A/N: I only watched Breaking Bad for the first time fairly recently, and it DESTROYED me. It occurred to me that Jesse's decision to sling meth to his NA group in Season 3 was the start of the domino run that led straight to hell, and I found myself wishing I could go back in time and stop that happening, and fix everything, and give them all a happy ending. Then I remembered that's what fanfic is for :)

This story starts between 3.08 'I See You' and 3.09 'Kafkaesque' then goes on its own merry way after that.

It all starts with the Misery Magnet. The guy — his name's Terence or Terrell or something like that — has been in Jesse's NA group for the last month or so and fuck, does this dude love to hear himself talk. And if you believe half of the fucked-up stuff he comes out with, he must love to suffer, too. Not that Jesse does believe it, because he's pretty sure last week's story was the plot of some lame-ass DVD he saw at Badger's once. Even Ken, the group leader — who's got being non-judgemental down to an art that'd shame the fucking Dalai Lama — has raised an eyebrow to a level you could only describe as skeptical. But the Misery Magnet doesn't care. He doesn't care about Ken's eyebrows or Jesse's fidgeting or the others' glazed looks and sighs. He just keeps right on telling his stories.

The current one started out like the kind of true crime tragedy everyone's heard a dozen times before: boy falls in with bad crowd, boy starts using, boy goes off the rails. But when they get to Act 2 — boy goes through traumatic gang initiation — things take an unexpected turn and suddenly they're in a sex dungeon and instead of the gang boss telling the boy to go shoot someone in the face, he's telling him to take his clothes off.

Jesse drags a hand down his cheek. Jesus. He glances round and sees that at least a couple of the others look riveted, which, fuck, means they're gonna get porno stories for the next month. He stretches his legs out and leans back in his chair, tuning out the Misery Magnet's voice and letting his mind wander. Which he should know better than to do by now, because that's always when he gets his really, really bad ideas. To prove him right, a thought drops into the brief moment of silence inside his head: what if Mr White did that?

The thought's gone in an instant, but it's too late. Jesse's always had a good imagination — good visualization skills, they said in rehab — and the scene is already playing out behind his eyelids: Jesse slammed back against the wall of the lab, Mr White staring at him with that look in his eyes — the one that says he's gone into Full Heisenberg mode and you'd better make your peace with God before your cross him. And maybe the lab is bugged, like he said, maybe Gus is listening to everything, maybe there are even hidden fucking cameras and Gus is watching, but Mr White doesn't care. He doesn't care if Gus sees them. He wants Gus to see them. Wants Gus to know that Jesse will do any goddamn thing Mr White wants, because Jesse is his, and that's an immutable fucking law of God and chemistry. Take off your clothes, Jesse. Don't make me tell you again.

Jesse scrambles to sit upright and almost tips himself out of the chair. It's possible he makes some kind of yelping sound. Fuck. His mouth has gone dry and swallowing is painful; he rubs a hand down his throat to see if it makes it easier, but it doesn't. He coughs instead. Ken makes an enquiring kind of you all right? face, and Jesse nods quickly. The Misery Magnet looks kinda hurt, but the others are sneaking him sympathetic looks. Jesse realises they think he fell asleep.

He plays to that, giving them a sheepish look and aiming a palm-up gesture at the Misery Magnet. My bad, man. Carry on.

But Ken says they should wrap it up now, for which Jesse is profoundly grateful. He nods vigorously when Ken asks him if he's okay, then reverses direction and shakes it just as hard when Ken wants to know if there's anything he'd like to talk about.

'Are you sure? Jesse, if something Terence said triggered you or disturbed you in any way, you know you can tell me.'

'No, man, it's good. It's all good.' Jesse is backing away with his hands in the air and he knows what that looks like — they taught him about denial and defensive body language in rehab too — but he can't help it. Because yeah, he feels a little goddamn disturbed right now, but he sure as shit doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't even want to think about it.

So there, that's his new highest-priority goal: never think about it again. Ken should be pleased; he's keen on goal-setting, because it builds focus and discipline. And okay, maybe those things were never Jesse's strong points, but he's gonna apply himself like fuck from now on. He's never thinking about it again.

Of course, Jesse can't stop thinking about it.

But it's not like it's even his fault. What's he supposed to do? He can't just stop going to meetings, and he can't tell the Misery Magnet to shut the fuck up. Even Ken, who's clearly getting more than a little worried about the whole thing, doesn't want to go that far. And he can see the others are kinda getting into it, this epic story of forbidden love between a hardass gang boss and his gorgeous sex slave. Jesse hears a conversation over the coffee machine about how it should be made into a film and he has to choke back laughter — not because he doesn't agree, but because to him it already has been. A film that plays every time he closes his goddamn eyes.

Is there a support group for that? Maybe if there was, a new meeting where nobody had ever seen him before, he might go. Hi, my name's Jesse and I have porn dreams about my fifty-year-old chemistry teacher. And everyone would say 'Hi, Jesse,' and nod with that unsettling mix of shame and anticipation that says we understand. So yeah, he'd go to that meeting like a shot. He'd like to meet people who understand, who could explain to him what the fuck is going on here, because he sure as hell doesn't know.

And fuck, it's not like Mr White is even his teacher anymore, so where did that come from? They're partners now. Equals. But of course in the dreams — and fantasies, a part of his mind tries to say, helpfully, but he shuts it down fast — they're not equals at all. Nowhere near. Mr White is the boss, the hardass, and Jesse knows it. Everybody knows it. Even Victor and Gus — Mr White lets them carry on, lets them act like they can call the shots, but they all know what Mr White wants to happen will happen. Immutable fucking laws, and all that. What Mr White wants, Mr White gets. And what he wants, bizarrely and inexplicably, is Jesse.

He wants Jesse naked and on his knees, begging. I want… Mr White, please… let me…

Let you what, Jesse?

It's said calmly, disinterestedly, as if it's part of a pop quiz — but a crazy simple pop quiz, one that Mr White expects him to know. Not a test but a confirmation. Let you what, Jesse?

And Jesse says Please you, and Mr White gives him one of those smiles, the ones that are as rare as fucking unicorns, that say Jesse got it right, he did the right thing, he did what Mr White wanted him to do. One of those smiles that light up Mr White's face — that light up fucking everything — and send this warm flush of pleasure right through Jesse's body. It makes him feel light-headed, like the start of the sweetest rush ever, then fills his chest, sits heavy in his stomach and sends a cascade of fucking fireworks into his dick and sets his blood on fire.

And Mr White says Well done, Jesse, and everything kind of shorts out and that's it, right there, it's all over.

Jesse kicks the sheet away and covers his eyes with a shaking hand. He's still breathing hard, his chest tight and his throat dry, the sounds forced out of it still ringing in his ears. And he's fucked, he knows it. He's so, so, fucked.

He gets up, showers and dresses quickly. He needs to get to a meeting. He wants to hear the next instalment of the story.

Walt's noticed that Jesse's been acting strangely, lately.

It's hardly the world's most scientific observation, since strange has an infinite number of subjective definitions, including a lot that are undoubtedly unique to Jesse Pinkman, and it also feels somewhat redundant — when isn't Jesse acting strangely? — but still, Walt finds that he can't put the matter out of his mind.

Perhaps the problem is that he can't quite isolate what the issue is. Jesse's not using again, Walt's happy about that: Jesse's been enthusiastically attending his NA meetings, his eyes are clear, and his energy is neither abnormally high nor low. He does seem particularly twitchy, but again, that's hardly outside the norm — Jesse's always been a very physical kind of person. But having said that, there's also a new element to that physicality lately; there are times he becomes extremely tense — freezes up, almost — unexpectedly and apparently without discernible cause.

Walt decides this is something he should look into. If there's something going on with Jesse, Walt wants to know about it before it has a chance to escalate. It's easier to prevent trouble than fix it afterwards.

So he pays more attention, watches Jesse more closely. One thing that becomes evident straight away is that Jesse has started drifting off sometimes — deep in thought, Walt would call it, if this wasn't Jesse he was talking about. He might also have called it daydreaming, but that doesn't quite fit either — from the expressions that sometimes flit across Jesse's face, it doesn't seem as if it's an altogether pleasant experience. He's preoccupied with something, there's no doubt about that, but Walt can't yet make an educated guess as to what it might be. He needs more data, needs to carry out more observational studies, before he can come up with a theory.

To that end, he floats the idea of going for a drink, or something to eat, after they've finished cooking. Observing Jesse in a different environment will be useful for comparison purposes. And who knows, maybe a more social context will encourage him to open up. Maybe for once, he'll actually just tell Walt what the problem is. Let him help, rather than waiting for it to blow up in their faces. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

Jesse reacts to his casual suggestion as if Walt's pulled a gun on him. His eyes go wide and he steps backwards, nearly stumbling over his own feet in his apparent haste to put physical distance between himself and the mere thought of it.

It takes Walt by surprise. He didn't expect Jesse to treat the offer like a ticket to the Superbowl, but he didn't expect this level of aversion, either. It definitely seems a little extreme, even for someone with Jesse's volatility.

'A simple no, thanks, would have done,' Walt says mildly.

Jesse stammers something unintelligible but vaguely apologetic and drops his head, but not before Walt sees the flush spreading over his cheeks and down his neck.

Jesse's blushing. Why is Jesse blushing?

'Yeah, no,' Jesse says to the floor. 'That'd be, you know… great and all, but I got… you know, meetings and… stuff. You know.'

Walt nods. He doesn't know; he can't quite read between whatever lines are being drawn — or crossed? — here, but it makes him even more determined than ever to find out.

'Of course,' he says easily. 'Another time, then.'

'Yeah. Sure, yeah, absolutely,' Jesse says enthusiastically, seemingly unaware that he's shaking his head at the same time. The wonders of body language.

And speaking of which… when Walt steps forward, Jesse moves back again, maintaining the distance between them. He also hasn't looked Walt in the eye once during the whole conversation.

Ah. So is Walt himself the source — or at least a contributing factor — of this behaviour? He has no explanation for it — he can't recall anything having changed in their interactions lately — but the evidence is slanting that way. The level of awkwardness on display here is new, and indicates that Jesse is hiding something — something that he feels guilty or at least embarrassed about. If it's not drugs, what is it?

'Jesse,' he says, keeping his voice pitched low — the kind of soothing tone you use on skittish pets. 'If there's something bothering you, if there's any kind of problem, you know you can talk to me, don't you?'

Jesse makes a noise that might be a choked kind of laugh, but he doesn't say anything. He just keeps backing up until there's nowhere left to go. When Walt steps closer again, he does that tense-up-and-freeze thing.

'Jesse,' Walt says, getting concerned now. 'Look at me.'

But Jesse can't. He looks up, but not at Walt. His gaze roams around the lab like a caged animal looking for an exit. He looks as if he's in agony.

'Jesse, what is it?'

Jesse shakes his head. 'Nothing, nothing. It's just… I gotta go, is all.'

It's clearly not all, but Walt knows when pushing is likely to get a result, and when it's not. 'All right then,' he says. 'Good night, Jesse.'

Jesse nods once, quickly and violently, and flees. There's no other way to describe it; he doesn't leave, he flees.

Walt takes his time getting his own things together. Has he uncovered new information? Yes. Does he know what it means? No.

Yeah, no. If he were to write a paper on this, it would be titled Jesse Pinkman: A Study in Contradictions.

Walt sighs and locks up the lab.