"Christmas in Albuquerque" Part 1
Dated: Finally finished today after 3 days of almost non-stop typing.
Title: Christmas in Albuquerque (because I couldn't think of anything less lame)
Summary: The human tragedy known as Jesse Pinkman finds himself alone on Christmas... He doesn't take it well, but he discovers that maybe there's a little more in store for him this evening than he thought.
Rated: M -- and yes that means mature-ass situations like drug abuse, suicide references, truck-loads of swearing, and a lengthy description of sexy-sex-sex.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Snow in the ABQ was typically an event of no account. Even in the coldest season the temperature seldom sank below 50ºF during the day and any bit of loose powder that dared to fall on northern New Mexican sidewalks rarely lasted past five a.m. People milling around in those ungodly hours of morning might glimpse a few proud inches of snow sitting smugly before the sun rose to obliterate it, but to anybody waking at a normal time, the roads would appear as they always did, as if frost had never touched them at all.
Christmas evening this year was an exception. In a complete aberration, the city had been hit by a flurry of sorts, and as always when more than three or four inches of snow threatened to drop, people flipped out. Stores that managed to stay open on the holiday ended up closing early, people skipped work, the kids probably would have gotten a snow day if the "storm" hadn't come so late. Since very few bothered to regularly change winter tires, many were avoiding the roads now too, even the ploughs. There were still those courageously drudging forward through the weather, determined to make it to the homes of loved ones so they might spend the holiday together, but mostly the world beyond the cozy suburban homes was quiet.
In the midst of this, sitting dismal and unaffected and barely aware of the snow outside the window, was a young man named Jesse. He was sacked out on his living room futon, snacking lackadaisically from a bag of potato chips. One might think he would also be staring at a television, but there was none. It always took him long periods of time to accumulate furniture, indeed he had only finally bothered to get a table set for the dining room last month, and he almost never used it anyway, always opting to eat on the futon, which doubled as his bed and chair and was the only other piece of furniture in the room besides his coffee table, which he now propped his feet up on. His cellphone sat silently beside one of his white sneakers, untouched. For the past nine or so hours he had sat, waiting for it to ring. He hadn't checked his watch all day but he supposed it must have been about seven in the evening. Plenty early, everybody would be just finishing their Christmas dinners, and moving on to gathering around in the living room, possibly exchanging gifts if they hadn't already done so. He imagined his parents and his brother doing this very thing, and wondered if maybe they were thinking about him.
An hour later when the phone still didn't ring he picked it up and dialed, and somehow he wasn't surprised when the only voices that greeted him were recorded and the politeness in them was reserved for more welcome callers.
Maybe they went to someone else's house for Christmas.
He thought it only to console himself and he knew right away it wasn't true. His family never visited relatives, not since Jenny died. They weren't close to any others and the rest of the extended Pinkmans lived on the other side of the planet anyway.
Jesse sat his cell back down and leaned into the cushions, the bag of chips long since finished, he was filled with a powerful craving for a beer. He had bought multiple cases at the start of the week, as if expecting this evening, knowing how it would unfold, and how he would feel as it wound down and he was still alone in his empty house.
So he got up and dragged himself into the kitchen, meaning only to grab himself a bottle to take back with him to the futon, instead hefting the entire case out of the fridge and lugging it back to the living room.
And after the first five or six everything started to blur.
*
A bird is cawing somewhere nearby when Jesse leans against the back of the high school, waiting for his friends. He only remembers the sound so clearly because of how annoying it was, like a broken vacuum cleaner firing up, then dying down, then firing up again. He was getting ready to go out and hunt the stupid thing when his buddies finally joined him.
"Jesus, what took you so long?" He grouses. He starts to pull the joint out of his pocket - it's his turn to bring the dope - but one of the guys stops him.
He can still remember the sound that bird made, but not the names of the kids he used to hang out with nearly every day at J.P. Wynne.
"Wait," One of them says, a big shit-eating grin playing across his face. "We got something better." With the way his eyes are flaming Jesse thinks he must have already smoked whatever it was.
Jesse's interest is kinda piqued. "What is it?"
They show him a little plastic baggie with some clear, salty-looking chunks at the bottom of it and Jesse, although not familiar with the substance, knows right away what it is, and he puts the brakes on right then and there. "No way!" He shouts, and one of the guys motions for him to keep it down, which he does, lowering his voice but not abandoning his disapproval. "Fucking meth? Why would I... What are you guys thinking?"
Now they're looking at him like he's just revealed himself to have secretly been a woman this entire time and he literally shrinks away from them a little bit, embarrassed. "What's your deal, Pinkman? You blaze up with us all the time."
"Yeah, weed, not crystal. Do you know what my parents would do if they caught me smoking that shit-"
The moment the words leave his mouth he knows he's made a colossal misstep in his speaking and he desperately tries to retract the idiotic statement but it's way too late. They're laughing so hard tears are squirting out of their eyes, tumbling over each other as they sink to the ground, overcome by Jesse's hilarity. He feels his face heat up with anger and humiliation and he snatches the baggie away from them without thinking about it, at which point their eyes turn up at him with renewed fascination, although the laughter doesn't stop right away.
"Shut up, you dicks, and gimme a pipe."
'Don't. Don't, Jesse.'
But he doesn't have a reason to listen to himself. It's just a drug. If he doesn't like it, he won't use it anymore. If he does, well, maybe he'll smoke it occasionally depending on how expensive it is, and how easy it is to keep it under his parents' noses. He'll just try it now.
Anything to get these morons to stop laughing.
He's handed a pipe and he packs some of the stuff into the bowl; judging by the dumb looks on his friends' faces he must have put in either way too much or way too little. When he produces his lighter from his pocket and fires it up, he thinks it must have been the first one.
It feels like a cold wind just went through his bones.
Then his body is ablaze and his lips start tingling then go numb. He uses the wall behind him to keep himself upright as his nerves start tangling up and the blood runs out of his legs and he slowly slides down to a sitting position and it feels like a hundred tiny little needles are stabbing into him. The pipe and the bag slip easily from his fingers and he can hear someone else lighting it up.
"Where did you get this?"
"Brandon was selling it."
"The one who dropped out?"
Jesse's pulse is slamming like a shotgun and he badly wants to move but it feels like the instant he does he'll explode. He presses himself up against the wall and keeps himself completely still when the last thing in the world he feels like doing is just sitting there. His nails bite into his palms and he lets out a long, cold breath while his heart squirms in his chest. Suddenly everyone around him is running, scuttling, scattering like cockroaches. That's exactly what he'd like to do. Scurry away and hide under a rock.
Then he hears his name called. Footsteps come closer and they shake the earth around him. He hears snakes. He can feel them, too. He almost screams when he thinks they've touched him but when he looks all he sees is fingers. Square fingers where the skin sags at the joints and they're touching him, slapping his face gently and for a second he thinks he's staring into windows and that scares much of his trippy pleasure away but given another moment to look he discovers he's staring at the reflective surfaces of a pair of glasses.
The rest of the pleasure goes with that. He can hear another fucked up noise and he thinks that damned annoying bird came back but when he's hauled to his feet and his respiration momentarily stops working, he realizes he had been listening to his own breathing. It was only a matter of time before one of the teachers caught them, although he feels tentative relief knowing they won't know exactly what he smoked. He's also confused as to why this teacher sounds like he's more worried about Jesse's health than pissed off that he was obviously doing drugs behind the school. Still, they will call his parents. He'll have to deal with that. God, all the trouble he'll be in, all the shit he'll have to deal with, just for that one stupid bowl.
He's not even sure if he liked it or not.
*
Jesse threw his arm out, aiming for the coffee table to set one of his many empty bottles down. The bottom of it clacked against the table surface noisily but threatened to tip over the instant Jesse tried to let go of it, irritating him so irrationally that instead of just balancing the stupid bottle he heaved his arm back and launched it across the room. It shattered dramatically against the wall, splashing the little bit of booze left in it onto the wallpaper.
Jenny had loved that wallpaper.
Intense misery immediately dropped in the pit of Jesse's stomach, causing him to groan a little as if he were actually physically pained by it, and he rolled on his side, meaning to turn his back to the rest of his alcohol and stop the stupid bender before he caused permanent brain damage to himself or something. So quickly after he had turned away, though, he felt the thirst again and returned to it, snapping the lid off of yet another bottle on the edge of his table. Down, down, down, then another. Drink up, it's the holidays, live a little, celebrate.
His entire face was flushed and for some reason his eyes were burning but he still wasn't stopping and he realized that maybe he was trying to do permanent damage to himself. Maybe enough just to black out so that he could live through this lame night without going insane, maybe enough so that he would get the hugest alcohol buzz ever so he wouldn't need anything stronger, or maybe enough to pop a few veins in his brain and stop his heart so he'd never have to wake up again.
If he did drink himself into oblivion, how long would it be before anyone noticed? His parents were sure contenders to be the last ones to hear about it. Maybe they would be grief stricken or maybe they'd regret that they hadn't tried harder with him or maybe they would only come to his funeral so they could say 'I told you so' to his open casket. Pete and Badger didn't really come over on their own and they wouldn't be hit with any deep worry if Jesse didn't answer their - infrequent - calls. He could be rotting in his living room for months, realistically, and he probably wouldn't even know the first person to realize what had happened to him. It'd just be some neighbor or some pedestrian who noticed a bad smell near his house.
God, why are you doing this to yourself?
Because he deserved it. If nothing else proved it, the fact that he was alone on Christmas did. Who else besides assholes spent fucking Christmas by themselves drinking in their living rooms? And if that wasn't bad enough he was pitying himself at the same time. Feeling sorry for the sack of shit he had allowed himself to become instead of making any real effort to do anything about it. His small grasps at change had all been snuffed out pretty effectively and he had quit so easily.
He tried for another sip but either his lips trembled or his hand did. Either way he botched the shot somehow and dumped beer down his shirt front and almost like it had sunk into his pores and poisoned him that way everything instantly got a little fuzzier.
*
Five in the morning and Jesse's awake. He's not surprised, he rarely ever gets through entire nights without being almost zapped out of sleep by something he never sees, with his eyes or in his head, some thought or some memory that comes back to him over and over, particularly during the night, interrupting whatever dreams he may have and forcing him awake.
He runs his hand along the floor in the darkness, looking for his jeans, hoping to fish a cigarette out of the pocket, not entirely certain there'll be one there since he goes through cigarettes a lot faster these days. His fingertips brush fabric; it's only his shirt. He gives up and rolls back into the middle of the mattress, bumping against another body, a warm, smooth female body, and what immediately goes through his head - Jane - makes him feel withered, makes sleep seem impossible, because even in this incomplete consciousness he realizes that Jane's not here now, never will be again. He involuntarily scoots forward again, away from the person in the bed, he doesn't want to be close to them. The other thought that comes to him is also automatic, pops into his head before he knows it, but it plays as a force in keeping him from others just the same.
'I don't want you', Is what he thinks, is what he always thinks, less a thought and more an accusation, unfair and absurd. 'You're not Jane and I don't want you.'
In the light of day he can feel kind of comfortable again, he can believe he's moved on somehow, he can spend time with other people and get back to trying to accept Jane's permanent absence. But in the dead of night when he lies awake in the darkness, his mind still partially asleep, he doesn't want anyone but her, doesn't want to keep going if he can't have her again. At those moments he thinks he would rather die alone than attempt to love anyone that way again, because even if he could it would be wrong somehow, like a betrayal. In those late nights and very early mornings when he's so far into his own shit he can't even remember anyone else's name, not even the woman in bed with him, he tortures himself by wondering how he would do it differently if he could. Would he be capable of doing the right thing, if someone gave him a time machine and told him he could go back, he could go back and never rent that room, would he be able to do it, to give up having known her? He hates himself for not knowing the answer, for clinging so selfishly to the sweet memories of her, not trusting himself to really be able to give them up if he had the chance to go back and erase their encounter from history. It would be better for everyone, especially her, and her dad (sweet jesus her dad), Jesse supposes it would even be better for himself in a way because it would mean no more sleepless nights spent thinking he should have died instead. But even knowing this, he's still not sure he could do it even if he had the opportunity, which he never will.
He slides a hand up his bare arm unconsciously, pressing his fingertips in until he can feel his veins bleating away under his skin. His blood is clean but his mind is far from it. He's disgusted by how often his thoughts are dominated by the memories of the drugs, and the first time a needle ever poked into him; he had literally felt like he was flying. Floating, at least, except he knew he wasn't going anywhere, and he thought of how fucking amazing sex would have been right then, but he couldn't even move so all he could revel in was a sickness so severe that it was almost sweet. Every night after the first one he could taste vomit in the corners of his mouth but none of it ever made it out.
He only knows this because he's alive right now.
Bitterly he wonders why he only learns after he's already made the mistake. Why couldn't he have had this strength months ago? Why did it take until waking up next to the dead body of the only person who ever loved him for who he was? He could destroy himself within minutes obsessing over these questions, and the maddening lack of answers.
Then the sun starts to come up, and some sense of normalcy returns. He makes his eyes close and often hands find him in the half darkness, assuming that he only turned from them in his sleep, his sleep which was natural and undisturbed, assuming that he'll feel better if he's touched and rubbed against and held.
But he won't. Oh god he won't. He knows whose hands they are and he knows the only reason he's even in this bed right now is not because he cares about this woman he has preyed upon but because he's making a pitiful grasp for some semblance of pleasure to balance out the infinite suffering and nothingness. A false pleasure that only last moments, one he doesn't miss after it's over, one that does nothing to help him through the night.
'I'm sorry,' He thinks, not sure who he's directing the thought at, Jane or Andrea or no one at all.
*
A loud crash briefly sent a small spark of awareness through Jesse's head, although it was such a small one that he didn't even realize the noise had been caused by his own body toppling off over the side of the futon and crashing into the table, which didn't turn over but was jostled just enough to send the bottles over the side and scatter glass across his floor. The twinkling smashing noises made Jesse lift his head up and he almost grieved the loss of the rest of his beer but he quickly saw the bottles that still had liquid in them hadn't broken.
Was this irony?
He dropped his head, not caring when it thumped against the ground even though he had already bumped it against the table hard enough to make it bleed. His damned cranium felt too heavy to move so he reached blindly for another drink without turning it, growling under his breath when his fingertips only brushed shards, and his hand roamed the floor more angrily so that when it came into contact with those sharp glass slivers they stuck in. He didn't even notice. His arm slowed, stopped, returned to his side. He cracked his eyes open and was confused when he saw the ceiling. How had he gotten onto the ground? He pulled his knees up, propped an elbow under himself, slapped one hand onto the floor and froze when something drove into his palm. He jolted into a sitting position and gazed, mystified, at the destroyed flesh of his hand, bright red blood running through his fingers, across his wrist, down his arm into the short sleeve of his t-shirt. He was sure he had been wearing a sweater before but he saw no sign of one when he stood himself up against the wall. Maybe it was because the room was spinning so fast he couldn't even make out the path in front of him.
He took an uncertain step in an uncertain direction and his knee twisted defiantly away from him, sending him crumpling to the floor again. He clumsily put his hands out and a million more lacerations appeared on them when they came into focus in front of his face. He dragged his palms across the ground toward himself, feeling small chunks of glass grind in and out of his skin as blood got smeared across the dark wood floors.
Jenny had loved those floors too.
Everything about the house reminded him of his aunt and for the first time in almost a year he seriously, honestly yearned for her. Why had he bought this house, forced his way back into a place that only brought him bad feelings and memories? Why had Jenny gotten cancer? Why did anyone get cancer? Jesse shut his eyes and tried to get up again and when he heard glass crunch under his shoes he figured he made it. He staggered aimlessly, not sure if he was headed to the bathroom to throw up or if he was headed to the closet to hang himself.
Bright white light rented his vision and he figured it was the former. Or else he had just failed to find the closet. He went to the sink first. He meant to wash some of the blood off his hands, but he only succeeded in splattering it on the clean white porcelain before he dropped near the toilet. He inched closer and reached his arms out to take a hold of the bowl to steady himself but stopped when he thought about all the blood he would get on it if he did that. So he contented himself by basically smearing his body across the ground in the space between the toilet and the bathtub, one elbow thrown over the tub's edge, and for how conscious he was of the toilet, he didn't mind it at all when blood dribbled into the tub.
Was he upstairs? Or the hallway? Did the hallway even have a bathroom?
He thought he should lift his head to the level of the toilet, at least, but he didn't have the strength to hold it there and he didn't want his face anywhere asses had been. Asses and acid. He felt awful but he didn't think he would puke any time soon, even if he tried.
You can't even drink right, Pinkman.
Jesse's heart took off and he actually craned his neck to look around, certain that the words had been spoken to him, logic failing him because the voice was so clear. He was genuinely surprised when he found that the room was empty.
*
High afternoon sunlight slants through the hospital windows and onto the the bed where Jesse is doing some languishing by himself, which isn't anything new for him these days. Periodically nurses show up and try to get him to take the pain meds and a few of them even suggest that he's only refusing because he wants to look tough or macho or something and he suggests that they go fuck themselves. It's not normal for him to just curse people out but he can't help it, he's in a tremendously horrible mood which he has no way of relieving himself from, and then there's the physical pain stacked on top of it and he can't do anything about that either, because if he takes the pain meds now, if he remembers how a drug can miraculously make everything better... Jesse's just glad that Saul's gone. The silence of the room is actually welcome after time spent in that guy's presence. Or Mr. White either. Jesse thinks he's pretty much set to pull away from that son of a bitch.
And then like a disease he shows up again.
Jesse had figured that he probably wouldn't even see him again after the first time he came to the hospital and Jesse assured him that his brother in law was on his permanent shit list. Separation anxiety had stopped being an issue for him ever since Mr. White had kicked him to the curb right in front of Saul. They no longer needed each other. Hell, they didn't even want each other. Jesse had made some pathetic attempt at reconnection only to be torn apart over something he didn't think was a big deal, something, in fact, that he thought would have made his teacher proud. He thought the man would be happy to see that Jesse had actually learned something from him for once, and added to that the way Jesse would still contribute to the man's cause. But no. That's not the way it happened at all.
"Something's come up, and I think it's a good opportunity..."
He doesn't even get a 'Hi'. He knows right away something's up and it stirs his fury, which had settled at the bottom of his stomach, back into motion. He hates being lied to. He hates being used. He hates it more than he ever has or ever will let on, and it's only recently that's he's even realized just how often both of these things happen to him. It could be just the vicious, constant pain in Jesse's head that's making his anger rise and his blood boil, or it could be the sight of that lying, traitorous face, spewing more cheap bullshit. Jesse is seething and he's able to resist Mr. White's words this time, to reject him the way he has been rejected, but the man doesn't leave him alone, he doesn't see that Jesse doesn't want to be anywhere near him at this point in time and he presses and presses until Jesse snaps.
"You're turning down one and a half million..."
"I am not turning down the money. I'm turning down you."
Shoving money in his face when half of it is broken and unrecognizable. Jesse's control slips and his voices escalates to a shout, he doesn't care who hears him. Mr. White thinks he's pulling one over on him again, well he isn't, Jesse won't let himself be deceived so easily anymore. Before he knows it the point of his tirade fades and he's spun into something more like rambling, even less an accusation, it's just a showcase of the black, unforgiving pain that's been consuming Jesse for months. And some stab at making Mr. White feel the way Jesse does.
"Everything I ever cared about is gone. Ruined, turned to shit, dead. Ever since I hooked up with the great 'Heisenberg'."
Mr. White's presence stops being necessary to fuel the words and they keep going and Jesse finally touches upon the only point that actually matters by now, the real reason for this unbearable hurt and anger, the thing he masked as ballistic hatred for the brother in law.
"You don't give a shit about me."
Jesse should stop there but he can't, he's free falling now, reminding Mr. White that if he wanted him as a partner so bad then why did he shoot him down so carelessly, why did he call his meth garbage? It shouldn't bother Jesse as much as it does but before he can stop himself he starts to cry. He had wanted to stand up and appear strong but as always he's more hurt than angry and he breaks and now Mr. White knows exactly what he can use against him and get away with it.
"Your meth is good, Jesse. As good as mine."
Easy words to speak when you don't mean them, although Jesse suspects there will still be huge damage to Mr. White's ego, and that's why the man leaves so quickly afterward. Jesse fumbles to hold onto some sense of control or will of his own but there's nothing left, there really isn't. All he can do is cry and wait for the hurting to stop, hope for the hurting to stop. All of this has been, on Mr. White's part, a ploy to get Jesse back underfoot. And Jesse will take the bait, he knows exactly what he's doing and he hates himself but this is all there is for him. Like a chick who's too weak or too scared to leave a guy who beats on her, Jesse is powerless against Mr. White. Without Jane the man's abuses and manipulations are all Jesse can hope for. Regardless of that pain that is no longer eased by lies, Jesse can't hurt him. It's just not in him. And he knows what Mr. White wants him to do and he knows that he'll end up doing it; which depresses him, because he wanted to shed that life of being somebody's tool, but after all the loss and trauma, being manipulated is almost a comfort, it's like someone else is walking for him and breathing for him. Although Mr. White claims he didn't make the offer to re-establish their partnership to stop Jesse from ruining the brother-in-law Jesse will drop the charges anyway, he knows Mr. White wants to keep relations with the family clean, so he'll let that asshole off the hook, he'll take another beating for free. And the other thing Mr. White wants, well, he'll get that too, because he can exploit weaknesses, and Jesse is as weak as they come.
The crying goes on for longer than Jesse thought it would but when the tears finally stop he relinquishes the last of his will and freedom and picks up his phone, handing over everything Mr. White doesn't deserve and barely had to do anything to obtain. He had finally let loose on that old prick and told him off the way he should have a long time ago, but still his resolve to be separate from him for the rest of his life is broken with just that little admission. Can he even call it that? No. It was a lie the same way everything else Mr. White said was. Saying that he wanted Jesse as a partner was a lie, saying that he didn't make the offer to save Hank's ass was a lie, and saying that he thought Jesse's meth was as good as his was such bullshit that he's surprised Mr. White didn't puke after he had forced the words out of his mouth. He knows he's been played, and he walked right into it. He knows these things but still he folds and comes back for one more. Originally he had wanted to be angry... Now he just feels hollow. He hangs up the phone and when he closes his eye he never wants it to open again. No matter how badly he's treated or how much he loses in the end he'll do what Mr. White wants to do, because what else is there? Nothing. No one.
It's impossible to sleep when his head is in the state it's in, so all Jesse can do is sink into the pillow and shut himself off, and it's not that hard when the blank, sterile room he's in is empty and nobody is coming to see him. He wants to disconnect himself completely but he'll never entirely lose his ability to feel, no matter how hard he tries.
'I don't want a monkey. I want you.'
Did he intentionally ignore the purpose of the rat threat? Did Jesse even really mean it in the first place? Did Mr. White even believe him? Maybe, maybe not. Jesse has gotten better at certain things but reading people isn't one of them, and as obvious as Mr. White's lies are his intentions are sometimes difficult to see. Jesse has never understood the guy. Maybe that's why it's so easy to bend to his whims.
Or maybe Jesse is just a loser. In any case he certainly doesn't feel better.
*
----------------------------------------------------
A/N: LJ informs me the post is too large so we'll have have to do a 2-parter for the first time ever!
Exciting, no?
eheh. ^_^; anyway, Walt in the next part!