr. White coughed into a balled fist and dammit, Jesse couldn't force the words out even though he'd opened his mouth to speak them. So instead he jammed his hands into his pockets as he walked back and forth and said, "Your glasses are in the bedroom." To emphasize it, or maybe clarify it in case Mr. White didn't understand, he jerked his head in that direction.

"Right," little more than a mumble as Mr. White shuffled off towards the bedroom.

Collapsing into a chair, Jesse shouted, "Yo, watch out for the glass."

At that moment, Walt cried out with a strangled moan, and Jesse froze at the sound, echoing in his ears from three days prior. Then, shuddering into awareness, he leapt to his feet and ran to the bedroom. "Holy shit, are you okay?"

"Fine, I'm fine." Even as Walt waved Jesse away, he hissed through gritted teeth and clutched his foot.

With a nervous chuckle, Jesse said, "I did the same thing the other day, man. Hurts like hell, yeah?"

The older man reached down and ran his finger over the sole of his foot and through the warm liquid that swelled up, and then grunted. "Good, the glass isn't still there."

Jesse nodded and wondered what he was supposed to say. "So uh, you gonna be okay?"

"I told you, it's fine." Already Walt was standing up as if about to leave, and then sat promptly back down on the bed, and Jesse figured that Walt had just remembered that he still didn't have his glasses.

"No, I mean like, you came over here barefoot." Walt frowned down at his feet, apparently realizing this for the first time. Something was definitely not right up there, Jesse knew. "You still usin'?" Jesse couldn't think of anything else Mr. White could have been doing for the past three days, if he hadn't left his house either. Yeah, he had to sleep the rest of it off and then probably deal with the shittiest hangover of his life, but that could only take a day at most.

As Walt finally spotted his glasses on the floor, he leaned over and lifted them up by the bent nosepiece with one trembling finger. "No, of course not."

The condescending tone grated on Jesse's nerves; was he supposed to expect that everything had returned to normal? "So we gonna keep dealing, or what?"

"I, uh," Walt sighed, "I don't know. I just don't know." Towards the end of the sentence, he drifted into quiet hesitation as he started to head towards the door. Passing through the entrance to the bedroom, he brushed past Jesse's left arm, which snaked back as if burned. Inwardly Jesse cursed as Walt turned around, obviously aware of the movement. "Look, I—" As he walked forward, Jesse stepped back. "You have my word that nothing like the other night will ever happen again."

"Sure, whatever you say. Just—get out."

Grimacing, Walt headed for the door, and as Jesse slammed it behind him, he wondered when he would hear from the great Heisenberg again. After all, it would only be a matter of days before he was calling with some kind of new deal or demand to cook, and Jesse had no idea what he was gonna say then, because his skin crawled at just the sight of Mr. White now, but they were still a team, right? Since Mr. White had insisted so forcefully that Jesse was all he had left now, it wasn't like the man had any other choice but to keep coming back. And for a second there, Jesse smirked at the knowledge that Mr. White was apologizing for his stupid mistakes now, but the smile slipped a second later because really, Jesse kind of wanted the old Mr. White again. The badass drug kingpin, not some weepy addict or whatever the hell he was now. If the others saw him like this…no one would ever take him seriously again. And he better have fucking meant it when he said Jesse wouldn't see a repeat of the other night.

By the end of the following week, Jesse realized that Walt had yet to call, as he sighed and stared at the cell phone where his fingers curled around it in the palm of his hand. Maybe Mr. White claimed that he was no longer using, but he used to say that he'd never use it at all, too. Questions and fears crept into Jesse's mind and he asked himself, would Mr. White do it? Not just the meth, but…. When a man lost everything, he did things that he normally wouldn't do, Jesse knew more than anyone from the time he went to that crack house. But Mr. White wasn't a "lay around in a crack house" type of a guy so much as a "take action" one, and just considering that drove Jesse to flip open the phone and click down to Walt's number. The home one, because Jesse supposed it didn't matter which he called anymore.

The phone rang once, twice, three times, aaaand…voicemail. Redial? No luck there either. Dammit, now he had to go over there.

Jesse slammed the door to both the apartment and his car with extra force, and sped away, impatiently cranking up the radio at a red light. A gray-haired woman in the car next to Jesse glared at him as they waited, and he grinned, tapping his fingers against the wheel to the beat. When he rolled into Walt's driveway, Jesse saw that the car was still there, and he narrowed his eyes. If Walt hadn't left but he wasn't answering the phone, even when Jesse called twice, something was definitely up.

The knob turned and Jesse let himself in. Mr. White would never forget to lock the door, he knew how to be careful more than anyone. When Jesse entered he found the house in a state of disrepair not unlike his apartment, dirty dishes piled up in the sink or lying out by the TV. No sign of Walt, though, so Jesse poked his head into rooms that he'd never seen before, like the kids', until he found Walt lying face-up on his bed, eyes closed, on top of the blankets. Jesse went up and shook him until he opened his eyes.

In a voice hoarse from disuse, Walt said, "Jesse? What are you doing here?"

"You're only the 'great and powerful' Heisenberg. Let's go cook some shit."

Sitting up, Walt blinked and reached for the glasses on the nightstand. They were still twisted, but bent a little to fit on his face, where the wrinkles stuck out more than usual. "What are you talking about?"

"Does crystal give you amnesia or something?" To make his point, Jesse exaggerated the movements of his mouth when he said, "We're drug dealers. But we can't deal any drugs if we don't make them."

When Walt looked away, Jesse lowered his head to catch his eyes, and Walt said, "Give me one good reason why any of that still matters."

"Well, uh…." To give himself a moment, Jesse licked his lips and thought as hard as he could. "Hey, isn't your kid in high school? Almost eighteen or something?"

"Walter Jr.? Yes, yes. But what does that—"

"So he'll be, like, coming back to visit pretty soon. What's that bitch gonna do, tell him not to? And you don't wanna be here like this when he does."

At the absurdity of what Jesse's statement implied, the corner of Walt's mouth twitched in a smile. "But I do want him to find me cooking methamphetamine."

"Better than finding you high, am I right or am I right? So off your ass and come cook."

Walt dragged his legs to the edge of the bed and stood to his feet, but stopped and narrowed his eyes at Jesse. He expected that Walt was about to reply, but when he didn't, Jesse's wandered around the room, exploring the crevice where the wall met the floor. The chair beside him became prime territory for tapping his fingers as he waited. Finally Walt said, "Jesse—after what I did to you, why—"

"We have to cook, Mr. White." Without waiting to see if Walt followed him, Jesse turned around and trudged out of the bedroom to the front door, where he turned then to make sure Walt was there. Flipped the keys around, Jesse gripped them in his palm and led Walt back to his car.