kore_logs | If the dam breaks open many years too soon

Worse shit, yeah, like needles and vomit and a small army of faceless junkies. Jesse obediently turns in his spot, swings his feet up onto the couch so Finch can do what he's going to do, but he sinks further into the cushions, wrapping the towel tighter around him and pinching his eyes shut.

"No, I mean," he starts to insist, slowly angles his head so that he can crack his neck, let some of the tension bleed out, "I mean it, I'm." Already, he's feeling a bit too sunken in, wishes he had something else to take the edge off, pick him up a little. "I'm sorry." He opens his eyes again, frowns over at Finch and grinds his teeth together momentarily, anxiously.

"You got any smokes?"

He knows what Pinkman meant. Finch meets his gaze, expression solemn.

"... I know. Ain't a thing. We're good." Finch means that, too. Given the chance, he'd do it again, push through the mess and pull Pinkman right back out again. And then he's right back at getting the glass out. It's kind of gross, because feet are gross, but whatever. It's gotta get out and he doesn't trust Pinkman to do it by himself, if only because Jesse's getting fussy about mothering and micromanaging.

As for the smokes. "I got 'em. Lemme get this shit out first and we'll go smoke on the roof, alright? Ain't allowed t'smoke in here."

Jesse just nods a bit, haltingly, but he'll accept that concession for now - we're good. It doesn't feel good, doesn't feel like it's all over and done with, but he's not about to argue the point.

The glass is slow-going. There's some shards in there pretty deep and Jesse has to jerk back more than once, sucks in a few pained breaths for a couple of the pieces, but at least it gets done. His feet are wrapped and then they're up on the roof, Jesse limping a little the whole way, but he's awfully glad to get a cigarette in his system.

His hands jitter as he smokes; he's ditched the towel back on the couch inside. He's not really sure where they go from here.

"I'll be outta your hair soon," he mumbles a bit tightly as he bites down on a thumbnail, looks up at the darkening sky instead of at Finch. "Just kinda," and he hesitates, "need a couple'a days, I figure." Get himself sorted out, get out of that godforsaken house. Figure out a way to set foot back into his own private Wonderland without feeling too sick about what a mess he's made of things.

After everything, Jesse's very, very happy to have this cigarette. He could smoke a whole pack of them in one sitting right now, if he didn't think he'd feel sick after. His lungs don't need that sort of stres - but it's tempting. He flops against the walls, taking a long, steady drag, and blows the smoke out slow, just enjoying it.

Until Pinkman speaks up.

"Mm-mm, nah," Jesse says, casually, opening his eyes to look over at the other. "You're gonna stay here for a while, not just a few days. Y'ain't going back there alone, at the very least." He's serious. "Don't fucking 'outta your hair' me, Pinkman, I didn't drag your ass out of that house 'cause of charity."

Sniff. "Don't argue with me, I'll lock you in the fucking bathroom if I gotta."

With a sniff, Jesse swipes a thumb under his nose and nods repeatedly, absently. He doesn't answer for a good long while, and he's still not looking at Finch.

He doesn't even want to go back to his house, so that much is acceptable, it's fine, and he gets that. The place is in ruins, and after everything that's just happened- He doesn't want to think about it, can't even imagine going back there right now, maybe ever at this point. It's not as simple as his grade school friend's body eating through his ceiling, there was a fucking massacre there. It still feels unreal and maybe he's dreaming, maybe none of this is right, but it still doesn't make him want to go back there any more.

Finch isn't holding. Jesse knows he's not holding. And there's a way his hands are starting to shake right now, a way he grinds his teeth and ashes his cigarette without even smoking it or being quite aware of it, that's... It's worrying. There's kind of a shock of panic that runs through him when he thinks about what might have to come next, and he bites at his thumbnail again, still nodding away like he's forgotten he's even doing it.

"I ain't," he starts to say, looks off further away and even angles his body from Finch's. "Man, I ain't- ready."

He's prepared for this, too.

He'd gone into the house with the intention of pulling Pinkman out of this. Maybe it's fuzzy and he has no idea how he got the idea that Pinkman was in the house - doesn't know where they are or why he's living in New Mexico, but it doesn't matter. Dream logic. Dream priorities. And his number one priority is to get Pinkman clean, because there's only so much self-destruction he can allow. It's uncomfortably close to home. Finch wasn't ready when Jon knocked him on his ass and made him sober up. But it was what he needed, and Finch has already seen where Pinkman's path is going to end up from that hellhole, and like fuck is he letting Pinkman end up in a ditch.

That surge of feeling, determination and anger - it's probably palpable in the air.

"You ain't ever gonna be ready," Finch tells him, almost pissily, taking another drag. "I wasn't. I did this, Pinkman, y'know what I ended up doing? Friend of mine? Dumped a bag of my real expensive shit and I tried t'snort it off the concrete. And I still weren't ready. I was gonna keep on."

He blows the smoke out heavily, staring right at Pinkman. "I ain't watching you kill yourself over this."

Somehow, he can feel how stalwart Finch is, how pissed he is about all this. He glances back at Finch and only meets his eyes momentarily; his face screws up just as pissily and he looks away again with a dismissive tsk that gets stuck in his teeth. His hand rubs furiously at his arm, heel of his hand digging coincidentally into the track marks there.

So maybe he's never had something like Finch has had, moment of desperation like that (although he does distinctly remember fishing a bag of meth out of a toilet in a panic). But then again, he's got a house full of junkies and misfits back home, graffiti on the walls; it's a terribly, terribly broken thing and he knows he's fallen into something hideous right now, some downward spiral. Yet he doesn't want to crawl out of rock bottom just yet. He wants to languish in it for a while longer, and Finch isn't really going to give him that opportunity.

"So." The realization makes his jaw square a bit, and he scratches at his brow with a thumbnail, picks irritably at his fingers after. "What," he starts to say, a cautious bit of a challenge in his voice; he pauses to jerk his head up, his expression to match, "are you gonna do about it?"

There's no way for Pinkman to tell but he's not pissed at Pinkman - he's angry at the circumstances. But that doesn't translate well, and it comes off wrong, he's sure. Except then Pinkman gives him that challenge, and Jesse stands up at that, putting out the remains of his cigarette on the railing.

"What are you gonna do t'stop me, huh?" Finch asks, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Gonna hobble away on your broken feet?"

It's mean - but Finch can't just be okay with this anymore. Not when he cares about Pinkman like he does. That's awkward to say, but it's true. All Pinkman needs is a little push. Something to get him going. And Finch can do that, even if it makes him the bad guy. If it helps, Finch can play bad cop.

Edited 2013-06-23 04:45 (UTC)

Jesse's eyebrows sketch upward and he actually lets out a half of a laugh, glancing off again. "Wow," he remarks a bit incredulously, gives a shake of his head and wipes a hand over his mouth. "Okay."

He flicks his cigarette over the edge of the roof and squares his jaw, looking back at Finch and pointing a finger at him. "No, you know what?" And it's endlessly frustrating that, when he starts forward to push past Finch, he is limping on his feet still. He can try his best to hide it but it's still palpable.

"Really don't need this right now?" He wets his lips and bites down on his bottom one, starts towards the door to the roof. He walks backwards for a few steps, shrugging back at Finch. "So, uh, I'm gonna crash at Skinny's. He's gotta couch too."

It's so incredibly frustrating, and Jesse has a flash of a realization that this is how Jonathan must have felt. He makes a note to say thank you again when he gets out of... out of...

All he has to do is call Jonathan up, there's no getting out of anywhere, that was weird. Whatever - Pinkman is leaving and yeah, no, he's not going to let himself get guilted. Pinkman is just going to try and wriggle out of this, make Finch back off, and Finch needs to stop backing down. He follows after Pinkman with an irritated look.

"Yeah huh, right." Dude with a name like Skinny doesn't have shit, Jesse's willing to bet. "And I bet he's got a ton of meth too, huh. You're not going, don't even try it."

Yeah, actually. Skinny Pete's probably carrying plenty - and that's more than a little of Jesse's own fault, dragged him straight off the wagon himself a few days ago and he fully realizes it. But, whatever, it means Pete's gonna be useful to him once he gets himself over there, and that's all he needs to know.

Of course, this is the guy who's let him down more than once in the past. Couldn't even lend him his couch for a night back when he needed it, back when he ended up sleeping on the floor of an RV in someone else's shit.

But he's willing to bet for one big reason, and that's because he's scared. He's gone through heroin withdrawal before - funny, because he never did take it again after that, doesn't remember doing so, and yet here he is now - and he'd heard the horror stories before but he really hadn't known what to expect the first time, took him by surprise and knocked him very thoroughly flat on his ass. Now, when he knows what's coming, a repeat performance seems mildly terrifying, and that's probably becoming slowly obvious to Finch.

Jesse doesn't show it; in fact, he stops in his tracks to let Finch almost walk into him, narrows his eyes and steps right up to him. "Just go ahead and stop me," he says a bit sharply, raises his eyebrows. "Go on." And then he tacks on a, "bitch," for good measure and moves to turn away again.

The thing is, out of all the people that Pinkman knows, Jesse's probably the best person to go to when it comes down to this. He's been through it. He knows how terrifying the notion is and he remembers how awful it was. But he got through it, and he knows Pinkman can too.

So Pinkman turns around to walk away and Finch is far from intimidated. Instead, he sighs and does indeed try to stop Pinkman, grabbing both of his arms and wrenching them behind Pinkman's back. "Y'really wanna make me mad, man?" Jesse asks, irritation clear. He's fully expecting Pinkman to struggle or fight back, but he's prepared for it - he's pretty decent at take-downs, anyway. If he keeps struggling, Pinkman is going to get a cheerful face full of concrete. Gently, of course, but still.

"Cut it out with the melodramatics and let me help you, you stupid motherfucker."

See, he expects anger, and he expects shouting, but for some reason, he doesn't actually expect the physical. Maybe it's because him and Finch have never actually fought like that before, though more likely it's just naivety, but it means there's a moment of surprise where he actually concedes, a lull, before he thrashes his arms around.

"What the hell, man?" he hisses furiously, and his hands twist, he keeps trying to jab his elbows back into Finch. "Get off- Get the fuck off me!" It's not like he's a particularly good fighter - he's unpracticed, and mediocre - but he's stubborn as a fucking mule.

So, yeah, he gets that concrete right to the cheek.

Finch isn't exactly Batman either, here, but he's good enough to make a coming-off-drugs-foot-injured Pinkman drop down. And he's heavy enough, strong enough to get Pinkman's arms behind him police-style, hold them there and pin Pinkman to the ground. He's not trying to hurt, but he is firm. Both of them are stubborn - it's like a fight between the rock and hard place.

"Really? Really, you're gonna fight me on this?" Finch snaps, gripping tightly. "You really wanna stay down at the bottom this bad."

"The fuck am I supposed to do, huh?!" Jesse shouts right back, and he jerks his arms violently to try to get free - Finch is right, he's got the upper hand here and Jesse isn't really going anywhere. "I don't-!" He tries to wrestle himself away one last time - his feet paw at the ground a bit to try to push himself up and it fucking stings - before he just collapses fully.

"I don't- know-" he finally admits, fingers flexing testily in Finch's grasp; his face screws up, frustrated. "I don't know what I'm doing. Okay? I don't know!"

It's not a surprise, it really isn't. Finch was expecting it - maybe... not Pinkman saying it out loud, but he was expecting Pinkman to at least dance around the subject. Nobody knows what they're doing half the time, and Finch is no different, but this is the half of the time where Jesse knows he needs to help Pinkman make a decision. This is important, and it's one of the few times he's going to ever interfere with someone's choices.

"S'a good thing I have some idea then," Finch says quietly, not letting go quite yet. "You don't gotta know what you're doing, s'okay. You can hate me all y'want, too, that's fine, but I ain't letting you go. M'not going anywhere either."

You gonna stop squirming, Pinkman? He'll let you go if you do.

Not going anywhere, yeah. People like saying that. But between the stubbornness, the drugs, that house? Hell, Finch has made it further than most. Jesse can only really see Finch out of the corner of his eye, has to crane his head to do so, but he glances up at him for a bit before he mashes himself right back into the concrete with a heavy sigh; his eyes squeeze shut for a moment.

"You gonna get off'a me?" he finally says after a beat or two, without really acknowledging what Finch actually says - he doesn't even know where to begin there. "Ya fuckin'- homo, I swear to Christ."

"Bitch, I got you pinned down with your face stuffed in the concrete, don't even start," Finch says bitchily, wrenching at Pinkman's arms. He doesn't mind that he's not acknowledged - he knows it sunk in and that's good enough for him. "You gonna try to run again, asshole?"

"Ow, hey!" Jesse yanks at his arms right back, twists his head to see Finch again. "What am I gonna do? Hobble away on my broken feet?" He repeats Finch with a bit of venom in his voice, but it doesn't last long. He just tucks his head back in and presses his forehead against the ground. "The hell am I gonna go anyway?"

"Ay, you already tried once, I got reason t'be suspicious," Finch protests, but - yeah, alright, fine. Get up, Pinkman, Jesse can let go and stand up. He can forgive the elbowing and the comments and whatever venom Pinkman shouts at him because that's what Jon did. He listened to Jesse shout every little nasty thing he could, dig deep at old wounds and painful secrets, and never once gave up on him.

Finch can do the same thing here. "You're gonna go sit on my couch and watch shitty daytime television with me, that's where." Jesse offers his hand, raising an eyebrow.

Yeah, but then after that? Jesse rolls onto his back and peers at the offered hand there, hesitates for a good long while before he finally takes and starts to haul himself up off the ground. It's gonna get bad and he knows it, he sure as hell knows Finch knows it too, but all he can do is dust himself off and avoid Finch's gaze for now. "You get cable?"

Pinkman takes his hand and it makes Jesse smile a little. He knows, yeah, he knows how bad, but if Pinkman can trust him, it'll work out. "I get cable. C'mon," Finch tells him, nudging him gently. Or he did. At one point. He hasn't watched TV in ages, hasn't listened to music, either. Come to think of it, he's not even sure he's been in his apartment for real for a long time. But that's - not right, can't be right.

And the minute he puts his hand on the door, the dream shifts - shivers, stretched too far, and then Jesse's in his bed, opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling. Oh.

Jesus, this is never going to get less disorienting.

Jesse, on the other hand, wakes up on the kitchen floor.

He'd been trying not to sleep, he really had - he didn't want anyone up in his damn head, people running around in each other's dreams whenever the hell they wanted, fuck that. His thoughts were his own damn thoughts and nobody else had any right crashing around in them and doing whatever they wanted. He didn't remember falling asleep - he didn't even remember trying - so needless to say, he's swearing under his breath as he starts to push himself back up onto his feet.

There's a lot of waffling when it comes to heading over to Finch's this time. He doesn't even try for a while, just keeps himself busy - awake - and stews on it for some time before he abruptly grabs his jacket and heads over to Finch's place. Even then, he must double back about four times, walking back and forth like a lunatic before he ends up on that porch again. He knocks with the flat of his palm, waits approximately 2.4 seconds, and then shakes his head and turns to head down the stairs again with a muttered, "Fuck it."

Pinkman better not mention his own self-imposed sleep deprivation to Finch - if he does, there will be words. It's not okay for Finch to stay awake, but it is for Pinkman? But either way, the fact still remains that they both were asleep and they were both in the same dream, and Finch has a hard time going back to sleep. He's not as tired, now that he feels safer, safe with Galen and Kenzi watching his back, but he's still weary even as he's walking down the stairs.

Sleeping's the only interesting thing he can do around here anymore, and now he can't even do that.

But his insomnia means that he hears the knock on the door as he heads down, however brief it is. And it means he's going to go answer, because he feels like he knows who it's going to be, with how brief it is - and lo and behold, he's right. Finch stands in the doorway and squints sleepily at Pinkman, arms wrapped around himself.

"Surprised you ain't tried t'punch me yet, honestly," Finch remarks, leaning on the door frame heavily with his arms folded and head resting on the frame.

He hears the door open but he doesn't actually stop until Finch speaks up, flinches a little before he looks back over his shoulder. Unlike Finch, Jesse looks wide awake - a little wired, actually. Should have taken something to calm himself down, probably, but he's out of most of everything. He looks back away for a beat, mouths a lone 'fuck' to himself as he swipes a hand over his mouth.

"I mean, if you really want," he finally replies, and he does turn back to Finch then - about time - as he rubs a bit anxiously at the back of his neck and taps a foot against the ground. What's he even doing here? He doesn't know what he expects out of this all, he doesn't even want to talk about whatever the hell it was that Finch saw and that he remembers. Or he does and he doesn't know it or maybe he just wants to see where Finch's head is at after all of this. Yeah. Touch base. Debrief.

"Couldn't fall back asleep," is all he offers as explanation, the corner of his mouth twitching downward.

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