kore_logs | If the dam breaks open many years too soon

Mostly harmless. Though when Finch takes the controller she immediately jumps up - English clicks over to Spanish, very loud Spanish, sounds like a whole lot of insults and not much else as she points violently at Finch. She shakes her head to herself, swearing the whole way as she snatches a tiny blue dress off the floor and marches out of the room on unsteady five inch heels.

The door slams with gusto and Jesse finally acknowledges that there's even a world outside of his bed for just a second, waves an incredibly uncoordinated hand at the air - it hangs there for a moment too long, but he doesn't open his eyes. "Keep it down," he tries to say, but all that comes out is that one word, that 'keep', before his hand finally flops back onto the bed.

Edited 2013-06-22 02:01 (UTC)

Ooh, Pinkman, you are in trouble. Jesse scowls and yells right back at the woman until she's gone because he's a mature grown-up - it's not Spanish but it's probably just as foul. When she's gone, Jesse slams the door behind her and throws the controller on the floor, moving to the bed to grab at Pinkman's arm, the one he'd waved around.

"Ay. Ay," Jesse snaps angrily, reaching across to yank the belt away, carefully take the needle out and put it on the bedside table. "Ay, motherfucker, wake up." He's so furious, because this is such bullshit. Pinkman's on fucking - heroin, and Finch isn't having it. He will not watch Pinkman go down this path, not after he's been down it himself.

"Jesse! Wake up." Finch says loudly, slapping at Pinkan's face.

"Party's," Jesse starts to reply, rolls his head to the side and whines when Finch starts to take the belt, removes the needle. "Party's downstairs," he finishes, and all his words slur together into one big mess, his fingers twitch idly at the ends of his arms. His eyes are shut lazily until Finch slaps him, and then they're open wide.

He immediately, fitfully, starts to struggle - he kicks out at Finch's legs with the heels of bare feet, and his arms draw up tight into him, hands balled into white-knuckled fists as he thrashes a bit more. "No, no, no," he argues furiously, squeezing his eyes shut tight again and finally stops kicking at Finch like a child. His arms are still drawn up tight, and his breath shudders as he sinks back into the bed again.

No, the party is here, Finch wants to say, but it sounds cheesy as fuck even to his own ears. Helpfully, that's about the point where Pinkman starts to try and whack at him, to which Finch is not going to put up with either. Cussing nastily, Finch attempts to pin Pinkman down to make sure he doesn't get kicked in the stomach.

"Knock it off, fucking - cockfaced son of a bitch, I --" But what that sentence is going to end with never comes out, because Pinkman finally settles down and Finch lets out the breath he'd been planning to use on words in one large whoosh. "Quit - fighting me. C'mon, you gotta sober up."

Jesse knows that's not how it works, but he doesn't care. Look, he's not going to leave Pinkman here, in this dirty as fuck house with needles and addicts all over. He'll drag him out if he has to. They're going to go back to Finch's place, he means it.

He'll even try to get Pinkman's arm around his shoulders, here.

Jesse's anything but compliant. He keeps jerking his arm away, stubbornly holding both of them locked to his chest and even trying to roll away from Finch's help. 'No,' keeps coming out of his mouth, 'no, no, no'; he seems very keen on staying in his own bed and reveling in his current state.

"Day off," he mumbles with a scrunched face and his toes curl angrily as he tries to pull up into a ball on the bed. It's about that time that Finch can finally pry his arm away from his body and get his shoulder up underneath him. "Mr White, it's my day off." He's all dead weight when he starts to lift off the bed, and he grapples with Finch again, fist going into his shirt and shaking it angrily as he tries to pull off of him.

"Good here," he grinds out stubbornly, trying to squirm away. "I'm stayin' here!"

Heroin. He told himself he'd never go back to the stuff and yet here he is, and also there he is back in Kore with a folded brown paper stuck up inside his mattress where nobody's going to find it. But here and now it's a dreamscape, it's just a dream, he can do what the fuck he wants and damn the consequences.

To his credit, Finch doesn't stop trying. Pinkman tries even harder to get out of his grasp, and he's so far gone that he thinks Jesse is that - Mr. White dude, someone Pinkman has mentioned once or twice. From the context clues Jesse's getting, this has to have happened before. But Finch isn't looking for a repeat performance, because god dammit, Pinkman is not going to kill himself with this shit.

Maybe he's not aware of it, but the bleed of emotions has Finch's worry and slight fright aired out in the room, mixing harshly with Pinkman's mellowed out quiet. It's like looking in a mirror. Jesse heaves, and pulls Pinkman off the bed, dumping him on the floor.

"Get up!" Finch near-yells, because yeah, that's helping. "We're going to my place and you're drying the fuck out, I swear to fucking god." He'll drag you by your ankles if he has to. "I don't care if it's your day off, heroin, I'll kick your goddamn ass. Get up, I ain't Mr. White, I'm worse."

Jesse stumbles a step or two before his legs give out and he lands hard, just sits on the floor in defeat with a dejected 'ow' and plops his hands into his lap. "Don't be mad," he sighs passively and sprawls out on the floor, his hands languidly opening and closing out by his sides for a moment. He doesn't want to go anywhere, he certainly doesn't want to go to someone's place to dry out. He just wants to sit here and rot for a while.

The music keeps pounding from downstairs, some rap song or another, and there's the distinct sound of glass breaking.

Not Mr. White. It's then that Jesse's eyes crack open again and he frowns up at Finch, like he has to really think for a moment about who he is and what he's doing here. Briefly, he smiles, something wide and full of recognition. "Finchy-boy," he grinds out as he struggles to sit up again, but his expression promptly falls again, as does he, and he blinks unevenly up at Finch, unfocused, his eyes glassy and a bit deadened. "Did you come- to save me?"

Augh. It's the smile that hurts the most, and Finch bites his lip sharply, gripping at his own shirt tightly. Don't lighten up. Keep drilling at him until he gets that he's not going to do this anymore, that fuck yeah,, he's going to save him, even if Pinkman doesn't want it.

Jesse crouches down in front of Pinkman, taking his chin in hand so that Pinkman will look at him directly. It's gentle but firm, because he means this. As angry as he is that Pinkman's on heroin, as scared as he is because he knows what it does to you, how close to home this whole thing hits, he is still here and he still gives a damn.

"Yeah. I did," Jesse tells him quietly, solemnly. "You know what? I don't care how fucking cheesy it is, I'm here t'save you from yourself. So stand up. C'mon. Help me out here." Pinkman doesn't have to do much, just help a little.

Edited 2013-06-22 07:16 (UTC)

He jerks his head initially, trying to get it safely away from Finch's grasp (but he insists), because when he does have to concede and he does look up at Finch, his gaze is tensed and very vulnerable. His hands curl into fists again and he sloppily swings his arms up and gets them all tangled around Finch's own, trying to push him away. But it doesn't last long, and his arms hang there hooked over Finch's for a bit.

His expression flickers into another smile, but this one's all lopsided, turns up one corner in a self-deprecating kind of way. "There's nothin' left to save," he replies, and his voice croaks a little. His face takes a slow switch back to petulant stubbornness and he pushes angrily at Finch again, shoves the flats of his palms up into his chest and tries to get him gone. Why don't you just fucking leave like everybody else?

But Finch doesn't budge and he certainly doesn't leave, and so Jesse's efforts falter and his hands just grip tightly into Finch's shirt. He uses him to pull himself up a bit and just hangs there for a while, like a child might cling to a parent. There's a new fear that joins the atmosphere with Finch's own, Jesse's, sudden and palpable and he doesn't really know why. Maybe it's the drugs or maybe it's the possibility of Finch giving up on him here, or maybe it's just that he's really starting to believe that he might be right.

His chest tightens up and twists awfully when Pinkman answers him. Nothing left. That's what Finch used to think too, and the similarity makes him hurt. It's all for Pinkman, though - Finch didn't know what to say to himself, let alone someone else. But he's going to try. He'll start with refusing to let Pinkman push him away, holding tighter whenever Pinkman shoves at him.

It's when Pinkman starts to cling, when fear that isn't Jesse's own filters into the room, that Jesse slips his arm around Pinkman's waist and slowly helps him up, patiently. His anger has calmed down, and now it's just - worry. An attempt at reassurance. Look, things might be shit, but Finch isn't going to leave him here by himself. He can at least do that. A little hesitantly, Finch rests his head against Pinkman's just for a second, hugging him one-armed, and then he shifts and supports most of Pinkman's weight with his body.

"I don't believe that," Finch tells him, starting them slowly on their way out of the bedroom. "I really don't. Plenty to save. Y'know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna carry you until you can do it yourself, yeah? And I ain't leaving after that, neither, I'll still be there, but you're gonna be able to walk without a crutch. You're gonna be alright, Pinkman."

Like he said. He's got you.

It's a difficult haul. Even when Jesse's skinny as he is - seems to have even lost weight at this point in his life, scrawny and strung out - he's entirely dead weight, uncoordinated and tripping constantly over his own feet as they slide across the floor.

He keeps intermittently switching between fighting and compliance, jerking himself away and back more than once, his legs keep giving out beneath him, and there's one point where he even manages to wriggle free, just sits down again in the middle of the hall and huffs his breath like he's just run a marathon. "You don't know that," he argues belatedly with a shake in his voice, repeats it a few more times, "you don't know that, you don't know that!" He sits there stubbornly for a while before he lets Finch help him back up again.

"He deserved better," he mumbles tiredly as his arm hooks back around Finch's neck, and he blinks a few times to try to steady his vision, head lolling back. "Gale, he deserved better."

Eventually they make it down the stairs and back to the living room, where the music's cut out. Static is the only noise that fills the room, buzzing lowly, and it seems that every occupant therein is standing scattered throughout the place, every face trained in on the two of them.

Difficult, but if anything, Finch is a stubborn son of a bitch. Pinkman is smaller in size - same height, but still smaller and half-incoherent, which means if Finch has to, he can drag the guy along. Until he manages to wriggle free, of course, but Jesse doesn't go anywhere, he just huffs out a noise and drops right down next to him, waiting until Pinkman deems it fit for him to move again.

All he says is "Yeah, I do know that," in response, each time Pinkman tells him no.

And then they're out in the living room, and a sort of chill runs down his spine. The static, the fact that all these uncanny valley faces are looking back at him? That scares the hell out of him, but he firmly ignores it. What are they gonna do? If they try anything, Finch can take them, they're a bunch of wasted junkies with no strength. Finch is sober. Finch can do this.

He'll fucking carry Pinkman out if he has to. Gripping at Pinkman's belt and making sure that his legs down slide back out from under him, Finch wades through the crowd of faces. "I dunno who Gale is, Jesse," Finch says gently, because he doesn't want to push the issue but he doesn't want to shut Pinkman down, either. "We're almost there, y'scrawny bitch, you're good."

Jesse doesn't seem too worried about the people inside, but then again, he can barely even see straight. The hand holding him up is probably a good thing; he keeps dipping down like he might fall. His feet are bare as he maneuvers the room, doesn't really have a sense of mind to work his way around all of the shit on the floor. He trips over some shoes, steps on some broken glass and whines like he's about to give up again.

The bodies in the room easily part to let them through, faces pointed towards them the whole time. Until they get to the door.

It's only then that the lot of them surge forward, and suddenly there's hands. They're pushing Finch away, they're grabbing at Jesse's arms and his legs and someone even grasps at his head, trying to pull him back into the room. They're all furious, crowding around the two of them, some of them even trying to climb over each other to get in on the action. Someone's hands dig into the back of Finch's shirt, jerking him sharply backwards, trying to get him away from Jesse.

That's their king, Finch. You can't just take away their king.

Edited 2013-06-22 09:02 (UTC)

For whatever reason, he's not expecting the lunging. He should be, because why else would they watch? But he's not and they grab at Pinkman and pull, yank him out of Jesse's grasp. They get ahold of Finch, tear him back too, but Jesse doesn't care. He's fucking determined and he's strong, because maybe this isn't real but he has experience. These drugged out subjects are the bottom of the dream pool - Jesse found a nightmare itself and won, he won't let these fucks do this.

Not that he recognizes this is a dream, per se, but the thought is still there. They've gotten this far and all he needs to do is figure out how to get them out.

Finch throws his elbow back into the nose of the fucker grabbing at him, and then he's launching himself, throwing himself into the frenzied mess of bodies grabbing and pulling Pinkman down. "Get off, let him go!" Finch bellows, throwing punches, kicking, biting - whatever he has to do to get them to let go. But it's not enough, and they're overwhelming - stronger than he realized. They're swarming over Pinkman like fucking ants, and it scares the fuck out of Finch. He needs help, he needs something else, he can't get close.

Until inexplicably, there's a fucking howl from upstairs. And then suddenly the pack of strung out junkies starts to shriek and panic.

Finch doesn't get a good look because he's too busy throwing himself back in to pick Pinkman the fuck up - it's chaos, suddenly, because there's something growling viciously and snapping at the heels of the grabbers. This, understandably, does not go over well with them, but Jesse's not taking the moment to thank anything yet - he manages to throw Pinkman over his shoulder somehow and stumble towards the door, out of the crowd of chaos, and as he yanks the door open, he swears he sees what looks like flash of brown fur and teeth ripping through one of the junkies --

-- and then they're out on the lawn, and Finch takes about five steps and collapses, dropping both himself and Pinkman on the grass. The door slams behind them.

Inside, it's still chaos. There's snarling, snapping, the people inside keep screaming and a few panicked ones throw themselves against the door but they can't seem to get out of the house.

Outside, Jesse rolls over until he's face first into the grass; his legs shift, his feet contract, his hand smooths over the ground and curls in tight. His head throbs and the soles of his feet are bleeding but he just tucks his face into the lawn and- laughs. It grows from a chuckle and then into fucking hysterics, his arms tucking over his head as tears spring into his eyes and he laughs and he laughs until he just turns over onto his back, his hands clamped tightly over his face.

His shoulders still shake, his chest heaves. He's not laughing anymore.

"You got me out," he says miserably, shudders, and there's a lot of weight to it, even if his voice is still high and thick and it tangles all up in itself. Another scream pierces the air from inside, there's some crashes and some yelling and then it all goes silent except for one last howl. Victory, he supposes. He hiccups and it almost sounds like he's going to start laughing again, but he just keeps his hands tight over his face, protectively.

It's a very familiar sort of laugh. Finch knows it intimately, the hysterical sort of noise you make when you can't think of what else to do. The day before, when he'd gone to see Ghoul, he'd laughed like that. Watching it come out of someone else hurts like crazy, and Finch crawls to flop down next to Pinkman's side, ignoring everything around them in favor of reaching to hold Pinkman's sleeve carefully.

"I got you out," Finch agrees, looking up at the house. The howl distracts him, and he stares for a long moment at the now-quiet house until Pinkman hiccups. He turns his gaze back on Pinkman and tugs his sleeve a little. "Told you I was gonna. S'okay."

Whatever it was in the house, it felt - close. It felt like something that was his, and Finch has to wonder if he's going crazy. It looked like - but no, that would be impossible, and his mind resists the realization, angrily pushing him back down into the dream. Count your blessings, and take care of Pinkman. You're not done yet.

"C'mere. Lemme see your feet," Jesse says gently, pulling off his coat.

At first, Jesse's feet curl and pull away, contract into him, and he shakes his head and he says 'no' and he can't seem to move his hands from his face, just keeps mumbling vague protests into them for a while before he just- sighs, heavily.

Getting up is a process but he somehow manages it, though he does hold out his arms, childishly hoping Finch will take them and help him up. By the time he's sitting, he slumps over onto himself, his hands idly in his lap. His eyes are red and his face is still streaked with wet but he doesn't even bother to wipe any of it away; the expression on his face is flat, deadened by heroin. He looks completely defeated in that moment, but it doesn't stop him from carefully licking his lips and starting to pick at his feet with uncoordinated fingers.

There's a few pieces of glass embedded in the soles, one of them actually reasonably large, but it doesn't seem like he'll need stitches. It looks worse than it is. Jesse pulls one out a bit roughly, though to his credit he doesn't even flinch, and holds it up to the light, inspecting it closely and teetering slowly in his spot. "Where're we gonna go?"

It's really like handling an overgrown child. But it's alright, it's fine, because Jesse can be patient. He takes Pinkman's arms when he offers them out, helping Pinkman up into a sitting position. It's almost second nature to rub at Pinkman's back when he's up, flick at his ear gently, almost playfully. He's alright, he's getting there.

When Pinkman pulls the glass out, Jesse flinches - but he doesn't say anything, just carefully reaches to take it away and put it aside so Pinkman doesn't accidentally cut himself further.

"My place," Jesse says firmly as he sets his coat aside for a moment to get at Pinkman's feet. He thinks he might need to get tweezers for the more deeply embedded pieces, but he can get most of them with his fingers. He'll disinfect it to hell when they get somewhere safe, but he needs to make sure Pinkman can walk. "Gonna set you up there and you're gonna stay with me a while. Ay, lean on me if you need to, don't fall."

There's a little bit of blood on his fingers from his foot and he just rubs his fingers together for a moment, smears the bit of it further across the pads of his fingers before he speaks up.

"Not here?" Jesse asks quietly, sounds almost relieved, even though it's a question with an obvious answer. The house is trashed, it's a death trap - quite literally, right now, it's been transformed into a fucking tomb. He hates the place and yet it's the only place he could imagine himself being right now, and so when he looks up at Finch again, it's a little scared of whatever's going to happen next. He has absolutely no idea of what he's doing.

One of his hands rubs belatedly at his ear where Finch flicked at it, the heel of it pressing in and then remaining there, cupped over it. His other hand grabs at his wrist and he stays there curled into himself, looking down at his feet as Finch works away. He does flinch now, when the glass gets pulled out, his toes cringing with each piece, but he stays fairly compliant.

The sun is shining like nothing's wrong, the world carries on like it's just another day. A few cyclists go by without even paying them mind, and Jesse breathes very, very carefully, conscious of every inhale.

"Not here," Finch confirms, concentrated on the task at hand. At foot.

He works steadily, ignoring the rest of the world as he works at this, ignoring the vaguely motherly instincts he's having. Pinkman's not a child and Finch is pretty sure he'd have some objections to Finch hugging him and kissing the side of his head, so he absolutely doesn't do it. As much as he'd like to - Finch knows the things he finds comforting are not the same as everybody else's, even when said people are high. Instead, he finishes getting the most of the glass out of his feet, and then grabs his coat.

Riiiip goes the fabric, and Jesse carefully wraps Pinkman's feet up. When he's finished that, he looks at Pinkman, catches his gaze. "Alright, done. I got my car, s'close. Y'think you can work with me a few more minutes t'get there? I got hot water and food waiting for you at my place."

Jesse does meet Finch's gaze right back, but only briefly. His hands shift to smooth messily over his cheeks and his mouth and finally slide down to grip tightly at his neck as his head tilts back for him to look up at the sky, eyes squinted as he soaks it all in. "Ain't hungry," he offers Finch in a sigh, mumbled. On the contrary, he actually feels quite sick to his stomach after everything that's happened.

He doesn't want to leave, the drugs making him endlessly petulant. He'd rather just sit here in the grass and wait for a while, even though he doesn't really know what for. But he knows he has to, go. If not just for Finch. He knows he owes him that much after all of this.

And so despite everything, he starts to shift, wobbling unsteadily as he tries to climb to his feet - they ache, which doesn't help - with his hands still stubbornly, protectively, gripping at his neck, sliding around aimlessly as he goes. He's starting to feel clammy all over.

"When you are hungry, then," Finch amends, and if Pinkman will let him, he'll help Pinkman stand up. Holding Pinkman's elbow, he raises his eyebrows.

"You wanna lean on me or can you do it?" He asks, because he doesn't want to make Pinkman feel useless or anything. He has absolutely no problem with tugging Pinkman's hands away from his neck and around Finch's shoulders instead, if he needs the help. No shame in that. Finch can remember how it feels.

Either way, he'll lead Pinkman to his car, make sure he's seatbelted, and take them to his apartment. It's - dreamlike, so Jesse doesn't remember much of how it happens, doesn't care to. The next thing he knows he's in his kitchen, and Pinkman should be in the shower, which is where Finch deposited him with faith that he is still able to take one without Finch's help. Not that Finch would refuse to help, he just figures... well.

So he's in his kitchen and he's looking for his medical aid, bandages and disinfectant, and anti-nausea pills. He's well prepared for this sort of thing.

"I can-" he starts to rebut insistently, and his hands white-knuckle a bit where they're clutched around his neck. He already let Finch help him stand up, but it seems important to him that he make it the rest of the way on his own.

Still, he's unsteady on his feet and he ends up leaning up against Finch's side halfway there, his shoulder bumping into him and resting heavily against him.

It's a foggy way to Finch's apartment, and he doesn't quite know how he got into the shower but he doesn't question it - it seems fine, like it's supposed to happen. Still, he spends an almost worryingly long time in there, sluggish already without his having long bouts of just standing there, dazed, letting the water soak into him and maybe wash off some of the grime from his own place. It's sobering, almost as much as his getting sick twice along the way - thankfully, luckily, with enough coordination to get it all up into the toilet.

Eventually he makes a silent exit from the bathroom and he stands in the doorway of Finch's kitchen, watches Finch move about and do whatever he's doing. He's in Finch's clothes, a towel still wrapped around his shoulders, and his toes curl in self-consciously as he stands there, feeling vaguely out of place and wavering around a bit like standing is a chore. "What're you doin'?"

When he hears Pinkman's voice, Jesse looks over his shoulder and sniffs once, rubbing at his nose. He looks better, little less zombie and a little more human, and Jesse's glad about that. In any case, he lifts the bottle of pills and rattles them around a bit.

"Getting shit together for you. Gotta get the last bits of glass out, disinfect it, wrap your feet back up. S'what happens when you stand on glass, y'dope." Tweezers - those would be in the bathroom, so he scoots around the counter and pushes Pinkman gently towards the couch. "Siddown for me, yeah? Be right back."

It's just the dregs of his high left now, just enough to put him off; it makes him blink a little unsteadily, makes him groggy and off, but it's probably better than being completely out there like he was before. "What's-" he starts to ask about the pills, even holds his hand out for the bottle, but then he's just mindlessly complying and shuffling himself back until he plops heavily onto the couch.

He hunches over and looks down at his feet, flexing his toes and suddenly conscious of the fact that he's probably trailing blood all over Finch's floor right now - the cuts would have been freshened by the shower and all. "Yeah, well," he says at the ground, and then as Finch starts to head towards the bathroom, he calls out a small, "sorry."

Which isn't just about the glass - he couldn't exactly help stepping on the glass - and he knows it.

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