"I'm waiting here tonight for you to come
But your love just disappeared
I'm waiting in the dark for miracles
Miracles don't happen here…"
Stone Sour, "Miracles"
Jesse looks over at Mr. White, glares at him.
"What do you want, coming over here, exactly? Last time I saw you, you said that my meth was garbage, no good."
Mr. White seems to brush off the reminder.
"Mike came to me," he replies bluntly. "Said that he's seen you driving over to Donald Margolis' house. Care to tell me about that?"
"Excuse me, what?" Jesse blurts. "You've got Mike tailing me? Why? To make sure I don't do… what, exactly? And it's none of your business."
"Jesse, if you're over there harassing that poor man, I swear…"
"I'm sleeping with him."
Jesse gets a certain level of satisfaction from just how low Mr. White's jaw drops.
"You are doing what?"
"I'm sleeping with Donald Margolis. Don't make me say it three times," Jesse mutters. "It's not any of your business, like I said."
"In what way, Jesse, does that seem like any kind of a good idea?"
"Not in any way, Mr. White. But it's my life and it's what… it's what I'm doing for now. And it helps, sometimes, so just… don't try and understand. Just accept that it's my choice and give a shit about me. But if you don't want to be in my life then just get the fuck out, don't send people to spy on me."
Mr. White turns and leaves, pausing only to shoot another disbelieving glance over his shoulder at Jesse.
He probably intends to return, but Jesse's not sure if he'll let him back in if he does.
Donald sits back, hands affixed to the steering wheel, as he tries to decide whether he really wants to do this. Recently, there hasn't been much of a choice. He's lost it all – his family, his profession… He can't even sleep anymore, except for those nights when Jesse lays curled up against him, and how screwed up is that?
He can save the boy. Get him out of this; he still has a chance, really, his whole life ahead of him.
Donald on the other hand…
He turns on the car. At least it won't hurt. It'll be painless, just slumber, quiet and restful, and maybe out of the darkness he'll hear Jane's voice, telling him everything is going to be okay soon, before she takes his hand.
The call to sleep starts slowly, pulling at his chest as he breathes in, lets it take over. He feels his hands grow heavy, then his head, feels it leaning forward, wanting to relax, wanting to rest.
In rest he won't see so many accusing faces, he won't hear newscasters jockeying to ask him what went wrong, how he screwed up so badly.
When he rests, finally rests, he'll feel Dinah's arms around him again, hear Jane's voice again; they won't ask him why, they'll only welcome him home. Welcome him and tell him it will all be okay, not to worry, not to fight it.
His eyes slip shut. It will all be better, soon.
Jesse can't tell what makes him want to drive over to Donald's after his awkward confrontation with Mr. White. Maybe he needs to bounce it off of the older man, see what he thinks about all of this, what he believes they're doing here. But more than that, there's something deep inside Jesse at that moment that almost makes his heart skip a beat, some sense that he needs to go over there now.
He parks on the street and walks up to the door; he lets himself in with his key. Donald isn't there – maybe he should check the garage to see if his car is there. He doesn't have a key to the garage, but he opens a couple of doors before finding one that leads into it.
As he steps in, he's hit with the smell of… something. Jesse isn't entirely sure what. Maybe it's all in his mind.
The car is there, and Donald's slumped forward, head against the steering wheel. And maybe he hadn't smelled it because hasn't he read that it was odorless, really, but he knows what it is.
Jesse runs in, hand over his nose, and yanks on the door handle of the car. It's unlocked. He puts his arms around Donald – fuck, he's heavy – and pulls him as hard as he can, gasping with the effort as he breathes through his mouth, and drags the older man into the house before shutting the door.
CPR. He'll have to do CPR.
He chases away memories of Jane, of pounding away on her chest with no luck, losing more hope every second, it becoming more real every second. He doesn't think of that, instead, he starts the motions on Donald.
"Come on, come on, don't die on me, you can't die on me."
Jesse counts one-two-three, press hard, one-two-three, now, and it seems as if it's hopeless again, all too real again and he can't take it. He almost gives up, almost gives up and called it in and will find himself standing as they – no, he'll try one more time, one-two-three, press hard, and this time he hears the smallest, shortest, most reluctant intake of breath.
It's enough to keep him going.
"You're not going to die on me," he repeats, and presses his lips against Donald's, doing a haphazard mouth-to-mouth that seems, somehow, to be working. The man's eyes open. He lets out a loud, hacking cough, and Jesse falls back on his ass and catches his breath before fishing for his phone.
He starts to dial 911, but Donald's hand stops him.
"I'm fine," he says in a dry, throaty voice, "Just shut off the car." Jesse nods, and walks over, turning off the ignition with badly shaking hands. When he returns, he sits cross-legged, a cock-eyed glance warily checking whether Donald is really "fine".
He's still lying down, gazing up at the ceiling, eyes a little glazed over.
"Are you sure I shouldn't call an ambulance?" Jesse asks quietly. "I don't want you to die… I…"
The older man shakes his head.
"I don't know if I want to die, either. I just… I don't know, anymore," he admits. "It seemed… easier than all of this."
"I think we should get you to the hospital," Jesse tells him, reaching out and taking Donald's hand. "You could say it was an accident. You don't have to tell them the truth." He rises, helps Donald to his feet. "I don't want you to die," he repeats. "Please don't."
There is something in the older man's eyes at that, looking at Jesse like he was seeing him for the first time ever. And there is something different for Jesse, too.
He's looking at Donald and feeling more than guilt, more than a desire to run from what had happened to Jane. He's feeling… love, as much as it doesn't make sense. And he doesn't want to lose that.
"I'll drive you to the ER," he whispers. "But you can't go on like this anymore. She wouldn't have… wanted. I don't want, either."
"What do you want, Jesse?" Donald inquires. Jesse couldn't tell whether the question was rhetorical or not, but he answered it anyway.
"I want you."
"Maybe I want you, too," he admits, hesitating. "But how screwed up is that?"
"It's… better than this hole we're in. It's all we have. I want you to live."
Donald nods and slings a hand over Jesse's shoulder.
"You're right. Let's go."