Chapter 12: The Jesse Confrontation
POV: Jesse
Midnight in Jesse's living room felt like high noon in a Western showdown. The air was thick with unspoken accusations and the kind of tension that preceded either violence or truth. Jesse paced between the coffee table and the kitchen, hands shaking—not from chemicals this time, but from the fear that he'd been played by someone far more dangerous than he'd imagined.
Marcus Reid sat on the couch with that robot calm that was either really impressive or really disturbing. The dude never seemed rattled, never seemed surprised, never seemed human in the ways that mattered.
"You knew," Jesse said, stopping his pacing to stare at Marcus. "You knew Tuco was gonna flip out before we even met him. You knew Hank would find us at that shack. You ALWAYS know shit before it happens. How?"
Marcus's expression didn't change—the same calculating mask he wore when discussing murder like market analysis. "I do risk assessment for a living. Pattern recognition."
"Bullshit." Jesse slammed his palm against the wall, making the framed art rattle. "Risk assessment doesn't tell you that a DEA agent is gonna show up at exactly the right moment to save our asses. That's not pattern recognition—that's knowing the future."
Marcus pulled out his phone and started typing, which was his go-to move when words got too complicated for his speech problem. Jesse had noticed the pattern—whenever Marcus tried to explain something important, his words came out like he'd swallowed a dictionary that had been translated through three different languages.
Marcus turned the phone screen toward him: I have a neurological condition. Pattern recognition disorder. I see probabilities others miss. It's why I'm good at logistics.
Jesse read it twice, his anger deflating into something more complicated. The explanation was clinical, specific, and just weird enough to sound true. But it also sounded like the kind of lie someone would tell if they needed to hide something bigger.
"Pattern recognition disorder," Jesse repeated. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
But even as he said it, Jesse felt his suspicion shifting. Marcus's eyes were desperate beneath the surface calm, almost pleading. Not the look of someone hiding criminal connections, but the look of someone hiding pain.
Maybe the dude really was sick. Maybe that explained the weird speech thing, the emotional detachment, the way he treated human lives like mathematical problems. Jesse had known other people who'd been broken by brain chemistry—depression, bipolar disorder, PTSD. Sometimes damage showed up as too much feeling; sometimes it showed up as too little.
"Whatever," Jesse muttered, not entirely convinced but too tired to push further. "Just... don't lie to me anymore, okay? If you're sick, if you got some condition, just say so. We're partners now. That means something."
Marcus nodded, and for the first time since Jesse had known him, his expression seemed genuinely grateful.
POV: Elijah
The confrontation's tension broke when someone knocked on Jesse's front door—a soft, tentative sound that suggested neighborly rather than law enforcement. Jesse opened it to reveal a young woman with dark hair and paint-stained fingers, wearing the kind of vintage dress that screamed art student.
"Sorry to bother you so late," she said. "I'm Jane, from next door. My dad sent me to ask about the rent? He says you're two weeks behind."
Jesse's entire demeanor shifted, awkwardness replacing aggression. "Jane! Right, yeah, the rent. I've been... traveling. For work. I can get you the money tomorrow."
The chemistry between them was immediate and obvious—Jesse's nervous smile, Jane's lingering glance, the way they both found excuses to extend the conversation. Elijah watched their interaction with growing dread, knowing exactly where this romantic subplot was heading.
He activated his Leverage Finder reflexively, scanning Jane for information that might help him protect Jesse from the tragedy he could see approaching.
Scanning Jane Margolis...
Recovering heroin addict, 18 months clean. Father Donald Margolis is air traffic controller with history of depression. Subject vulnerable to relapse under emotional stress. Currently stable but high-risk demographic.
Minor secret, Tier 1. Cost: $150.
Elijah's heart sank. Jane wasn't just a potential love interest; she was a recovering addict whose father worked in aviation. If his knowledge of canon events was accurate, Jane's relapse would trigger a chain reaction ending in one of the most devastating disasters in Breaking Bad's timeline.
Probability Assessment: If Jane Margolis remains in Jesse's life?
68% probability of relapse within six months. Contributing factors: Jesse's drug involvement, emotional intensity of relationship, stress of criminal lifestyle.
Cost: $800.
Elijah wanted to warn Jesse, wanted to scream that this beautiful, damaged woman would destroy both their lives if they fell in love. But the warning would sound insane coming from someone who'd known Jane for thirty seconds, and the speech curse would probably turn it into gibberish about cooperative dolphins anyway.
He stayed silent, watching two people discover each other while knowing how their story would end.
After Jane left with promises of tomorrow's rent payment and Jesse's fumbling invitation for coffee, the two men sat in the sudden quiet of Jesse's living room. Jesse cracked two beers and handed one to Elijah—the first genuinely social gesture between them.
"Look, I don't trust you," Jesse said, settling onto the opposite end of the couch. "But you've kept us alive when smarter people would've gotten us killed. So... thanks, I guess?"
Elijah accepted the beer, surprised by the warmth spreading through his chest. When was the last time someone had thanked him for anything? When was the last time he'd shared a drink with someone who wasn't trying to use him or kill him?
"Why do you do this?" Jesse asked. "The consulting, the risk stuff, working with people like me and Mr. White. Is it just the money?"
Elijah tried to answer honestly—tried to explain about cosmic entities and narrative anchors and the desperate mathematics of survival. But the speech curse activated the moment he attempted truth, twisting his words into absurdity.
"I really... enjoy the ABQ climate!"
The statement hung in the air between them like a surreal non sequitur. Jesse stared at him for a heartbeat, then began laughing—not mockery, but genuine amusement at the sheer randomness of the response.
"Dude, you're so weird," Jesse said, still chuckling. "But I kinda like that about you. Most people in this business are either crazy or assholes. You're just... weird."
"He's starting to see me as a person instead of a threat. Jesse has the emotional intelligence to recognize that my strangeness isn't malicious—it's defensive. He might be the one person in this world who could accept my bizarre nature without needing complete explanations."
But that acceptance came with its own dangers. Trust was a luxury Elijah couldn't afford, not when every relationship was built on lies he couldn't correct and truths he couldn't speak.
They finished their beers in comfortable silence, two criminals sharing the temporary peace that came after surviving something that should have killed them. Jesse turned on the television—some late-night movie neither of them watched—and for a few minutes, Elijah allowed himself to pretend he belonged somewhere.
His phone buzzed with a text that shattered the illusion: a photo from Dexter showing Lila Tournay standing at his apartment door, uninvited and dangerous. The caption read simply: Help.
Elijah stood, the spell of normalcy broken. "I need to travel again. Business."
Jesse nodded, understanding that questions wouldn't be answered anyway. "Be careful, man. Whatever weird condition you got, it doesn't make you bulletproof."
Driving back to his motel, Elijah caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. Marcus Reid's face stared back—familiar but foreign, wearing Elijah Chen's exhaustion like an ill-fitting mask. The Entity's game was changing him, each lie and calculation chipping away at whatever remained of his original self.
"I'm becoming someone else. Someone colder, more pragmatic, more willing to sacrifice anything for survival. But if I lose myself completely, what's the point of staying alive?"
He booked another red-eye flight to Miami, already planning how to handle Lila's escalating threat to Dexter's carefully constructed life. The juggling act never stopped, but at least now he had one real friend in Jesse Pinkman—even if that friendship was built on foundations that would crumble the moment Jesse learned the truth.
The Entity's curse continued, spinning him between worlds and identities, promising survival in exchange for everything that made survival worthwhile.
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