"And my - kid," Samuel says, almost mockingly. "Should know how to perform a simple task without my asking."

Simple as that. He reaches into the fridge and pulls out an ice tray, clinking a few cubes into a small glass. Silent for a moment, Samuel looks for a bottle of whiskey that isn't empty, and once he's found one, he pours it. On the ground, Finch brushes the crushed glass into his palm and speaks up, quietly. "S'not - just the glass," Jesse says, not looking up as he moves to put more glass in the trash. "S'a long running thing."

Samuel sniffs in amusement from where he's standing, taking a sip from his glass. "You're a stranger in my home," He tells Pinkman. "You have no idea as to how this household is run, nor about how I choose to discipline my children. You take his 'side', but you haven't seen his vast background of fuck-ups."

Across the room, Jesse looks down at his feet. His eyes burn, and he rubs at his nose, and Samuel sighs heavily, taking another sip.

"You had better not start crying again," He says, and Jesse is trying his very hardest, but with how scared he is, how difficult it is to hear the disappointment, and how he can feel that edge in his chest - he can't help it much. Samuel stares over at him, irritated, now. "Who is it that cries again, Jesse?"

Jesse pauses, gaze flickering to Pinkman briefly, and then he mumbles the answer. Samuel barks sharply, "Speak up," and Jesse repeats, louder, rubbing at his face, smearing a bit of blood on his cheek: "Girls and f-- faggots, sir."

"And we don't want to be like them, do we?"

"... No sir."