Chapter 4: The Jesse Problem
The house smelled worse than when I'd left.
Four days since transmigration. Two since I'd seen Jesse. I'd been busy—information runs, watching patterns, building the foundation of something that might keep me alive. But the moment I walked through Jesse's front door, guilt hit like a fist to the stomach.
Pizza boxes. Beer cans. Ashtrays overflowing. And Jesse, sprawled on the couch in the same clothes he'd been wearing when I left, eyes fixed on a TV showing nothing but static.
"Yo, Jesse."
No response.
I crossed the room, stepping over debris. The coffee table held evidence of a three-day bender—rolling papers, empty baggies, the chemical residue that made my recovered junkie body twitch with phantom cravings. NZT suppressed the physical urge, but Pete's muscle memory still recognized the setup. Still wanted it.
"Jesse." Louder this time.
His head turned. Slow. Mechanical. Eyes red-rimmed and unfocused.
"Pete? Shit, man. What day is it?"
"Thursday."
"Thursday." He processed this. "I thought it was Tuesday."
"That was two days ago."
Jesse laughed—a hollow sound that had nothing to do with humor. "Time flies when you're having fun, right?" He gestured vaguely at the destruction around him. "Living the dream."
I'd seen depression before. Marcus Gilbert had worked with enough high-functioning addicts on Wall Street to recognize the signs—the way numbness masqueraded as relaxation, the way self-destruction wore a smile. But seeing it in person, in someone whose future I knew, whose suffering I'd watched play out across five seasons of television—
This is where it starts, I realized. Right here. This couch. This moment. The spiral that leads to Walter White, to Jane, to everything that breaks him.
I didn't sit down. Instead, I walked to the kitchen. Jesse's fridge contained beer, questionable leftovers, and half a loaf of bread that had started growing its own ecosystem. The pantry wasn't much better—peanut butter, some crackers, canned soup with an expiration date from last year.
I made sandwiches anyway. Peanut butter on bread that wasn't actively fuzzy. Not gourmet, but calories.
When I set the plate in front of Jesse, he stared at it like I'd handed him a live grenade.
"What's this?"
"Food. You should eat some."
"I'm not hungry."
"Eat anyway."
Something in my voice must have registered, because Jesse picked up the sandwich. He took a bite. Chewed mechanically. Swallowed.
I sat in the chair across from him. The TV static filled the silence between us.
"You been out at all?" I asked.
"Why would I go out?"
"Fresh air. Exercise. Human interaction."
Jesse snorted. "You sound like my mom. Or, like, a guidance counselor or some shit."
"Maybe they had a point."
He looked at me then—really looked, for the first time since I'd arrived. His eyes narrowed, trying to reconcile the Pete he knew with whoever was sitting in front of him now.
"What happened to you, man? Seriously. You're all..." He waved his hand. "Different. Getting healthy, making money, eating real food. It's freaking me out."
I'd prepared for this question. The answer came easy because it wasn't entirely a lie.
"I had a wake-up call. Few nights ago. Bad trip, maybe, or just—I don't know. I woke up and realized I was gonna die if I kept going the way I was going. And I decided I didn't want to die."
Jesse was quiet for a long moment. Then he looked away.
"Must be nice. Having that option."
The words hit harder than they should have. Because I knew what Jesse meant. I knew about his aunt, about his parents who'd written him off, about the suffocating certainty that he was exactly as worthless as everyone said he was. In canon, Walter White would exploit that—become the father figure who finally saw Jesse's potential, then twist that need into a weapon.
I couldn't be Jesse's savior. Saviors created dependency, and dependency created resentment. But I could be something else. A presence. A proof that change was possible.
"It's not an option," I said carefully. "It's a decision. And it's hard as fuck. But the alternative is what—this?" I gestured at the room. "Waiting to die on someone else's timeline?"
"Maybe that's all some of us are good for."
"Bullshit."
Jesse's head snapped toward me. "What?"
"I said bullshit. You're not stupid, Jesse. You're not worthless. You're just surrounded by people who made you believe you are."
His jaw tightened. For a moment I thought he'd kick me out—scream at me to mind my own business, throw the sandwich at my head. That's what the Jesse of later seasons might have done, the one who'd learned to weaponize his anger.
But this Jesse—pre-Walter Jesse—just slumped deeper into the couch.
"You don't know me, man."
"I know enough."
"Yeah? What do you know?"
I know you're going to watch your girlfriend choke on her own vomit while your partner refuses to help. I know you're going to shoot a man in the face to save that partner's life. I know you're going to be beaten, imprisoned, enslaved, and still somehow survive with enough soul left to drive away into the sunrise.
"I know you gave me twenty bucks when you didn't have to," I said instead. "I know you let me crash here without asking for anything. I know your aunt believed in you, and dead people don't get to be wrong. They just get to be gone."
Jesse's eyes went glassy. He blinked rapidly, looked away.
"That's some heavy shit, Pete."
"Yeah, well." I stood up, brushed crumbs off my jeans. "I'm gonna start going to the gym. Planet Fitness, the one on Central. If you ever want to come, the offer's open."
He laughed—still hollow, but with a flicker of something underneath. "Skinny Pete at the gym. That's hilarious."
"Maybe. But at least I'll be there." I headed for the door, then paused. "Eat the sandwich, Jesse. And maybe take a shower. You smell like a dumpster."
"Fuck you too, man."
But he was smiling. Just barely. And when I glanced back from the doorway, he'd picked up the sandwich again.
Small moves. Small wins.
I left the house and walked three blocks before the weight of the conversation hit me. My legs felt heavy. My throat was tight.
This is what caring feels like, I realized. This is why Marcus Gilbert never let himself do it.
On Wall Street, relationships were transactional. You cultivated contacts for their utility, discarded them when they stopped producing value. Clean. Efficient. Empty.
Jesse Pinkman had no utility to me. He couldn't help my plans. He couldn't make me money. He was, by any rational measure, a liability—a connection to a world I was trying to escape, a person who might drag me down with his own self-destruction.
But I'd sat across from him anyway. Made him a sandwich. Told him the truth about who he could be.
Because some things mattered more than plans.
The evening air was cool against my face as I walked. Albuquerque spread around me—strip malls and stucco houses, the Sandias going purple in the fading light. I had $154 in my pocket, a contact who paid for intelligence, and abilities I was still learning to understand.
I also had a friend who was drowning, and no guarantee I could save him.
The phone in my pocket buzzed. A text from Badger: yo pete you around? got some time to kill
I typed back: at the bar on 4th in an hour?
His response came fast: hell yeah see you there
Network building. Information gathering. The slow accumulation of people who might, someday, become something more.
Jesse needed time. I couldn't force his recovery, couldn't drag him out of the pit by sheer will. But I could keep showing up. Keep modeling what change looked like. Keep leaving doors open.
And in the meantime, I had an organization to build.
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