Chap 29

"If you're not really embarrassed, it's not True Art." -Saul Goodman, reformed Racketeer.

Walter White tried to never think of Jesse Pinkman again. His clan, his because he had the power to destroy them (he who can destroy a thing, owns a thing), was right. Pinkman was a treacherous, obstinate, confused, but cunning rat who kept turning up in his way over and over. He never should have taken him under his wing. His laughably naïve thinking that any young student could be taught given enough patience and attentive care sickened him now. Was he ever so stupid, so white bread, that he believed all that?

He looked around the room for the hundredth time. Some anxiety about Pinkman was plaguing him. He expected him to pop up in the room like a specter, a shadow thing waiting in the corner. Hadn't he taken care of that pest, though, taken very good care of that problem? He had heard it all happening just outside his room that early morning. So where was he now? Why did he feel like he was waiting for him?

That Special Agent, the one with the ten dollar haircut and insane smile, triggered it all again.

"So, White, your Blue is turning out to be such a wonderful product. It's been killing a number of people for some time now, we think, though at first who could tell what myriad of things can kill a junkie and who would care? Yet, a few, fairly important German execs turned up bloody and blue, and very dead, in some posh bathrooms of very expensive suites recently. It's been pretty hush hush about it over there, really embarrassing stuff, I gather. You know, their stoic front and all that. I think one wealthy exec was in a ball gag and diapers and it was rather messy when blue started spewing out of his nose and other places. It's hard to just a hundred percent cover up those sorts of things. I'm way disappointed it's not on the Internet. And boy are those Germans PO'ed at you over it all. In a way, you're lucky we got to you first, could you imagine what some of those very rich and powerful men would have done to you if they found you first? And, you know, them Germs have quite a rep to live up to." He winked his crazy grin at him. "I have some thoughts myself, except that we need you right now."

My Blue? My Blue? Are they so sure it was mine?

In his mind's eye, and in his disturbing dreams of late, Pinkman was slouching in front of him. His eyes were downcast, he seemed to be shifting his weight from foot to foot, agitated, unable to hold completely still. Jesse had wanted to hide, to be anywhere out of that gaze, His gaze, even if it meant a beating, but the weights and limits of his chains kept his undernourished body there. He could have never gotten far, and he didn't want to add to his own humiliation. Jesse wanted to stand up before Walter, a last time as was the probable case, but his shattered will made him cower. Why did he have to see me like this? Tears brimmed in Jesse's eyes at his shame. You did this, but I never wanted you to see it.

In his limitless, unfiltered dreaming, White's raw emotions were the same as the day he saw him. His subconscious did not let pride or fear mar his memories and feelings. Before, he had planned that they would end it together, all treachery paid for and forgiven. He was so happy about that thought that he hummed as he prepared his ginormous gun in the desert, even he laughed at the size and power of it. Wasn't betrayal, small and large, always the way it was with parents and children? Wasn't death always the balance to all ledgers? Neither he nor Jesse would be alone when it happened. He did feel guilt later about that, in the desert, that with Jack the bullet would be anticipated and the surroundings sparse. It wouldn't be easy as he had wanted, and when the crew dragged him away (White was so angry, dragged him away like Hank though not as lifeless…), it had to be done. Pinkman had to pay for his innocent brother-in-law, he had to pay for getting in the way, he had to pay for everything. Or was it everyone?

Even then his emotions were so jumbled that all he could do was nod.

No, liar, you spit Jane in his face. Don't you remember his look, and when he looked to you out the back window? You were so satisfied. Poison. You were poison that hour.

It was done. I couldn't take it back.

Toxin. Worse than nightshade. Worst than lily of the valley. Do you really deserve to be around your children? Aren't you afraid to be around your children?

Hey, Brainiac. You cold, cold, logical soul. One day, your heart is going to hand you your head.

One day? Every day?

So how could he murder this tortured, broken, much too young man before him? What have they done? It was supposed to be clean, swift, not this. Animals. No, much worse. That was the deal they had broken. I can never make this up to you, Jesse. They had disobeyed Heisenberg. I can never bring you back to what you were.

At least his wits didn't desert him in his shock. He swallowed his horror down for a few more, sweet seconds until his loud, ear shattering retort.

It worked. The damn thing worked.

Jesse was squirming underneath him. He still seemed to be trying to get away from him, further panicked and confused by the chaos. A long caged animal, running at any sign of escape, even if it was into fire. He was not prepared, like White, and could not be expected to understand, especially not in his condition.

Walter raised himself slightly to reposition himself, trying to cover Jesse's vulnerable head and chest. His upraised arms around Jesse's head weren't enough, not with the burning, laser-like bullets that were bouncing around them. He could feel their heat as they tore past. That's when that one got him, the one with Jesse's name on it, aimed almost straight for Pinkman's heart. That caliber and speed would have sliced the frantically beating organ in two.

Jesse looked at the bullet wound as he faced him, gun in hand. Was that for me? Was this supposed to be my day?

If you had just kept moving, son, gone to Alaska or New Zealand or whatever else fantasy you had. If you had just left it alone. You didn't understand.

We played with the odds, Jesse, and we… lost.

White grumbled to himself, navigating his own convoluted thoughts.

But what else did you play with, Captain Cook? More than chili peppers this time? Did you take it upon yourself to play with my formula?

Pinkman, always getting in the way. Stubborn, hard headed, confusing.

Pinkman, I'm waiting for you.

"~~~~~"

Maybe it's not him, it's not him, a lot of people wear black jackets, it's some other, poor, thinner man, yes, thinner, good, that died out here.

Marie had gone pretty far down in her digging, widening the hole so she could stand in it, but the body was doing odd things. The arm didn't seem quite attached to anything, or the thin membrane of tissue still connecting it had unraveled as she moved the dry sands around, some wet by tears.

Yes, it's not him, I'm sure of it, those fingers are much too long and thin to be his.

The elbow bent, and as the decayed arm fell over, the watch she gave him so long ago slipped off the mummified wrist.

[A/N: Still working on it, more soon, promise. :) ]