It was beautiful.

Walt had scoffed when Pinkman had said it before – that this was art – but as he gazes at the crystal in his hand, he can't help but agree. It was perfectly formed, perfectly sized, more pure than a snowflake in the stratosphere, and the clearest, bluest blue he'd ever seen. He holds it up to the light and marvels at the way it sparkles, thousands of tiny refracted rays spilling rainbows onto the floor.

Beautiful.

He could almost forget that it was poison, could almost forget that this was something that ruined people's lives, could almost forget all the things he had to do to get here. The blood on his hands. The concern in Sklar's voice, and the pain in her eyes. All was forgotten here, standing under the Albuquerque sky with the product in his hand.

"Mr. White?"

He turns at the voice, and has to revoke his previous statement - the eyes staring back at him were bluer than any crystal could be.

Beautiful.

"You all right?" Jesse looks concerned, and Walt nods in response, smiling reassuringly.

"I'm fine. Everything's fine."

He puts the piece back down on the table and pulls his mask back on.

"Let's cook."

…~…

Author's Note:

Just in case we have any meteorology nerds in here, yes, I know, snowflakes form in the troposphere. 'Stratosphere' flowed better. And, you gotta admit, sort of enforced the hyperbolic nature of the metaphor – if a snowflake is way up in the stratosphere, it must be purer than pure, right? Or something?

…Hell, I just liked the alliteration. Sue me.