The small house was filled with the intoxicating aroma of pancake batter, which was sizzling on the stove in front of the tall, shaggy-haired young man. Flynn rubbed his hand over his face in exhaustion, feeling the bristle of his five-o-clock shadow on his hardened palms. It was Sunday: a day off for the man and one he usually began with a home-cooked breakfast. The sweet smell of batter and fresh berries had nearly led him to forget his houseguest, who he'd assumed was still fast asleep in the small spare bedroom.

Not sure what there is to say, he thought as he flipped the pancake over the stove. After years of crafting the perfect script to follow should he ever meet Jesse Pinkman, Flynn was surprisingly lost for words. He shook his head at his troubling situation and watched attentively as the soft, delicate batter developed a toughened exterior over the heat of the pan. He used the spatula to scrape the fluffy disks from the metal, stacking them on a plate and placing them on the table. Now, he waits.

The floor from down the hall began to creak, and the thin man stepped from the bedroom hesitantly. Flynn tried to relax his face so as not to scare Jesse back into the room. All of his pent up aggression towards Pinkman had suddenly been challenged by how perceptibly fragile the man was. The man at the table set out two plates, trying to seem as welcoming as he could be under the circumstances. Jesse continued his wary steps until he eventually reached the table, and he sat in the seat across the officer.

"Eat something, Jesse," Flynn insisted, noticing that the scrawny guy across the table had made no attempt to claim the food in front of him. The young man reminded Flynn of his mother in his mannerisms; he seemed so helpless yet so apathetic towards his own wellbeing. When Pinkman hadn't moved, the dark-haired man reached across the table and forked a few pancakes onto his plate for him. With shaking fingers, Jesse picked up his fork and gradually began to eat. Flynn tried to diminish the feeling of pity that grew from the sight of the withered young man, but Jesse's unconcealed vulnerability and disregard for his own life was not helping things. Out of nowhere, Pinkman stopped nibbling at his food and stared Flynn directly in the eyes with newfound confidence.

"Look man," he started bluntly, his gaze unwavering, "If you're going to yell at me, do it already. If you're going to waste me, just get it over with. Don't sit here and pretend to be 'Mr. Nice Guy' when you have some ulterior motive. That's the kind of shit your dad would do, and right now that's too much for me to deal with." Flynn was offended by the comparison, but he had finally found his words.

"Why did you two do those horrible things?" Flynn questioned, not tiptoeing anymore. He analyzed the guy in front of him and could not picture in his wildest imagination that the scared kid could've done what he'd supposedly done. Jesse was Flynn's age when he'd experienced all of that devastation, while the younger man couldn't even come to terms with the fact that he might have to kill one day in the line of duty. Jesse was smiling, though, glad that Flynn had finally gotten to the point.

"When I started out, it was the money," Jesse admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, "Of course it was for the money. I was twenty-four, I had no skills; your dad made me believe that even more. But he wanted me, and to this day I don't know why." Jesse looked onto his plate with sad blue eyes and continued. "Nobody ever wanted my help, you know, besides people who wanted to buy some weed off of me. Nobody actually even wanted me around. Honestly, it was a tough offer to refuse." Flynn looked on at Jesse, sympathy growing in his chest again despite himself.

"You did all of that because someone wanted your help?" Flynn asked incredulously.

"No, man, that was only part of it," Jesse insisted, rubbing his face. Flynn sighed, ignoring his breakfast and wondering what other influences were involved in turning the skinny emotional wreck before him into the supposed killer that was wanted by the police.

"What other parts were there?" Flynn demanded, losing his cool for a brief moment before he recollected himself. Jesse rubbed his face again in frustration, as if trying to recall.

"Desperation?" he replied, as if unsure, "I cooked with Mr. White because I had nowhere left to go. I did all the bad things I did so I could keep cooking with Mr. White. And hell, don't get me wrong, I tried to back out like, a million times. But somehow, every single time, no matter how many times it bit me in the ass, that bastard could convince me to join back up again." He unwittingly drove his fork into his plate, again trying to hold back tears. Flynn looked down at his own plate, watching his pancakes slowly disintegrate under the syrup.

"Yeah, he was always good at that," Flynn admitted. He had vague memories of it from when he was really young; even then, his father had used his unrivaled powers of manipulation against him. Walter White could never have been held accountable for what he did to people, for in his words there was no real evidence that he meant any harm. It had taken Flynn seventeen years to even realize that his father possessed the trait, and it seemed that it took Jesse a while to figure it out as well. By the time Heisenberg's true nature was revealed, it was already too late for both of them.

"Officer White," Jesse began, and the pain washed from his face and left an expression of the utmost sincerity, "Flynn. I want you to know how extremely sorry I am. For everything your family has been through: you and Mrs. White and your sister and Mrs. Schrader- oh god, I'm especially sorry about what happened to Hank. I know that sorry doesn't even begin to cut it. It's just, I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"Jesse," Flynn gulped, emotionally crushed by the extent of the young man's guilt, "I don't blame you for all those things." Jesse peered up from the table, looking as though a light had just returned to his darkened soul. The man was no longer the one to blame for the son of Heisenberg. Flynn finally understood that a cancer had torn their family apart: the same disease that had caused Jesse's misery and so many deaths.

That cancer was Walter White.