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Love is a Strange Drug

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Walt glances back down at his plate, the numbers 53, written out in bacon, stare back up at him, mocking him. Marie finally succeeded in having Skyler divorce him, or so he tells himself, not wanting to consider that Skyler had made the choice herself. The papers sat on the table the day he had come home from New Hampshire. She had taken half of the money they could possibly claim they had, but further than that she took the kids under full custody. Walt didn't fight for custody; he had known that there wasn't any point, since his son hated him and Holly would be better off living without him. He wasn't even supposed to live to see his fifty-third birthday, but his cancer had gone back into remission, and here he is.

After picking somewhat reluctantly at his breakfast, Walt dumps the rest into the garbage and sits down on his living room couch. He looks around the room forlornly. Skyler had kept the kids, but he kept the house. That, he decides, was probably one of the worst decisions he had made. Being there, alone in this house, makes him feel overwhelmingly lonely.

While Walt is lost in the world of thought, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He slowly removes the old, outdated, flip phone from his pocket and flips it open. The message, "Low battery." is displayed on the screen, which was all the screen ever said when he checked it since the divorce. Why did he even need the damned thing anymore? There was no one left in the world who would want to talk to him: not Skyler, not his son…

not Jesse.

The words hit him like a ton of bricks; they always did. He hadn't seen Jesse in exactly a year, since his fifty-second birthday. A whole year had passed since his lab partner, his partner in crime, his friend and he had spoken to each other. Not that he blamed Jesse. They hadn't exactly left on the best of terms, nor had they been on good terms for quite a while before their parting either. Jesse knows that it was Walt who had poisoned Brock, knows that Walt had watched Jane die when he could have saved her, knows that Walt put a hit out for him, though Jesse had been held in captivity instead of being killed.

The breath hitches in Walt's throat as he hold back tears, though he wasn't exactly sure why he needed to, since no one was there to see him. Pride maybe? Definitely. Walt had accepted now that this whole ordeal was his fault, because he was just too damn proud, too proud to take Elliot and Gretchen's money to pay for his cancer treatment, too proud to stop when he had enough, no, more than enough, much more than enough money to last him and his family for a lifetime, or multiple lifetimes.

Though he tried to stop them the tears flowed just as easily as if he wasn't; landing on his open palms that now supported his head. He finally gives in and lets the sobs rack through his body, lets the tears flow, lets the emptiness encompass him completely.

Walt's eyes open slowly, not that opening them did him much good. The darkness that had closed around him earlier that day still seemed to be pulled up over his eyes, though he knows that all he needs to do to correct that problem is turn on a light, which he did, and then promptly turned back off again. He just now realizes how much his head, his eyes, his entire body, hurt.

Using the walls to guide him, Walt stumbles his way into the bathroom and opens up the medicine cabinet. He has to, unfortunately, turn on a light in order to read the words on the bottle so that he won't take the wrong pills. He shakes two Tylenol pills out onto his hand and pops them into his mouth, taking a sip of water from the tap in order to help them down.

Walt nearly forgets to turn the bathroom light off as he shuffles out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. He practically falls into his bed; too exhausted to do anything else, even after sleeping for…

He glances at the clock on his nightstand: fifteen hours.

"Serves me right," Walt mumbles to himself absently.

As exhausted as he is, Walt doesn't sleep; he can't. Thoughts of Jesse roar like rapids through his mind. First simple little memories: seeing Jesse sneaking out of the house Hank and the rest of the DEA had just entered on a bust, cooking with him in the RV, briefly in Jesse's basement, the RV again, then the lab, and finally in tented up houses. Next, the memories he likes, the ones that make him want to both smile and cry: all of the times he picked Jesse back up, offered him support, a shoulder to cry on, all of the times he was generally good to Jesse. Finally the memories he hates: all of the times he had hurt Jesse… so many times… too many times…

Walt feels the tears pooling in his eyes again. He shakes his head, not wanting to succumb to them again. Once the tears stop threatening pour Walt takes a deep breath and lets out a long sigh. He briefly is thankful that the cancer is back in remission; it's nice to actually be able to breathe. He sighs again as his thoughts flicker back to Jesse. Would Jesse be happy that the cancer was back in remission? No, Walt knows that the thought is, frankly, ridiculous. Jesse would probably be happy to see Walt dead from the cancer, or at very least never have to see him again.

A thought crosses Walt's mind, one so idiotic that he actually chuckles at it. Maybe I should go see him. Where would he be able to find Jesse? How would he be able to find Jesse? Why should he go see Jesse? What would he say? What could he say?