Communicator (communicator) wrote,
Communicator
communicator

Mystery Dance

I wrote a Breaking Bad fanfic, on account of finishing my book.

Context: For most of episode 2.02, Walt and Jesse are absent. Everyone is looking for them. It turns out they spent that episode locked in the trunk (=boot) of Jesse's car together. We never find out any more than that. It's a black box.

Walt's street name is Heisenberg.

My icon (for this post) is a picture of Walt drawn by Jesse.



Mystery Dance

What we observe is not nature itself, but nature exposed to our method of questioning.

Werner Heisenberg


In the dark, in the pitch dark, he struggles. Imprisoned in the trunk of his own lowrider. When the sun gets up it’s going to get hot. He’s scared of thirst. The car ticks in the cold desert.

He can’t see anything. Literally. Nothing. Except white blobs which smear and coalesce until he closes his eyes, and they are still there, closer than his own eyelids.

It’s frightening.

He can smell Mr White. Not a body smell. A smell of laundry. When he thrashes he kicks him in the leg by accident.

‘Keep. Perfectly. Still.’ Mr White says in a forceful whisper from the darkness. His hand touches Jesse’s face, moves left and right as if orienting itself, and then moves to his chest. Presses down firmly. Mr White’s hand on his chest. Warm. He lets his head fall back onto the floor of the trunk. He is staring at the blobs.

‘We are going to get through this, Jesse. If Tuco had wanted to kill us, he has had ample opportunity.’

‘Yeah. Ample.’ Jesse’s voice shakes. He would like to think it sounds like withering sarcasm. He knows what Tuco thinks of him. What it means when he pushes him around. Sends him sprawling on the floor. Every fucking time. Broke his ribs.

‘It’s alright for you. Mr White. He needs you to cook.’

Silence. Mr White breathing.

‘I won’t let anything happen to you.’

What does that even mean? Less than nothing. Mr White never stood between Tuco and Jesse. Never protected him. He imagines how that will feel. If Mr White might sacrifice himself for Jesse. Makes sense right? He’s very old. He’s dying already anyway. If one of them has to die.

Mr White lost his hair. Made him look more brainy. Like Professor Xavier. Impervious to pain. Rising up with his mind power. Science. Having a clue. These undeveloped thoughts calm Jesse, who feels no need to resolve them into coherent meaning. He imagines the drawn images of a comic book character. The Science Professor. You’d be safe with him.

And for a few moments Jesse thinks about a comic book he might draw. Science. Mr White. Brandishing. A massive. He can see the image but he can’t frame the thought.

It is not light – because there is no light. But there is force coming out of Mr White. Perhaps he absorbed so much radiation from his cancer treatment that he sort of soaked it all up. Like Spiderman. Now he’s radiating it back out at Jesse. Mutant radiation.

Jesse can feel the force soaking into him, through the hand on his chest, and all down the right of his body. Dark energy. And behind the force, a black twisting thing like a bloodclot. Jesse can see the clot, because there is nothing else to occupy his eyes, any of his senses.

Suddenly the thought of the dark thing inside the other man is unbearable. A sticky clot of blackness. Death inside. He jerks his head and shoulders up from the floor of the trunk. I can’t breathe. There’s no air. His forehead slams into the metal ceiling a few inches above his face.

He falls back, and the blobs are now bright red.

‘Shhh… Jesse… for god’s sake.’
The psi-function of the entire system would have in it the living and the dead mixed or smeared out in equal parts.

Erwin Schrödinger
They were in Jesse’s stupid car, ticking itself cold in the desert. In the trunk of the car. There was no light. In the freezing cold, Walt felt Jesse shaking in long tremors. He put his hand on Jesse’s chest, tried to still his torso by holding it still, a childish attempt.

‘Take it easy Jesse. If Tuco had wanted to kill us he has had ample opportunity.’

‘Yeah, ample.’ Said Jesse, and his throat sounded clogged. As a display of bravado it was pitiful.

Walt could feel the smooth applique monsters writhing about on Jesse’s sweater. An unwelcome intrusion of emotion crashed into his chest, the usual, the old pity and terror. And set to thinking to deal with it, to pack it back away again. The Sisyphean labour of the intellect. Ignore the familiar unpleasantness of that old grief, set to work, because you trust the ideas will come, and make things right again.

‘I won’t let anything happen.’

Jesse suddenly jerked idiotically and smashed his head on the coachwork. For god’s sake.

‘Shh… Jesse.’ Tuco might hear… we don’t want him coming back. Probably asleep somewhere.

The pain in Jesse’s face was like a red blob, Walt could almost see it, pulled Jesse to him, wanted to erase the red, because it was unpleasant. Touched – he couldn’t really see it – there was nothing there and no light to see - touched his forehead – in the dark nearly stuck his finger in Jesse’s eye.

Caught Jesse’s head between his hands.

Saw in his mind’s eye some incomprehensible picture of himself like a cartoon man, with his bald head. As if in the darkness he was approaching his own face, seeing himself in a cartoon mirror. Felt for a moment that he had four arms, two holding Jesse, two now circling his own body. In a field of benign radiation. Conveying superpowers.

Could not be more different from me.

If some event, in some part of the universe, exists completely sealed off, with nothing emerging from it, can anything be said to have actually happened?
Jesse suddenly felt so incredibly horny, and what the hell.

They mashed faces, Mr White’s mouth kind of tense and dry. Mr White’s leg came up between Jesse’s knees, and somehow they slid together so that Jesse’s cock was pushing into Mr White’s stomach and he could feel… feel the other one… shit they were really going for it.

That clot of sticky blackness, that death in him. Felt hot and sweet. Threw himself forward, without inhibition, even though there wasn’t space. I could do anything. Bit Mr White on the lip, brought his two hands up inside his shirt and scratched him. Was nowhere near finished with him.

Mr White suddenly was all over him, and it was writhing, something was writhing, like tentacles. Like too many arms and legs thrashing about. Uh. Pushed back, can’t even. Can’t even. He couldn’t hardly move. He exerted his full strength, confident it would be like nothing. Nothing. I am nothing. Bliss whitened out his mind.

Walt felt the membrane of the present split and he fell through into something wet and writhing like Laocoon grappling a sea serpent. Then he felt whiteness, emptiness, lifting up out of Jesse into him, and was it even life or death between them, which was it, the darkness of his own disease, and Jesse’s total fucking mess of an existence.

And everything for that moment seemed to be worth it.
Subscribe
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    Comments allowed for friends only

    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic
  • 17 comments