The first time that Marie went full-blown klepto pathological liar, they were in high school. They found out she'd been dating a college guy, who was under the impression she went to one of the other area colleges. The whole story fell apart when Skyler found her rummaging through her box of scores, preparing to shove a bunch into her bag to hit up the pawn shop in a panic that people would find them.

This last year was kind of like that, except at least ten thousand times worse.

Walt knew what he was doing, from day one, and unlike Marie it took more than one look and calling him by his full name to get anything resembling an apology.

The point being, Skyler couldn't afford to believe that, no matter how long you know someone, you actually ever know anyone at all.

Her phone was ringing.

5 am. She snatched it up before the buzzing could wake up Holly, didn't recognize the number, and slowly put it down beside her on the bed to prevent any further buzz-related wakeups in the event of a voicemail.

Yeah. There it was, the voicemail.

Skyler White, widow of Walter White, Ex-Mrs. Heisenberg, That Poor Woman, whatever people wanted to call her, was genuinely tired of the calls, the solicitations, the offers for help. The help had come far too late, really. The damage was done.

She eyed the voicemail alert on the screen of her phone, then swiped it open. The voicemail awaited. No point in worrying about it. It could always be deleted.

"Uh, hey," the man's voice began, and she froze. "It's me." He didn't elaborate. "I made it out. Not that you care. But I was there with him when it happened, I, uh, I don't know. Fuck." He exhaled heavily. "I'll have this phone for the next day. Then. I won't. I won't bother you again. Bye, Mrs. White."

No new messages, the phone droned on.

Jesse Pinkman.

She could not have bargained for this.

Before she could think twice about it, she pulled the number up. She saved it under the name of an innocuous accounting firm that she'd worked with once. Then she just stared at her phone.

Right now, at five AM, it probably wouldn't explode with texts or voicemails about Walt, about the way he died, about what he might have said before he did. Not again. It wouldn't ring, now, with the persistent publishing firm begging her to take the book offer. It would just sit there, taunting her the way Walt and his plans did, with what other choice do you have? Are you going to pretend it's not happening, like Marie always does? Or are you going to do something about it?

She loved her sister, always had, but this was one of those times where Marie's head would have shorted out, where things would start going missing at the therapist's office and she'd start babbling, panicked, whatever came to mind, to anyone who was there.

That was Marie. She wasn't Marie. There was only room for one Marie in the family, at most.

Is all that any different than what you're about to do, Sky?

After everything that happened, Skyler was kind of over self-doubt. How could it get worse?

Stupid question.

She called him anyway.

"Woah," was the first thing Jesse said, blearily, as though she'd woken him up and totally blown him away in the process. "Hey, Mrs. White."

"Hey," she answered, more than a little in sarcastic echo. This was surreal. "I didn't ever expect to hear from you again. Or of you. They're still looking for you."

"That's bullshit," he said, bitterly, without missing a beat. "Total fucking bull, what the fuck, I rolled over on Mr. White like it was no one's goddamn business. But who gives a shit. Yeah, Jesse, watch the good guy get shot, become some Nazi asshole's pet schnauzer, yeah, fuck you, time to go to federal prison."

"You still dealt drugs," she said, reasonably.

"You laundered money and you're not in federal prison," he pointed out.

She paused. "Yeah," she said. "Now that you mention it. But, still not drug dealing."

"Bullshit," Jesse said. "Still bullshit. No offense, Mrs. White."

She hated that name. "Can you - " She instantly rethought telling him to call her by her first name instead, actually. "You want something? Money?"

"Uh, no, though that'd be nice," he said, sounding a little offended. "Just…you know. Thought it might be a good guy move to let you know. What went down. If you wanted to know."

"Someone shot him," she said, and then she realized, and went silent. Did he -

He cut in instantly. "Not me. Not me, because I wanted him to fuckin' die from the cancer. Or to kill himself. Because no offense, but he wasn't gonna go that easy if I had anything to say about it. Not after he'd been that much of a fuckin' asshole."

"He kidnapped my daughter and traumatized my son," she said, coolly, more coolly than she meant or expected to sound. On one hand, the appropriate reaction; on the other, she'd done a really good job of convincing herself she was mostly over it after the apology. "No offense taken. Who shot him?"

"Probably one of the Nazi assholes in that whole crazy-ass shootout scenario. Walt rigged up some kinda remote-controlled machine gun turret. No guy that crazy should have a brain that awesome. Maybe the fuckin' thing shot him, I don't know specifics, I was handcuffed at the time, it was scary as shit I'm not even gonna fuckin' pretend it wasn't." She didn't think he'd shut up until she interrupted him, but she didn't want to, not yet. "He pretended he'd got through it unscathed. Tried to make me shoot him. Asshole."

Now she didn't know what to say. "Wish he'd offered that to me."

"You wouldn't have done it either." His tone was all matter-of-fact, like he knew her. Maybe, through their similar but massively different fucked-up relationships with Walt, he sort of did. "Probably for different reasons."

"Yes." She didn't really want to say more, not to him. Definitely not now. "He wanted to give you a chance at revenge."

"It's not revenge if the fucker gives you the chance. It's 'suicide by person you fucked over.'" Jesse sighed, raggedly, sounding more exhausted than when she'd woken him. "I get the point. But he does - he didn't get that shit. How normal people work. Treated us like moronic assholes out to fuck his plans up."

"I didn't realize I'd called for a Walter White Memorial bitching session," she said, a little dazed. She'd assumed a lot about this kid, a lot that didn't scan to what he was saying. She didn't want to know this; it would have been easier to turn him in before all this, no matter what Marie said about his statements and conduct while they were getting his confession.

He was silent for a moment before he answered, not all that offended. "You called me."

"You called me first."

There was a pause again. "Yeah, okay," he said. "I still don't get why you called me back."

"Because I'm not over this shit," she said, an edge to her voice, one she'd been praying she could release because no one else got it, not even Marie with Hank's death to worry about. "And I figured you were the only one who would get it."

"Yeah, different angle, though." He paused again, clearly thoughtful. "You haven't said anything, though. Not really."

"Not much to say." She had just wanted to say that out loud, to admit that it wasn't over, at least for her. "I…don't know." Now she couldn't stop thinking about it, about Walt, about everything, about their entire marriage, it was all too much. She leaned forward, her head dropped low by her knees, phone still to her ear. It almost helped. "I should go."

"I'm just going to say this shit," Jesse said, right after she'd finished speaking, "and you'll hang the fuck up once I do, but whatever, I don't give a shit. I don't think you're going to turn me in, for whatever fucking reason, so you want to talk, come the fuck over here."

She was a little dumbstruck. Then she said, "You know what, I think I will."

"Turn me in, I don't care," he went on, "it'll be less boring than this shit. TV sucks when you're sober and vending machine food sucks worse."

"Jesse," she said, not entirely patiently, "give me the goddamn address."

The line went silent for at least a minute, then he spoke. "I'll text you."

"Just tell me," she said. "No record. They haven't got my stuff tapped as far as I know."

"That's kind of the point of a tap," he said, "like, they don't tell you."

"I'm not in prison, like you said. Either way, if there's a tap, they'll know soon enough. Give me the address."

His silence pretty much was a concession. "Yeah, cool."

This was by far not the most irrational thing she'd done in even the last month. She ripped paper off of a pad, wrote the address down, memorized it after hanging up, then burned it.

Skyler had seen Jesse Pinkman at least a month ago, but even in that time he seemed to have aged around a year. She wondered what she looked like, now, after all that had happened, but honestly she didn't want to know and had bigger problems anyway.

He sat on his hotel bed and gestured towards an uncomfortable-looking chair, prompting her to sit.

It would probably be the least uncomfortable part about this meeting. She sat down.

"I don't get you," he said; she glanced up, surprised. "Never did. Don't think I ever will. You don't make sense to me."

She could tell it wasn't an insult. "Nothing's clear-cut. Not everyone's in a neat, obvious box."

"So, what, you can be Betty Crocker and an accomplice to a drug kingpin and neither is a cover, that's what you're saying," he half-asked.

"Basically." She didn't have much more to say to that.

He just barely smiled. "Always thought you were cool, Mrs. White."

It was her name, but it still stung to hear. "Yeah. Sorry I couldn't return the favor."

"Well, I'm not," he admitted easily. "so, why would you think so."

She took that in, and made no comment. "Are you going to run?"

Jesse hesitated. "If I do run," he said, "I'll never stop."

"That's how it works, as far as I know," she said, with a prompting look.

"I mean. It's. Not just about the law. It's all this shit. The shit that happened," he explained. "It doesn't go away."

Skyler raised her eyebrows. "That's... kind of poetic, for you."

"Yeah, well." He scratched his head. "You have people to take care of. I got nothin'. Just all this shit I've been through. I run, it'll chase me. I'll OD in an alley. I know where I'll end up if I go."

Safe to say she didn't expect that. "Jesse." From the look on his face, he'd surprised her too. "You could start over."

"Bullshit," he shot back, not maliciously. "No starting over from this. No turning over a new leaf without looking at the last one, whatever the hell that metaphor actually means, fuck. What I'm saying is I can't close my eyes without seeing it, everything, just." He rubbed his eyes. "Before Walter. After. My life hasn't been like yours, Mrs. White. It was shit. Not starving in Africa shit, but still shit. And if I want 'okay,' I gotta cop to what I fucked up along the way, or I'm gonna hate myself forever."

Pinkman liked to monologue. Who would have figured? "It wasn't your fault. Not Walt, not the other shit. And even if it was - you're young," she reminded him. "You make mistakes. It doesn't dictate who you are deep down and what you do for your entire life."

"You don't know that."

"I'm older than you, Jesse. In case you forgot."

"Older ain't wiser in this case, yo," he said, looking up at her in disbelief. "Not with drugs or murder or torture. You planning on getting Hallmark Oprah quotes from some sixty year old fucker whose kids have always been safe and whose wife or husband wasn't a raging bitter genius psycho?"

She was speechless. It was a good point. "You're smarter than I thought."

"Yeah, well," he said, looking away from her again, "I'm sober."

They both fell silent. She looked at him for a moment, as he averted his gaze, and finally spoke. "He wanted another life. A different wife, a different career. I was, at best, his third choice. He hated us, a little, I think. Way deep down."

Jesse looked up at her instantly. "That is incredibly fucked up. But. I believe that."

"Yeah." It was draining to even admit it. "Fuck."

Somehow he was surprised to hear her swear. "He was lucky to have you. But that's the kind of guy he was. Never enough."

"I had to take care of the money we were stuck with in storage because we had too much to launder. I know he never had enough."

"This is so fucking depressing," he burst out. "I hate that this is what I'm fucking stuck with, all this bullshit moping and hating and thinking about that fucking asshole, because it's more thought than he ever deserves to have wasted on him, but, what the fuck, he still - he's in my fucking head."

"Yeah," she repeated. It was making her nauseous to think about. "Jesse." He looked at her, so she said it. "You're right. There's no way to run. It's in our heads. We have to get it out."

He pressed his face into his hands, at that, and didn't exactly look up at her. "How?" he asked finally.

"Making things right. Being ourselves. Not his fucking pawns." She sounded more confident than she was.

"You're saying I should go in. Talk to the cops." His tone wasn't accusatory

"I'm saying, do what feels like winning," she said. "Do what makes you feel like... like you're clean. Free."

Jesse met her gaze. There's a long silence, then he says, quietly, "Yeah."

"Sky," Walt says, and his fingers stroke, tangle in her hair comfortably. Her eyes fall shut.

"Yeah?" She loves him. She loves him, and it's almost embarrassing. He's not that man he pretends to be, and she knows that. He has a knife's edge in him, and it cuts through the warmth, visible through his eyes, just sometimes. But it doesn't really matter.

She almost likes the edge, too. It's a little reassuring.

They're safe. He'll protect her.

"I can't wait to see that dress."

He kisses her forehead, and she laughs, moves closer to him, touches his knee. "You just can't wait to take it off."

"That too."

That's the other thing; god, he's crazy about her, too. At least, that's the best she can guess.

There's a lot of guesswork with Walt.

He lifts her chin and she looks at him and she knows she knows him, almost (so many almosts) but well enough to marry him tomorrow, no question.

He kisses her, a little brutally, and she surrenders, lets her knee drop to the side as he hikes up her skirt, and she wants him, she wants this sharp, smart, convincing asshole, she wants him to be hers.

"Mrs. White," she murmurs against his mouth as they catch their breath after a kiss, and he likes that.

He wants her to be his, and she is.

Skyler answered her cell on the third ring.

"Marie," she said, "what's up?"

Cut to the chase. Maybe then everything would go smoothly. She could go home, pick up Holly from the daycare in time to grab Flynn, and no one the wiser. Maybe.

"Where are you? Flynn cut class today, they left a message on your machine, I saw it when I stopped in to check on you and Holly, and you're not there - where's Holly? Is she at the daycare? Do you need me to pick her up?"

Sometimes she wondered if Marie thought Sky and her kids were her kids, all three of them, like some sort of fucked up foster situation.

"Everything's fine, I've got this," Skyler said, as reassuring as she could manage. "I'm heading home."

"Where are you?"

Marie was so close to panicking. Skyler didn't have the energy for this. "I'm on my way home," she repeated. "I'll see you for dinner, okay?"

"Sky. You're being weird," Marie said frankly. "You can tell me what's going on, you know that, right?"

This was exhausting. "I'm just tired," she tried to explain. "I'll see you later, Marie. Pasta tonight."

"But - okay, 'bye, but we're having some wine and a talk tonight - "

Skyler hung up, closed her eyes, and rested against the door.

She had to go, before things got any more complicated.

Jesse loves chem class.

No one would fucking figure. Not even his parents, especially not his parents. He loves chem, because it's the only goddamn thing that makes sense in all this bullshit.

Even when he's high, it makes sense. It's probably a sign that he's smart, that his life isn't an endless march towards some kind of fucking overdose.

Or something.

His mom's tired of his shit. His dad won't talk to him. He knows they love him, or something like it, but they don't trust him, and that's the worst fucking part. It's a vicious cycle. It's "we're not mad, we're just disappointed" to "can you please just try" to "you were doing so well until you brought that - stuff into the house" to "fuck you, if you're gonna bitch anyway I'm gonna smoke."

Sometimes he just wishes he could piss them off for good, piss them off so much that they'd just give up and stop pushing him so hard towards standards he'll never meet and has no reason to run towards because they wouldn't believe him even if he did.

"Mr. Pinkman," a voice says.

He's early to chem. Only person there, besides Mr. White, who's just walked in. He's earlier than the teacher. That's fucking depressing.

"Hey, Mr. White," he says, sarcastically despondent.

Mr. White doesn't seem to know exactly what to say, or like he's trying to come up with the perfect words. "I have a suggestion for you. Can you come up here?" He pats the desk.

For a split second Jesse wonders if he's about to get molested by some old creep, but he gets up there, keeps his distance, and watches the teacher warily. "Yeah? What's up?"

"Your work's been good. Good enough. Could be better." Mr. White rifles through some papers. "Your labwork is excellent. If you work a little harder... I would recommend you for AP Chemistry. Or, at the very least, suggest that you take the test. It would help your college application."

He stares at Mr. White. "Uh," he says, "I think I'm good."

Mr. White stares right back at him, eyebrows raised. "You don't want to go to college."

"Like I'd get in."

"I'm telling you a way to get in," Mr. White says, a little impatiently. "Work harder. Take the test."

"I'm not good at this," Jesse says, tone neurotically flat. "You're aiming this Dead Poets Society speech at the wrong person."

"I'm really not," Mr. White says. "You think I'm an idiot?"

That's a trap if he's ever seen one. "No. Just. I'm not smart enough for that shit." Great, fuck, swear in front of the teacher, good move. "Sorry. For AP classes, for college. Wouldn't make it, Mr. White."

"You could," Mr. White says, an edge to his voice. "If you tried."

He sounds like Jesse's mom.

"Thanks, Mr. White," Jesse says, and turns away to sit down and doodle in silence. He can feel the disapproval.

Nothing new there.

After dinner, they sat down with glasses of wine.

Marie wore the expression where she tried to bore holes into the back of Skyler's head with guilt. She knew that expression well, mostly because she honed it on Marie herself. It wouldn't work. Again - in the last year, she'd become very good at coming up with plausible lies.

"I went to the publisher's office," she said, to soften Marie's sharply concerned face. It didn't work, right away, not entirely. "I couldn't go in. So. Maybe I didn't want to admit that. Maybe I feel like an idiot or I wish I could do something. I don't know."

(Not entirely a lie. That was basically what happened. The publisher had no clue what was going on, though, but would probably start salivating if he knew.)

It made Marie's supposedly guilt-inducing stare soften, though, then she touched Skyler's arm and sighed in sympathy. "I know," she said, softly. "I do. I wish I could do something besides... stew in it. The kids are helping, but I don't want to stifle them, or stifle you, or - we're not talking about me." She exhaled quickly. "Let me know. If I can do anything. And - and - if I can say - "

Skyler raised her eyebrows, communicating as least offensively as possible that she had already started saying a lot. Marie pushed on. "I think the book would help."

She considered that. "Maybe," she said. "I don't know. Feels like more than he deserves."

"Not if you roast him in it."

"He liked being the villain," Skyler said. "He didn't even pretend to be the hero. Not to anyone but me, and we both knew. He enjoyed the power too much and he was never going to stop, and if I write a book about what a giant megalomaniacal asshole Walt was, it'll just turn him into the Heisenberg legend he wanted to be."

"The money would be good," Marie said plainly.

She sighed wearily. "I know. That's the other thing."

"What?" Marie asked, confused.

"Nothing." Skyler shook her head. "Nothing. Can we talk about something else?"

"Just think about it," Marie pressed.

"I promise," she said. "Something else."

Marie paused. "There's one thing. I." She sighed. "Pinkman. They're going to ask you about Pinkman."

Impressively, Skyler thought, she kept her expression from changing. "What about him?"

"They want to give him a deal. The FBI and DEA or whatever, I mean." Marie brushed hair from her eyes. "They think he'll contact you."

"We didn't exactly have a deep connection," she said, tone more than a little dry.

"I know, but - he's on the run, and you're - a connection, deep or not. It's not a problem, is it? He hasn't - "

"No," Skyler answered, without a second thought. "I'll let them know if I hear from him. How did you even hear this?"

"I'm..." Marie swallowed, and glanced down. "I talk to them." She averted her gaze completely from Skyler's. "A lot."

"Oh," she said, with sympathy, or something like it. She paused, while Marie gathered herself again, then went on, "They'll be showing up soon?"

"Yeah." Marie drank the last dregs of her wine. "You want another glass?"

"Yeah," Skyler echoed, and reached for the bottle.

They were both liars, in their own way. She wasn't too worried about it, and maybe that should have been worrying.

But you have to do what you have to do in a life like hers.

This is it.

This is it, this is the thing that seals it. This is what Walter White is, this is what the man Skyler married truly is. He's a violent, bitter, self-righteous, selfish asshole, and he thinks he cares. He thinks he cares so much that he proved it by, what, kidnapping their infant daughter.

Really impressive show of sentimentality, Walt.

Flynn can't sleep tonight either. Skyler can hear him tossing and turning, the buzzing of text messages coming in late into the night. She doesn't tell him to go to sleep, to turn off his phone and at least pretend to go to bed.

This is on her. However he wants to cope with it, he can.

This is on her, and the thing she's looking least forward to is everyone telling her how terrible Walt is for making her do all this.

But that's the thing about Walt.

He thinks he loves them, and they think they love him, and everyone's so devoted to each other that they allow fucked-up shit like this to go on because it's what her husband wants or what her husband thinks he should want or whatever will absolve them or make them be able to pretend that this isn't all some sort of revenge fantasy so, so -

Holly.

She mouths "I love you" into the dark. She squeezes her eyes shut tightly and more tears escape, more tears she didn't think she could manage. Her throat burns, but she stays silent.

The sick thing is she hates him but that hate is reserved for her and she doesn't want anyone else getting anywhere near it.

Walt's mine. He's my problem. He's my husband, and you don't know anything. All you know are the facts, the bare bones of it, you don't know how this feels, how it's always felt, how that knife's edge went from security to blood on my hands and my baby gone.

So fuck you.

You don't know.

When Flynn finally falls asleep, she cries, for no more than a minute. Then her throat wrenches and she curls into a ball, and she knows it's far from over, no matter how much this looks like the end.

"Mom," Flynn said, impatiently.

Skyler wasn't paying attention. She looked up, slightly bewildered, and he looked back at her, all concerned and sweet the way he did, and she felt horrible. "What's up, hon?"

"I talked to Aunt Marie." He shifted into the chair with relative ease. "She told me about the book."

"There isn't a book," she began to explain.

"I think you should do it." She raised her eyebrows at this, but Flynn went on. "It could really help. I wish I could. Better than therapy."

"You say that," Skyler said dryly, "but at least not everyone reads your therapy."

"I don't care," Flynn said, pointedly. "I want to tell everyone what he did. What he said. He deserves it."

Every time she had this conversation, it sealed it. No one else understood Walt, besides Jesse. She immediately forced the thought of him away. She couldn't. Not now, not here, with Flynn. "I know," she said, all motherly patience. "And. I might do it. Okay?"

Flynn relaxed. "I just want you to be happy. Eventually. And you're just. I don't know," he finished.

"I know," she repeated, and touched his hand. He tried to smile at her. "I want you to be happy, too. Ask your therapist if he thinks a journal would help."

"A diary?" Flynn asked, dubious.

"A journal," Skyler corrected. "Like a book, but - nothing you'd be held to."

"I guess." He shrugged, and took her hand. "We were talking about you, Mom."

She summoned up a smile. "It's my job to worry about you. Not yours to worry about me."

"Too bad," Flynn said, with a wry stubborn tone. "Because I'm gonna worry about you anyway."

Skyler stood, crossing to the kitchen, and kissed him on the forehead, giving him a quick hug as well. "Love you," she told him, quietly.

"Love you too," he answered without hesitation and with the same warmth, and it was easier to smile, then.

He hadn't broken them completely.

She went to the nursery, and stopped in the door. "Amaiii, Amaiii," Holly called, and Marie popped her hands open for a "Peekaboo!"

Holly dissolved into giggles, and Skyler made herself go inside. Marie glanced around to her, but Holly insisted again, "Amaiii!"

"Go ahead," she said, forcing a smile.

Marie hesitated, but went ahead, and peekaboo'd one more time before sweeping up Holly from her crib. "Good talk with Flynn?"

"You need to stop siccing people on me," Skyler said, only half-joking.

Marie looked surprised. "I'm not."

"I'm fine."

"I - are you? Really?"

"Don't use that tone with me."

There was a long silence, where Holly touched Marie's cheek, and Skyler felt a flash of hatred she hadn't felt since her daughter had been in Walt's arms, and it sickened her.

"Sky," Marie said softly. "I'm sorry. But."

"Don't." Skyler was exhausted, so exhausted, in so many ways. "Just. Don't." She turned away. "I'll make dinner."

Just raise my kids, Marie. Take over. You're so much better at this than I am. You had the perfect husband, didn't you, the actual good guy in this whole fucked-up affair, and my husband fucked it up for all of us because I wasn't enough for him and his massive ego and persecution complex and I knew that practically the whole time.

Was she even strong enough to write it down, make the money, tell the story?

Or did he break her? Not even Heisenberg, not the drug kingpin or kidnapper, Walt - did he break her?

"Jane," Jesse's mumbling when he wakes up.

His fingers close around nothing when he reaches to touch her.

There's nothing.

He opens his eyes, barely, and that word means everything, envelops everything.

There's nothing. Nothing. No point.

His last chance slipped away because of his own bullshit. His own fucked-up problems. She was everything, he was nothing, and nothing always wins out.

He lied to her and himself and everything else that there actually was a chance. There were too many lies, he thinks, as he stares, eyes half-lidded, at the empty spot beside him in the bed. Even "I love you."

He doesn't know why he ever thought he would have something real.

Jesse destroyed the other burner phone, but before he did he told her the new burner's number.

This was a sign things were not what they were supposed to be, one that Skyler wasn't interested in paying attention to.

He was in a new hotel this time. Obviously. She'd given him some cash the last time, so he'd upgraded to somewhere even less mediocre. She called the burner phone from downstairs, and he came down to greet her.

For a second, he just looked at her, then shook his head and gestured for her to follow. "Hey," he said, a little gruff.

"Hey," she answered, a little amused. "Problem?"

"I don't think this is a good idea."

"You don't think what's..."

"You know exactly what I'm saying."

They got to the elevator, and he punched the up button. "I'm not going to do it," she said, voice low.

"Yeah," he said, still not looking at her. "Maybe you won't."

"You think I'm lying?"

"I think I'm justified in not believing people anymore."

Well, she couldn't argue with that. "You're halfway to convincing yourself to go in. I don't get anything out of doing it myself."

"Then why the fuck are you here?" he asked, direct, annoyed.

The elevator door opened before she had to answer, but then they both went in and the doors closed and it was awkward again.

"Because I'm fucking lonely," she said, bluntly.

That struck him silent.

She looked askance at him, to find him looking at her. He had this expression on his face, almost like hope tinged with suspicion, and interest.

This was so incredibly fucked up. She needed to go home.

But she couldn't. Not yet.

The elevator pinged, and the door opened.

"C'mon," he muttered, and led the way.

Skyler left the kids with Marie.

It felt more than anything like she left them. Like Walt. Like she went off and pursued her own selfish shit and now Holly would just ask for Aunt Mai-ee and she might as well just leave for good. But she knew better, that was a bullshit thought, and, shit, she was even starting to use Jesse's ridiculous vernacular after a handful of meetings.

Not such a deep connection, her ass. She could never judge Marie again.

"This is fucking with my head," Jesse informed her, lounging back on the bed. "You showing up all the fucking time. What the fuck is this?"

"I don't know what you mean." She sits sprawled back in the chair, flipping through the cable channels on the hotel TV.

"I mean this, Mrs. White."

"Stop calling me that."

Jesse looked at her, astounded, and she didn't bother apologizing for her tone. "So," he started, dragging out the vowel.

"Call me Skyler. I don't want to be Mrs. White anymore."

He still didn't seem to be getting this. "You changing your name or something?"

"No. It's symbolic or something." She pressed the remote to her forehead, just finished with everything. "Fuck. Jesse. I can't do this anymore."

"Then go." His tone was flat, an attempt at casual, but he couldn't meet her gaze.

"Not what I meant." She moved to the bed, sat on the edge, and tossed the remote to him. She ran her fingers through her hair. "I'm writing the book."

"Fine." He still wouldn't engage her.

"I brought some booze."

Jesse watched her drag up the bag she'd brought along, haul the bottle out of the paper bag, and open it without a hitch. He didn't move. Even when she offered the bottle. "Come on," she entreatied.

"You're fucking with me," he said, now sounding kind of pissed. She looked back at him, and that definitely confirmed it. "You're playing some kind of game."

"I'm tired of everything," she shot back. "Aren't you?"

"I don't want to check out of reality with you," he snapped; she almost recoiled. "I'm trying to deal with it, you fuckin' know that."

"I'm not trying to make you relapse. I'm trying to have some fun for once."

"Drink some wine at home, Kathie Lee," he said, "don't bring that shit to me."

She set the bottle aside. "Stop being an asshole," she said pointedly, and leaned onto the bed. "I refuse to deal with any more assholes."

"Have you looked in the mirror lately?" he fired back.

"Fuck you!" she shouted at him.

"Go back home to your kids," Jesse said acidly.

Skyler shoved him against the headboard. He jerked forward, shoved back at her arm, and she pushed him back and kissed him on the mouth.

He went stiff against her, and even she was more than a little pissed at herself for this, but something snapped in him, she could almost feel it happen physically in his chest, and he moved a hand behind her neck and kissed her back just as harshly.

This was so fucked up.

But she didn't care. She couldn't care.

"You know that fucking me won't get back at him."

"I know."

Jesse's fingers toyed with her hair as she woke up, half-dressed, a bra strap broken, in a mediocre hotel bed. The sunlight broke through the blinds; she found herself a little grateful she didn't drink after all.

"I'm going today," he mumbled.

"You're..." She was still half-asleep.

"I'm going to the cops."

Skyler just nodded, and closed her eyes.

"He came in," Marie said, quietly, over dinner, two days later. "He told them everything."

"And - " Skyler hesitated. "What about it?"

"I'm just glad he's going into witness protection." Marie sighed. "He was a good kid. Despite everything."

Skyler smiled.

A postcard arrives a year later, unsigned, from a PO box.

The book was cool.

I didn't say thanks before. But thanks. For everything.