[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.]
[And Sonya...Sonya hates Jesse Pinkman. She hates him with every fiber of her being, every capillary and tendon, down through the depths of her soul. She hates him so much. But she also...
Her brother had come out of Sing Sing like this. Struggling with addiction, hardened and sad. Mom and Father hadn't wanted anything to do with him, and Mehrdad and Omaid had been too young to make decisions on her own. Sonya alone had been caught at the crossroads - side with her parents or side with her brother, her brother whom she'd ruined by being...smart, and obedient, and bratty, and a bitch, and awful in every way so that Mom and Father had gotten disgusted with him. And she'd sided with him, gone to see him, and gone to watch him die on 139th and Willis. Hadn't gotten to him until he'd bled out.
So maybe that's a little bit of it. Maybe that's why she closes her eyes, pain pricking below and behind the crease of her lids, and gently rocks him back and forth. And maybe that's why her lips purse so that she can hush him like she would a baby, whispering that instinctual, ancient sound of comfort - that Shhhh, shh shh shhh, shhhhh, shh shh shh. And that's why her hand moves every once in a while, rubbing his back, as she murmurs:]
[Eventually, he physically cannot cry any longer. His head hurts, his throat is sore, and his eyes have dried up. His sobs fade into hiccuped gasps and sniffs. The shaking of his shoulders settles back into the exhausted, ever-present tremble that's characteristic of withdrawal.
Jesse becomes aware, at some point, that he's curled up against her but he must have long out-stayed his welcome, now that all he's doing is trying to breathe steadily. He picks up his head and slowly eases back, retreating to a more comfortable distance.]
[And she eases back as well, disentangles herself from him and goes over to her bag. She picks it up, opens it, pulls a kleenex out - blots some of the moisture off her shoulder. But for once she does so without judgment or condemnation or displeasure; her gestures are just matter-of-fact. Doing what has to be done without recrimination.
Then she pulls out a few aspirin, tips them into her palm and holds them out to him. As she does, she asks - ]
[She nods, and disappears at once into the kitchen. About a minute elapses, and then there's a beeping, and then she emerges once again: in her hand is a mug, filled with warm milk, scented with a bit of vanilla and cinnamon, sweetened with just a little sugar. She hands it to him gingerly.]
Careful. It's a bit hot. I guess maybe that mug wasn't microwave-safe.
[His hands are cold, anyway, so he hardly notices the heat. He's already swallowed his aspirin. Now he takes a tentative sip. The way his hands shake, it's a little difficult to hold the mug, but he manages.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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Her brother had come out of Sing Sing like this. Struggling with addiction, hardened and sad. Mom and Father hadn't wanted anything to do with him, and Mehrdad and Omaid had been too young to make decisions on her own. Sonya alone had been caught at the crossroads - side with her parents or side with her brother, her brother whom she'd ruined by being...smart, and obedient, and bratty, and a bitch, and awful in every way so that Mom and Father had gotten disgusted with him. And she'd sided with him, gone to see him, and gone to watch him die on 139th and Willis. Hadn't gotten to him until he'd bled out.
So maybe that's a little bit of it. Maybe that's why she closes her eyes, pain pricking below and behind the crease of her lids, and gently rocks him back and forth. And maybe that's why her lips purse so that she can hush him like she would a baby, whispering that instinctual, ancient sound of comfort - that Shhhh, shh shh shhh, shhhhh, shh shh shh. And that's why her hand moves every once in a while, rubbing his back, as she murmurs:]
It's okay. It's okay.
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Jesse becomes aware, at some point, that he's curled up against her but he must have long out-stayed his welcome, now that all he's doing is trying to breathe steadily. He picks up his head and slowly eases back, retreating to a more comfortable distance.]
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Then she pulls out a few aspirin, tips them into her palm and holds them out to him. As she does, she asks - ]
Do you have any milk?
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Um... I think so.
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Careful. It's a bit hot. I guess maybe that mug wasn't microwave-safe.
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...Thanks.
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It's what my mom used to do for me.
[And then she realizes what she said, and immediately scowls at him:]
Not that I have cried or will ever cry.