Chapter Text
Albuquerque’s desert chill seeps through the cracked window of the RV, parked like a forgotten tombstone in the scrubland outside town. Inside, Walter sits rigid on the threadbare bench seat, knuckles white where they grip his khaki-clad thigh. His leg jitters uncontrollably—a metronome counting down the seconds until Tuco Salamanca’s crew arrives. Cancer gnaws at his insides, but right now, the fear is colder, sharper. One mistake, he thinks, and Skyler explains to Walt Jr. why Daddy’s in a barrel.
Across the narrow aisle, Jesse slouches against a cabinet plastered with faded band stickers. He tracks the frantic tremor in Walt’s leg, the way it makes the whole chassis shudder. Beneath the chemical reek of meth, sweat, and stale burritos, Jesse smells fear—thick and metallic. His own pulse thrums against his ribs.
"Chill, Mr. White," he mutters, voice rough. "Dude’s probably just late."
Walter doesn’t acknowledge him. His gaze drills into the dust-streaked windshield. Jesse shifts, the vinyl seat creaking. Slowly, deliberately, he extends his scuffed Vans sneaker. The worn canvas sole brushes Walt’s polished brown loafer. Walt flinches like he’s been shocked—a tiny, sharp intake of breath—but doesn’t pull away. His leg stills momentarily.
Emboldened, Jesse presses down gently, the rubber tread catching on leather. Then, testing, he starts swinging his foot back and forth. Back. Forth. A lazy pendulum. Walt’s breath hitches again. His eyes flick down to their feet—Jesse’s faded graffiti print Vans pinning his sensible shoe to the grimy floor mat.
Jesse swallows. "Kinda helps, right? The rocking?"
Walter’s jaw tightens. He stares straight ahead, but his leg relaxes infinitesimally under the pressure. Outside, a tumbleweed scrapes against the RV’s siding. Inside, the only sound is the syncopated scrape of fabric on leather—Jesse’s deliberate rhythm, Walt’s ragged breathing.
Walter’s voice rasps, barely audible. "They’re late."
"Yeah," Jesse breathes. He doesn’t stop swinging.