sockrificial (
sockrificial) wrote in
bakerstreet2022-02-01 06:37 pm
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Except Denny's.
RULES
1. Post to the meme.
2. Find somebody to eat with. Figure out why the hell you'd do this to yourself.
3. Okay, you have no excuse to be here because Denny's is doing delivery now. This is the age we live in. Denny's delivers. Dear god.
jesse pinkman | breaking bad
slams in here with au shit
Wait, wait. Right. Skinny guy, little, sort of a haunted face. He remembers Merle's dealer and he remembers the last party he'd seen the kid at and all the damage his brother had caused. Maybe he's getting a call to pay up, he thinks, or Merle's re-up has gone wrong. But no.
The kid needs a ride?
Daryl's truck battery is currently dead so he takes Merle's chopper and leaves it parked across two spaces in the Denny's lot, wondering what he's going to be able to wring out of this emergency. Surely the kid can't think he's going to do this out of the goodness of his heart? Especially after he has to circle the restaurant twice before he finds him. ]
Jesus! [ He slides into the booth opposite the kid and scowls, reaching for the container of toothpicks. ] How'n the hell was I supposed to find you way back here?
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Not Dixon, though. He'd had to call him once, when his brother had gotten out of control at a party, and Daryl's definitely the more responsible one of the two. He's got his head on straight, or close enough. He lives outside of town. And most importantly, Walter White has no idea who he is.
He doesn't bother answering the question, just looks around frantically behind Daryl, his eyes darting wildly. ]
Were you followed?
Anyone see you?
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Followed? Shit, how high are you?
[ Judging from the way Jesse is twitching and fidgeting, very. Daryl doesn't spook easy and he saw Pinkman's house the last time he'd picked Merle up. The place was a wreck, the party insane. The kid must just be on a bender and tweaking out. Maybe that's why he'd called Daryl - to take him home. Meth has made stranger things happen. ]
'Course I wasn't followed. Who'd follow me?
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Put there by Mr. White. Mr. White. Jesus. He shakes his head again, trying to focus. ]
No one, yeah, yeah.
[ That's the whole reason he'd called Daryl, right? Because nobody knows him. Nobody knows to follow him. ]
Listen, man. You gotta get me out of here. We gotta go. You got a truck? [ He glances out the window, already halfway to his feet, scanning the parking lot for the beat-up truck he remembers, the one they'd had to practically shove Merle into the last time he'd had to call Daryl. If he never has to deal with a wasted Merle Dixon again, it'll be too soon. ] Where's your truck?
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It's dead. Ain't got the cash for a new battery right now. Brought Merle's bike.
[ He says it casually but now he's eyeing Jesse, wondering where the hell the guy was before he'd ended up here. What's he been up to that's got him all tweaky? ]
Hey, man. What the hell's the matter? You piss someone off or somethin'?
[ And the real question behind that one: and are you getting me involved? ]
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Yeah, you could say that. I pissed the shit out of somebody.
[ He's so anxious to be gone, so terrified that fucking Uncle Jack or whoever the fuck is gonna show up to blast him right in the head, it doesn't occur to him that Daryl owes him nothing. Has no reason to help him. ]
These fucking - Nazi bitches, they're after me, okay? Merle's bike? [ He makes a face. It's not ideal, not like a truck where he could put his fucking head down and stay out of sight. But hell. It'll move. It'll get them the fuck out of Dodge. ] Come on, let's go.
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Christ, seriously? I don't even have time for coffee?
[ He's got a bitch of a hangover and he doesn't even consider standing up until he knows more about what's going on and what exactly he's putting himself in the middle of. He's seen the sort of shit his brother has gotten into - gotten the both of them into a few times. Daryl might not make great decisions on the whole but he knows how to steer clear of the worst kinds of trouble. Not like his brother or, apparently, Jesse. ]
How'd you get out here, anyway? They know where you are?
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au time idk i'm making this up as i go
It's a simple job. Babysitting, for now. He doesn't know what Pope's angle is and doesn't particularly care. They've been called to babysit and so they're babysitting, Montanio out in the parking lot and Powell keeping watch by the door, chugging coffee and trying not to look suspicious - which, of course, makes him look like a twitchy psychopath, so great job there. The others are around and Carver's in the midst of working his way methodically through his omelette. Shaw would be better at this part but Pope didn't make her the face this time, which means she's out doing more important shit.
So. It's Carver's turn to babysit and make sure Pinkman doesn't bolt or get shot in the face by other parties. He's not particularly good at babysitting, Carver thinks vaguely, and waves for more coffee. This is a test, like all the others that came before, and he won't fuck it up. He's keeping an eye on his corners, a knife tucked into his boot and his pistol hidden under his bulky jacket. But for now they're just two people eating greasy food and that's the image that Pope wants to send out to the world. Right up until he texts Carver's burner with further instructions.
They're staying put for now. The rest will come later. ]
Eat something.
[ He stabs at his omelette. ]
It's a restaurant.
[ People come here to eat. It looks weird when they don't. ]
oh big same
It's not exactly reassuring. They're kind of scaring him, honestly. And if Saul had had to go so far as to find these guys? If just Mike's protection isn't enough? It doesn't take a genius to realize he's in deep shit this time.
He snorts vaguely, eyeing his untouched Grand Slam. ]
I try to eat right now, I'm gonna hurl.
[ He's been trying and mostly failing not to constantly watch the others, and now his gaze lifts to the guy by the door, on his what, sixth cup of coffee? Dude's not gonna sleep for a week. ]
Shouldn't we be, I dunno - [ He drops his voice just in time, leaning across the table so Carver? Butcher? The name fits, either way - can hear him. ] - Like, in a safehouse or something? Not, y'know, here?
[ Sitting right out in public, surrounded by giant plateglass windows. Nobody ever gets shot at Taco Cabeza, maybe, but Jesse's long past trusting public places to keep him safe. One sniper bullet through the window, one asshole driving by with a machine gun, and he's a goner.]
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If he has a hobby other than working out, it’d be cooking. It’s practical shit, and it gets him the closest he’s ever been to something resembling zen. Later - assuming they don’t get shot at and Pinkman doesn’t prove more trouble than he’s worth - then Carver will sit down and shove something decent in front of Powell before the guy finally crashes from all the coffee he’s been downing.
Shitty coffee, too. ]
You gotta puke, do it here. You mess up my truck and I’ll hose you down myself.
[ He says it conversationally, not bothering to whisper. It carries more than people think. They’re just two people having a meal. ]
Settle. We move when we get the word.
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I'm not gonna puke in your ride, man.
[ Hence the not eating. So that doesn't happen. Dumbass.
He frowns, trying not to fidget, and watches Carver eat. Like it's just a normal day. Like they're just two people out to brunch at fucking Denny's. Jesse hasn't had so much as a drop of coffee and he feels like he's vibrating out of his skin. He eyes Carver, wondering if maybe he has some weed he can bum off him. Just to help him chill out a little.
Probably not. He drops his gaze to Carver's omelette. ]
That looks disgusting, yo.
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He’ll cook something decent tonight. Wherever they’re stashing Pinkman will have supplies. Assuming they’re not dumping his twitchy ass in a shallow grave somewhere. ]
It’s franchise food. You get what you pay for.
[ These days, he can actually afford his rent and nice food. Will wonders never cease? ]
Look. Chill the fuck out. Your money’s good, then we’re fine. We’ve done this before.
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[ At one time, money, having it or not having it and how to get more (always how to get more), would have been all Jesse was thinking about. Now he just sounds tired. He drags his hands over his face, then up through his hair, resting his elbows on the table and sighing heavily. ]
You do this a lot? Hang out at Denny's and eat shitty eggs from a carton?
[ He's maybe needling Carver more than he has to, but fuck, what else is he supposed to do? Worst case scenario, he's thinking about what had driven him here and scared out of his mind. Best case, he's not thinking about it and he's bored out of his skull. Lose-lose all around. ]
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[ Yeah. Maybe Pope shouldn't have made him the face on this one. He's going bitchy all over again, flashback to his very short and unfulfilling career in the hospitality industry. Only this time he's got people he actually cares about to support and fucking this up isn't an option. If he fucked up in the old days, maybe he wouldn't make his rent. If he fucks up now, he disappoints his brothers, and that's unthinkable.
So step the fuck up, soldier.
He drinks his coffee, in the meantime. No ding on his burner phone, so they're holding tight for now. ]
If the contract calls for it, yeah. We get shit done. And my people are getting shit down, so chill before everyone here remembers your twitchy ass.
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cw for torture
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screw it imma just break the time-space continuum
That's a tomorrow problem, though. Right now he's actually feeling shaky he's so hungry, and this Denny's was just across the road from where the trucker he'd hitched a ride up from Las Cruces with had dropped him off. He can't risk going home anyway, might as well kill time here.
Except when he enters the restaurant and glances around, he spots someone he recognizes. The scrawny guy huddled up in the corner booth. Nacho doesn't know his name offhand, but thinks he used to be a regular at Tuco's parties. One of Domingo's friends, right? Hmm. It's just not worth the risk being in the same space. Hungry or not he's about to turn and slip back into the night when the lone server working calls out to him "Just a minute, hon!" and the scrawny guy looks up to see who's come in.
Their eyes meet. There's recognition there.
Shit. ]
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And maybe it is. Jesse had thought they were finally safe, with both him and Krazy-8 gone, with Tuco's goddamn right-hand men as dead as he is. No one else to recognize them, no one to carry on the grudge or try to kidnap them and bring them to fucking Mexico or anything else. He can finally breathe, can finally walk around without being scared that someone's gonna yank him into an alley and shove a gun in his mouth. He even goes out to get some food. A little celebration.
And then who should walk into the restaurant but fucking Nacho.
Jesse doesn't know him at all, really. Doesn't know anything about him except his association with Tuco, and that's enough. He shoots to his feet, but there's one door and Nacho's between him and it. Fuck it. Better to die running than sit here and let himself get caught. He dashes for the door, dodging tables, but Nacho moves at the last minute and Jesse crashes right into him, and the glass door shatters as they both go flying through it. ]
Fuck - shit - fuck -
[ He tries to stand, trips on his oversized jeans and ends up right back on his ass again. There's glass everywhere, cuts all over both of them, and holy shit, if Nacho has a gun he's dead right now. He acts first, trying to pin him or frisk him for a gun or maybe just stun him long enough that he can get away. ]
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Worse, now the waitress will call the cops on them and at three in the morning they'll be here in no time at all. Fuck shit fuck is right, man. The only upside here is that the other guy is scrawny and panicking and Nacho is neither. He allows himself to be pinned but as frantic hands pat over his pockets he snags the guy's wrists and holds tight, making sure he won't be trying to run again. He's too tired to chase somebody down right now. ]
Hey. Quit it, the hell is going on with you?
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Yo, man, I don't want any trouble, alright? I'm not the guy you want anyway. I'm not the guy!
[ He yanks at his wrists again, getting nothing but a painful twinge in his right one from his efforts, and winces, hissing in pain. ]
Shit!
idk what canon point this is, i'm just spitballing out a tag here kjgfdgfdg
Dennys. Now. Need to talk.
That was the message Walt had sent Pinkman an hour ago. Of course, when Walt says now, he means NOW, but with the way Pinkman seems to have been avoiding him lately... Walt just wants to watch him, make him sweat a little. Take note of how much Pinkman fidgets. How much Pinkman looks at his phone. See if he's messaging anyone, if he's talking to anyone on the phone. Nobody ignores the great Heisenberg and simply gets to rest easy. Especially Pinkman.
Finally, Walt glances at his watch. A small scratchy cough that's been niggling at him more and more lately tries to kick its way out of his throat. He swallows it back. Right. He's been here just a little over half an hour. That's enough time to leave Pinkman sweating. Walt starts up his car, pulls it into gear and flicks on the headlights, and pulls away from the curb. He swerves into the Denny's parking lot, his tyres whining with a brief squeal on cement. He pulls up two parking spaces down from Jesse's car, kills the engine, and climbs out.
Into Denny's he walks. Walt does a casual scan of the restaurant as he approaches Pinkman's booth — the restaurant is mostly empty, save for a few late-night stragglers — and he just as casually takes a seat opposite him. Casual as anything, as though he isn't an hour late, as though he hadn't sent a text message with a sharp undertone of urgency.
Walt fixes Pinkman with a stare. ]
walt is the worst, i love it
So when he gets the text that says now, he goes. Drops everything and heads straight there, doesn't even ask why, even though it's the middle of the freaking night. He goes, because Mr. White told him to, and Mr. White would do the same for him, right?
Sure.
It must be important. Has to be. Another threat, or maybe someone's already dead. And when he gets there, and waits, and waits, and Mr. White doesn't show, he can feel his anxiety ramping up. He sits in the booth, alternately fidgeting and drumming his fingers anxiously on the table, glancing at the clock on the wall and at the door and out the window, where it's too dark to see a thing. He doesn't text Mr. White, or call him, because what if they've already got him? What if they're monitoring his phone, or tracking it, or...
When Walt finally, finally comes in, sliding into the seat across from him like there's absolutely nothing wrong, just sits there and stares at him, Jesse's so stunned that for a moment all he can do is stare back, open-mouthed.
And then he snaps. ]
What the fuck, yo?
[ He has just enough brains left to hiss it instead of yell it, staring at Walt like he's insane. Because he is. ]
What the fuck, man, where were you? I thought you were dead!
[ His voice shakes a little as he says it, because it's true. He'd been growing more and more conficned as the minutes ticked by, because what else could explain why he hadn't showed? What else could keep him away if it was that freaking important? ]
and your jesse is just fab!!! i love it!
Walt tilts his head, ever so slightly, with icy smug contempt, as he observes how fretful Pinkman is. Good. Just as Walt wants him: squirming in his obscenely juvenile, oversized pants.
For a long, hard, needling moment: cold silence. Cold, disparaging silence. Let the little untrustworthy junkie piece of shit squirm a little more. ]
You... [ Walt repeats Pinkman slowly, emphatically — nay, mockingly ] thought I... was dead.
[ He punctuates that with more steely silence. Gives Pinkman a moment to let that sink into his thick junkie skull.
Suddenly, Walt lunges forward in his seat, leaning as far into Pinkman's space as he can with the booth's table between them. Like a predator lunging at its prey. ]
And why might that be? Hm? [ His voice is oh-so quietly sinister, cold. Eyes narrowing, lips twisting into a spiteful sneer. He tilts his head the other way, revelling in staring Pinkman down. ] I mean... is that what you're hoping for? Is it, Pinkman?
[ Is Walt being deliberately confusing? Deliberately cornering Pinkman in a way that's designed to undermine and befuddle him in every way imaginable? Oh, yes. Yes, he is. Walt is angry. And when Walt is angry, there's nothing he enjoys more than watching this little traitorous shit come undone under the monumental strain of attempting to rub two brain cells together.
Although, two brain cells is being far too generous. That's two brain cells too many for Pinkman to be in any way capable of possessing. ]
<333
He jerks back when Walt lunges forward, eyes going wide in alarm. What the fuck? Sure, Mr. White's always been...eccentric, or whatever. And lately he's been worse. Cold, and frightening. Obsessed with assuring himself of Jesse's loyalty to him. But even so, Jesse's never felt quite this threatened by him before.
Then it comes. The accusation. Jesse's eyes go even wider, and he shakes his head frantically. ]
What? No!
[ He can't think that, can he? For all their problems lately, it had never occurred to Jesse to wish for that. They've been partners for years. Mr. White's saved his life, more than once. He leans forward again, shaking his head earnestly. ]
Why would I want that? Why would I - hope for that? [ He pauses, just looking at him, and then shakes his head. ] I came here cause you fuckin' texted me, yo. You said now and then you didn't show! What was I supposed to think?
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A derisive scoff clips out of him at Pinkman's wide-eyed innocent "oh, why would I want you dead, Mr. White? Why would I hope for that?" act. Walt isn't stupid — he knows Pinkman hates him. All the more reason to keep him under close control, like a dog that needs to be chained up for its own good.
Walt lunges forward again, his hands abandoning his knees as he sets his elbows on the table. He hunches in, secretively, voice hissing quietly: ]
If you'd followed through on my instructions, you wouldn't have had to sit here worrying about that, would you? Which means you haven't followed through on my instructions. At all. Have you? I assume the cigarette is still in your possession.
[ The ricin cigarette. How many chances has Jesse had now to slip Gus the ricin? Walt lifts a hand, thumps his elbow on the table, stabs an accusing finger at Jesse. ]
I ask you to do one thing, Pinkman. One thing. After everything I've done for you. Everything. You can't even follow through on one thing I've asked you to do.
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But he doesn't hate him. He can't. Mr. White had been there for him when no one else had, seen potential in him - just like back in high school, but unlike back then, he'd helped Jesse actually realize that potential. He'd made Jesse his apprentice. Come to depend on him - when had anyone ever actually depended on Jesse, before him? And he'd saved Jesse's life. He knows that.
The truth is, Walt had never had to worry about Jesse's loyalty. He's probably unwittingly hurt more than he'd helped by constantly pushing him. All he'd had to do was what he'd always done. Believe in Jesse. Give him the approval he'd never been able to earn from anyone else. Be his friend.
Instead, this. Jesse sighs, dropping his head to glare miserably down at the table. ]
I told you, man. I haven't had a chance yet.
[ And it's true, he hasn't had a chance. Not a good one. Not a guarantee that it would work, and that no one else would be hurt in the process. He looks back up at Walt, expression pleading. If he would just understand. ]
This isn't something you wanna fuck up, yo!
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