and one. counting bodies like sheep

"Pinkman's going to be a problem."

He has heard the exact same set of words in the past but has never given them much weight. This time, Mike's words had enough gravitas to warrant his attention.

He shifts his focus from the ledger on the desk to Mike. Mike doesn't elaborate right away; for Mike, this passes as a rare sign of hesitation. "He found out about Tenoch," Mike explains, after a pause.

Tenoch. He narrows his eyes. "If I recall correctly, we've taken measures to avoid precisely this specific problem."

"He figured it out anyway." Mike shrugs in his chair. "You were right - he's not a total idiot."

At any other point in time, he may have found this rather amusing, Mike's unwilling admission of almost-respect for Jesse Pinkman. This isn't any other time. He sits back and contemplates options. There are a few solutions, none of which he's terribly inclined to employ. "Where is he now?"

"On his way in."

"Is he using?"

"Not since last year." Mike adds, after a moment, "Our people at DEA and FBI haven't heard any rumblings. The kid hasn't gone to them."

Of course he hasn't. Mike is of the belief that the kid falls under the heading of either liability or casualty. He agrees with Mike, but for entirely different reasons.

"He's not going to back off either way," Mike concludes, resolutely practical. "He'll want to talk to you. Want to change things."

"When it comes to that, I'll deal with him."

"I know how you feel about the kid. I can take care of it, with your permission."

Walt White chooses not to control his expression for a moment. Mike may be better at hiding his emotions than any person in this particular field of industry, where emotion is already a rare commodity, but even Mike cannot always hide a flinch.

Walt collects his anger and considers.

Jesse has always been a blind spot. Blind spots cannot exist, not in this line of business. Logic dictates it; reason certainly demands it. To fortify yourself against all possible threats, offense is the best option.

He's still reluctant.

Not a few minutes later, there's a slight commotion outside. Even before the guards call in with the name of the drop-in, Walt recognizes the sound of the rushed steps that belong to Jesse. Jesse, face flushed and hair ruffled, enters the office unhindered by Walt's men outside, his weapon unchecked, a consideration that very few enjoy.

Jesse's hair is a bit too long, Walt observes. He needs a haircut soon. The clothes are ill-fitting; it's possible he's lost some weight recently.

Still, his eyes are lucid and alert. He's not using.

"Excuse us, Mike," Walt orders.

Mike gets up, slowly and politely and as non-threateningly as possible, though no one in the room is fooled; Jesse does his very best not to look at Mike, his jaw stiffening with the effort to hide his anger. As always, Jesse's face telegraphs everything. This incurs odd, tender feelings in Walt, rather than annoyance.

He tries not to examine his feelings too closely.

"Do you know?" Jesse asks immediately, once Mike closes the door behind him. It's unlikely Jesse has any idea what he sounds like - angry and frightened and maybe even hopeful, and not a day older than a ten-year-old. "Do you know what he did?"

Walt pushes back his chair and trains his eyes on him, calm and reproachful. "Did you imagine that Mike would ever make any operational decision without my consent, Jesse?"

Walt watches, almost fascinated, as the hope in Jesse's expression fades.

Oh Jesse, Jesse, Jesse, Walt thinks. Jesse, too, has blind spots where Walter's concerned, this willful and forceful blindness, wanting to believe in lies when all things suggest otherwise, always looking for reasons to convince himself the opposite. And when what he wants to believe and what he knows to be true become strictly incongruent, Jesse breaks down in tiny, fragile pieces. It's always been a show of mercy, Walter thinks, to help Jesse believe whatever he wants to believe, just to keep him on the wagon.

This time, it's too late for that particular brand of help. This will be one issue Jesse isn't willing to stay blind on. And this Jesse is sober.

And he's pacing. When he turns around to face Walt, his arms are wrapped around his chest like that would protect him from the truth somehow. "Why? They didn't - this didn't have to happen."

"Nicaraguans were encroaching in our territory." Walt employs the tone he often and effectively utilizes to explain a high level concept to a particularly slow student in a make-up class. "They had already been sufficiently warned, but did not listen. A show of force -"

"A show of -" Jesse stops, rakes a hand through his hair and grits out, "Are you listening to me? Are you even listening to yourself? Mr. White, this didn't have to happen."

"I disagree, Jesse."

"Christ. Mr. White, Mike killed everyone in his family!"

"I ordered it, yes."

Jesse's eyes are wide and incredulous, like this is, after all this time, still a surprise to him.

"What would have happened if this hasn't been taken care of, Jesse?" The desire to correct Jesse, to destroy and wipe off that look on his face, is almost overwhelming. "It wouldn't have stopped with Tenoch. There are already goods coming in from Nevada and across the borders, and they're beginning to copy our formula - badly, but copying nonetheless. This is a threat that needs to be put a stop to, and now, it's been successfully managed. So, tell me, Jesse, why this shouldn't have happened."

"Because -" Jesse starts out, but his word is halted, like his breath is caught with it. He puts his hands over Walt's desk, his head hanging between his shoulders, and frustration radiates from his entire body. "Because it's not right, Mr. White. Does that even register with you anymore? This isn't something you just do. This is not right."

What Jesse offers is so morally archaic, so simple, and all so irrelevant. "No, of course not. But that's not a good enough reason not to do what's necessary."

Gradually Jesse's head turns up and his eyes meet Walt's. His lips tighten until they're nothing but a thin line on his face.

"Are you sick again?" Jesse asks, but it's not really a question. "Because I kept wondering, when I found out, I kept thinking about why you would do this and thought to myself maybe, maybe cancer's back. Maybe that's why. That has to be it. But it isn't, is it?"

Walt sits back and lets Jesse draw his own conclusions.

"Even when you were being a particular pain in the ass, even when everything went to shit, even when I - " Jesse swallows the next words, but Walt hears them behind the silence - even when I had to kill Gale. "I never once wished cancer got to you. Never once thought maybe you shouldn't have gone into remission years ago. Never. But now," Jesse's voice breaks, "I don't know. I don't know anymore, Mr. White."

Jesse looks at him, and there's a sudden spark of resentment inside Walt, rotten and acerbic.

Because it's not the expected anger or disappointment that is staring back at him now. Jesse looks at him like Walt has just crumbled his heart, and Walt both loves and hates this, that Jesse still thinks he gets to have expectations of Walt, that Jesse still maintains his naivety when all of Walt's has dissipated more than a lifetime ago. No, not dissipated. It's been a calculated decision, and he's worked diligently at denting it away, while Jesse - Jesse steadfastly, stubbornly, infuriatingly remains Jesse still, even when various drugs of his choice have been eating him inside and out.

What's more ridiculous, maybe, is that Walt may have encouraged this by sheltering him, letting Jesse hold onto the archaic, moralistic perspective that Walt, by all rights, should have crushed a long time ago.

Jesse, this Jesse, is a thorn in his side, constantly reminding him of the things he no longer is.

It's not too late, he supposes, to teach Jesse otherwise.

He leans back against his chair and watches. "Mike informs me that Sector Five distribution hasn't met the quota this month. It is yours, isn't it, Jesse?"

Jesse freezes on spot. "Please don't."

"In fact, it hasn't been met for several months. Six months, almost."

"Mr. White, they're just, they're just trying to survive."

"If they don't stop dealing on the side, they will have to go, Jesse."

"They won't. They can't. It's their meal ticket at stake, their livelihood. Just let this go, for once. Please."

Distilled down to the finest elements, everything about Jesse is simple, and certainly predictable. Jesse doesn't even try to deny that he hasn't been properly collecting their dues. And, absurdly, Jesse even now tries to appeal to Walt, seeking his understanding.

"That's not how this works, Jesse. Have you truly learned nothing? Where is your leverage? Leverage, Jesse. Try. Change my mind."

Jesse trips over Walt's sharp words, and Walt can see him trying to grasp at straws. "Does your wife know?" Jesse asks after a drawn-out moment of hesitation, like it's his trump card that he's closely guarded over the years. "What would she say if she finds out that you're decimating people and their families like this over nothing? Over - over some money?"

That's a little better, Walt thinks. "She doesn't know, and it will remain that way." Walt is unconcerned by the implied and impotent threat. Jesse would never bring this up to Skyler, for the same reason he'd never go to the cops. Jesse wouldn't, if not for Walt's sake, then at least for Skyler, and for Holly and Walter Jr. That's one fixed variable in this equation he has already ascertained. "What else do you have, Jesse?"

Jesse shuts his eyes briefly, his shoulders hunched tight. "You can't do this, Mr. White." His voice is impossibly young again.

"But I can, and I will, Jesse, and you know that. So, the heart of the question isn't whether or not I can or will carry this out. The question becomes, what's going to stop me? Or, who's going to stop me? You?"

Walt glances at the direction of the gun he knows Jesse has tucked away inside his jacket. Jesse follows his eyes and realizes what Walt's looking at; when he looks up, his eyes are wide again, except now they hold fear.

And Walt is curious, as he almost always is over correlations between cause and reaction. All the elements coming together to react to the catalyst may create an explosion or an implosion. "You may be right," Walt concedes, as if this has been Jesse's idea all along. "That, probably, is the only way to stop me."

"No. Mr. White-" Jesse reaches for his gun, his fingers clumsy and in denial. "No, that's not -"

"- So, are you going to shoot me, Jesse?"

Jesse looks wide-eyed and sincere and terrified. There's cruel, crude thrill in this, watching Jesse stumble so helplessly; this is reined in by the equally strong, contrasting pull of not wanting to see Jesse, who's always been too soft for this life, suffer this through. But whatever is reining Walt in, he quells it ruthlessly. Jesse needs to learn.

It will bleed, it will hurt, once the thorn's pulled out. But it needs to be pulled out.

So Walt pushes, just a little more, for that perfect amount of give.

"Let's walk this through. You've got to think this through, Jesse. What's the plan? Will you pull the trigger? If so, what will be the next move? Do you want to be the next kingpin? Mike's outside, as are my men. Would they accept you as the next in line, or would they just execute you on sight? What's the next move, Jesse?"

"Please don't do this," Jesse pleads. The gun is still his hand, but it's hanging loose, and in any minute it could simply slip from his grip. "You don't have to anymore. You can retire. You don't need the money, you've never needed the money, and it's not even about cooking and creating something perfect anymore. We're so far from that now. Don't you see that?"

"You should know better." Walt shakes his head in disappointment. "One does not just simply walk away from this. The safety of my family -"

"-What safety? No one's going to touch you or your family even if you walk away right this second, not when you're the great and fearful Heisenberg. You know that. Please, Mr. White. This isn't you. This, all this, has never been you."

Walt's wandering mind briefly revisits his contemplation on the nature of willful blindness. The strangest of fate concocted and conspired that, in this incomprehensible way, the one person who knows him better than anyone else in the world, better than his wife and children, and the one who seems to have the most mistaken impression of who Walt White is, are actually one and the same, this kid in front of him, this kid who cannot even hold a gun properly.

"On the contrary," Walt says, as gently as he is capable of, "this is exactly who I am, Jesse."

Jesse stares at him, disbelief still in his eyes. There's little attention being paid to the gun in his hand. Walt can, if he wants to, experiment and push things even further. All he has to do is say five relatively simple words.

I let Jane die, Jesse.

But maybe he doesn't want that, not yet. Facing pain and recrimination would be an unpleasant experience Walt would rather avoid at the moment, and there are always other feelings associated with bringing back this memory.

- I killed her, and I loved her -

He remembers Jesse unfolding and shriveling in his arms, a sobbing wreckage wound so tight that it wouldn't unwind except by Walt's prying hands.

It's heady and devastating at the same time, knowing he's given with that much blind trust all so freely without any condition. And that may be why he's so indulgent with Jesse, all this time.

When Walt looks up, Jesse's gun is aimed at him.

Well, now.

"Promise me you'll stop this, that you're changing your mind," Jesse demands, his voice steadier, more solid than it has ever been tonight, than it's been for months. "Promise me you will walk away from this, that you'd never ever do this again."

Well, now, this is certainly more than he's hoped for.

Walt considers for a moment and stands up.

And walks around the desk.

"Mr. White -"

Walt walks up to Jesse. He stops only when Jesse falters, backed up against the wall.

Walt takes another step to close the gap with the gun hanging between them; Jesse flinches.

"Or, what, Jesse? What will be the repercussions if I refuse to make such promises? Will you be making use of that gun tonight?"

Jesse still manages to hold himself together, but it's a bare-threaded effort. They stand at an arm's length, close enough for Walt to see through Jesse's panic from the tremor going through his hand.

Walt is dully disappointed, though perhaps this is the expected outcome. "If you plan to bluff, do it properly," Walt berates him and feels little pity. "Think it though."

The tumult in Jesse's eyes slowly settles into a quiet recalcitrance. "You're really sure I don't have the guts to pull this off, aren't you?"

It's not a sneer, not quite, but Walt knows a knowing grin is making its way into his face. "I'm not omniscient, Jesse. My judgment can only be based on previous experiences. No more, no less."

It takes longer than Walt would like for Jesse to work out the insinuation behind his words. Walt can tell the exact moment Jesse gets it because there's a flash of anger, and his fingers tighten over his revolver. "And you really want to test me on this."

There's a moment where they only stare at each other.

There have been times when Walt wanted to see this; he may have been craving and dreading it, in a rather contradictory way, for this steely look in Jesse's eyes to emerge. Walt has very seldom seen it surface, but when it does, he feels a rush of paternal pride, and of disquiet.

The safety's turned off with a loud, resounding click.

It is probable, Walt muses, that this is exactly what he's been pushing for.

"All right," Jesse says softly. "You win, Mr. White."

And Jesse pulls the trigger.

When the door swings open, when the shot rings out, Walt's eyes are on Jesse's. In that slow, petrified moment, Walt doesn't miss the shock flicker through the blue eyes before Jesse lurches backward.

Jesse slumps against the wall.

Walt reaches out and grasps at Jesse's arm, but he's slow, too slow - he doesn't, cannot stop the descent in time. Jesse collapses onto the floor, taking Walt down with him.

There's blood on Jesse's shirt.

Mike is standing over them, as are Walt's men. Mike presses a foot down on Jesse's wrist and snatches the revolver away from Jesse's loosened grip.

Walt doesn't have to look up to know Mike also has another gun, his own, in his hand, having just used it.

No. Walt thinks, No. Something's wrong. Something is -

Walt's hand trails down Jesse's arm. Jesse is breathing, his unseeing eyes still open and his fist clutching at his chest.

Walt unravels Jesse's fist. He knows what he will find.

In Jesse's palm are six bullets.

From outside his periphery, Walt sees Mike hastily checking the chambers of Jesse's revolver. All of them are empty.

Of course.

Mike's rough voice breaks the stunned silence in the room: "I'll call for help."

There are footsteps, in and out.

Walt hears nothing.

He thinks, Catalyst. The right mix. Calculation. And this. This.

Jesse has such a thin, gangly wrist. It doesn't hold much weight in Walt's hand. Neither does his entire body, in fact. Walt, suddenly awake, frantically reaches out and presses his hands on Jesse's chest. The heart's still beating, it's still there - it's still -

"Mr. White," Jesse murmurs. When Walt looks up, he sees there are tears brimmming in Jesse's eyes. "Everything's so...contaminated now. Isn't it?"

"Jesse, I-" he stops. He doesn't, cannot continue. His hands shake.

Jesse coughs and smiles a little. "...sorry."

"No," Walt says. No. No.

The world takes on a familiar glow of red and Walt sees nothing else but this.

His hands are stained with Jesse's blood.

end