Three, two, one - and it almost hurts with how sharp and sudden it is. It's like hitting the gas pedal, like being literally thrown headfirst into a solid wall, and Jesse can't help the gasp he lets out as everything mixes and melds and presses together uncomfortably. It's so fucking much at once, his and Pinkman's memories, he can feel and hear and taste the memories, like he's living them, and it steals the air right out of his lungs.
A little boy with sweaty, matted black hair sits in a hospital bed too big for him, hooked to a machine, awake and alone - a teenager with that same mop of hair grimaces as a tattoo needle digs into his arm and then a different needle altogether, an overwhelming feeling of peace. The same little boy, holding out a piece of paper to an older man and getting knocked to the floor for his efforts, a different older man, with a priest's collar and a warm, kind smile offering his a hand and a feeling of hope -- writhing and retching and blurrily staring at the ceiling during the worst comedown of his life.
It's a fucking lot, and it's not even the tip of the iceberg, it's not all, because it's not just his own head, it's Pinkman's too.
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Three, two, one - and it almost hurts with how sharp and sudden it is. It's like hitting the gas pedal, like being literally thrown headfirst into a solid wall, and Jesse can't help the gasp he lets out as everything mixes and melds and presses together uncomfortably. It's so fucking much at once, his and Pinkman's memories, he can feel and hear and taste the memories, like he's living them, and it steals the air right out of his lungs.
A little boy with sweaty, matted black hair sits in a hospital bed too big for him, hooked to a machine, awake and alone - a teenager with that same mop of hair grimaces as a tattoo needle digs into his arm and then a different needle altogether, an overwhelming feeling of peace. The same little boy, holding out a piece of paper to an older man and getting knocked to the floor for his efforts, a different older man, with a priest's collar and a warm, kind smile offering his a hand and a feeling of hope -- writhing and retching and blurrily staring at the ceiling during the worst comedown of his life.
It's a fucking lot, and it's not even the tip of the iceberg, it's not all, because it's not just his own head, it's Pinkman's too.