[Which is her cue to, of course, do it again. This one's not nearly so bad; her anger was largely expended in that first one, and she also really hurt her hand a lot so it's gentler. But she still does it, more for the symbolism, and then she leans down in his face and says to him, pronouncing every word with exaggerated distinctness:]
[She's tempted to deliver a third, but Sonya doesn't know how to slap very well and so she's feeling the first two hard in her wrist and elbow. So instead she steps back.]
You don't fucking kill yourself! You don't fucking do that, you inconsiderate - You know all those things I was saying, back there, about how fucking selfish your perspective is? Well, I didn't know the fucking half of it!
Right, because you fucking changed your mind at the last minute? For fuck's sake, you masochistic -
[She grits her teeth and lets out a loud sound of frustration. This is a rare thing, but there's nothing calculated about her anger, nothing artificial, nothing manipulative or cruel or restrained; it's honest, and earnest, and unfeigned, and hot.]
You shit. Do you even know how many people care about you?
No, not okay. You don't...You don't do something like that without even talking to them. You know what it's like, having someone die and not being able to say goodbye?
[And that...She relents at that; her face twists in grief for a moment before she looks away, hiding her expression, because that's not...for him to know.]
Stop crying. And stop apologizing to me. I don't give a shit what happens to you. They do.
[He knows that. He's not really apologizing to Sonya, anyway. He knows he'd be doing her a favor. But she's right. What a terrible thing it would have been. He couldn't even make himself do it before Saul came in. Saul had to be there to take care of things before Lisbeth walked in to find him. He couldn't have it be like it was with Jane. Even in the moment, he'd known that.]
[He could laugh at that threat if he wasn't, you know, devastated right now. He sucks in a breath and wipes at his eyes, trying to get back under control.]
[And, like once before, Sonya goes into his kitchen, and she grabs one of his glasses, and she fills it with water. This time, though, she comes around to him and she half-crouches down so that they're at the same eye level, and she pushes it into his hands and puts a hand on his arm and commands him, stern:]
Take a deep breath, then drink that slowly. Okay? And when you get to the end of it, tell me whether or not you still feel like crying.
[It's Jesse Pinkman. When doesn't he feel like crying, these days? But he does as she says and drinks the water, shutting his eyes so he can pretend he's off in some other universe and it's twenty years ago and he's just been crying over something stupid like a broken Game Boy.
His eyes are still watery when he opens them, but at least he isn't sobbing. He keeps holding onto the empty glass, turning it between his hands.]
[And she rubs his arm, just a little bit. If anyone ever asks - if he asks - she'll swear up and down that it's a precisely calculated, calibrated gesture designed to get him into a state where he can give her the information she wants. But the gesture is still...sort of big sisterly. It doesn't feel mechanical or cynical. And she says:]
You still feel like crying.
[She hates Pinkman lots. She'll swear up and down to that, too. But there's nothing cruel in her voice.]
[Honestly, when someone is being kind to him, he already assumes it's just because they want something from him. Sonya's no exception here. She wants to bring him back down so he doesn't do something psychotic - and he can't blame her, it's completely reasonable to think he might.
But even though he realizes she doesn't give a shit about him, he'll take what he can get when it comes to affection. It's soothing, no matter the reason for it.]
[Such a pathetic thing to admit, especially to her. He expects another slap to come his way, because it sounds so much like the things that tend to piss her off. Fresh tears roll down his cheeks anyway. He can't help that.]
[She straightens up, and then pauses to warn him:]
If you touch me in any sketchy way whatsoever, I will gouge out your fucking eyes.
[And then she takes the glass from his hands, and sets it aside, and then half-sits on the couch and wraps her arms around him to pull him into a hug. Warily at first, ready to fly into a rage if he does something untoward - but then relaxing a bit, encouraging him with a little press of her hand to bury his face in her shoulder.]
[Touch her? He's not even sure he wants her to touch him. Her revulsion is tangible to him. A slap might have been better, because at least he wouldn't feel guilty about it.
So he makes no move to raise his arms and hug her in return. He does, however, lean into her. Because he's weak and needy. Because no one else will hold him right now. Because everyone thinks he wants some distance, and he doesn't want that at all. He wants exactly this: to be held and to be allowed to feel bad without earning disgust or exasperation or outright fear in response.
Pretty soon, Jesse is back to sobbing out loud. It's everything at once. He's crying because he's a murderer and an addict and because he almost abandoned everyone and killed himself - which was as much about fulfilling Mr. White's wish as it was about getting revenge on Saul for helping him in the first place. And he's crying because both of those men hurt him so much and he can't help needing them anyway - because they both deserve to die but Jesse loves them. He loves the Saul who took care of him when he got sick and tried to save his life. He loves the Mr. White who used to take him camping and actually did save his life. He doesn't understand why the people who love him hurt him so much. He doesn't understand why he does the same to the people he loves.
And there's no articulating any of this. All he can do is cry and cry.]
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Stop. Being. A. Fuckface.
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What'd I do?!
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[She's tempted to deliver a third, but Sonya doesn't know how to slap very well and so she's feeling the first two hard in her wrist and elbow. So instead she steps back.]
You don't fucking kill yourself! You don't fucking do that, you inconsiderate - You know all those things I was saying, back there, about how fucking selfish your perspective is? Well, I didn't know the fucking half of it!
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[She grits her teeth and lets out a loud sound of frustration. This is a rare thing, but there's nothing calculated about her anger, nothing artificial, nothing manipulative or cruel or restrained; it's honest, and earnest, and unfeigned, and hot.]
You shit. Do you even know how many people care about you?
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I'm sorry. I'm sorry...
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Stop crying. And stop apologizing to me. I don't give a shit what happens to you. They do.
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I won't try it again. I swear to God, I won't.
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[She struggles with anything adequate - ]
Come and I'll -
[She still struggles, and finally finishes weakly.]
Cut off your...fucking...balls or something. I will.
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Stand up.
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Take a deep breath, then drink that slowly. Okay? And when you get to the end of it, tell me whether or not you still feel like crying.
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His eyes are still watery when he opens them, but at least he isn't sobbing. He keeps holding onto the empty glass, turning it between his hands.]
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You still feel like crying.
[She hates Pinkman lots. She'll swear up and down to that, too. But there's nothing cruel in her voice.]
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But even though he realizes she doesn't give a shit about him, he'll take what he can get when it comes to affection. It's soothing, no matter the reason for it.]
It's gonna be like this for a while.
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So then cry. Get to the end of it. I'll wait until you do.
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[Such a pathetic thing to admit, especially to her. He expects another slap to come his way, because it sounds so much like the things that tend to piss her off. Fresh tears roll down his cheeks anyway. He can't help that.]
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[She straightens up, and then pauses to warn him:]
If you touch me in any sketchy way whatsoever, I will gouge out your fucking eyes.
[And then she takes the glass from his hands, and sets it aside, and then half-sits on the couch and wraps her arms around him to pull him into a hug. Warily at first, ready to fly into a rage if he does something untoward - but then relaxing a bit, encouraging him with a little press of her hand to bury his face in her shoulder.]
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So he makes no move to raise his arms and hug her in return. He does, however, lean into her. Because he's weak and needy. Because no one else will hold him right now. Because everyone thinks he wants some distance, and he doesn't want that at all. He wants exactly this: to be held and to be allowed to feel bad without earning disgust or exasperation or outright fear in response.
Pretty soon, Jesse is back to sobbing out loud. It's everything at once. He's crying because he's a murderer and an addict and because he almost abandoned everyone and killed himself - which was as much about fulfilling Mr. White's wish as it was about getting revenge on Saul for helping him in the first place. And he's crying because both of those men hurt him so much and he can't help needing them anyway - because they both deserve to die but Jesse loves them. He loves the Saul who took care of him when he got sick and tried to save his life. He loves the Mr. White who used to take him camping and actually did save his life. He doesn't understand why the people who love him hurt him so much. He doesn't understand why he does the same to the people he loves.
And there's no articulating any of this. All he can do is cry and cry.]
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