Pinkman speaks up and Finch brings the bottle back up to his lips to drain the rest of it, because he will not cry in front of him. That particular gate has been closed, and everything down to the way he holds himself is the same way, closed off and guarded. He can hear the apology in Pinkman's voice, and it means something, but - this is routine. He's good at this. He's had to be.

He still won't meet Pinkman's gaze, but he nods. It really doesn't do any good to be a constant downer, he knows it, and he tries not to let that sort of thing out. But he's drained about half a pint of vodka on his own and he can't help it so much when he gets like this - things sneak past his filter. Deep breath. You're fine. You will be fine.

"I know," Jesse says, kneading at his pants leg. "We'll make it. Sorry. I'm being a shit." It's not so much self-deprecation as it is just insulting himself, at least. "We'll figure it out. The other shit didn't last long. S'fine."

But he's still not going to sleep. "Getting predictable, they are."