Over the next few days, Jesse spends a couple hours in Saul's office. Saul couldn't be happier, because the less time Jesse spends with Walter White the better. Jesse's bruises are healing; only a small nick or two remain on his pretty, young face. It's like watching him heal from the inside out, although Saul's not enough of an egotist to think he's got anything to do with it.

Sometimes Jesse brings books to read, sometimes he draws on looseleaf paper or legal pads. They talk during Saul's breaks, but Jesse spends most of the time with his earbuds in to drown out Saul's conversations with clients—a stipulation Saul had insisted on if Jesse wanted to stay in the room. And, okay, maybe Saul bends his own rules a little and lets Jesse smoke a cigarette or two in the office. He's nice like that.

"So, what're you gonna do next?" Saul asks one afternoon during a break.

Jesse's hand pauses over the paper, and he gets a lost, wounded look on his face.

"I'm not pushing," Saul says. "I'm just curious. Maybe I can help. Not to brag, but I've got connections."

Jesse's mouth twists into something contemplative. "I don't know. I just—I don't know what to do. Maybe I should start cookin' again..."

Saul sits on the arm of the couch near Jesse. "Something tells me you didn't go into making meth because it gave you the warm fuzzies."

Jesse breathes out a long exhale. "I was good at it," he says, like that's all that matters.

"You're good at this." Saul taps Jesse's sketchpad for emphasis.

Jesse looks at him, then back to the sketchbook. Saul wishes he knew the thoughts in Jesse's head so he could console him.

"And you're doin' it 'cause you want to, not because anybody told you you have to. That's somethin' special." Jesse looks at him again, and Saul meets his eyes. "C'mon, kid, in my experience, nobody cooks meth because they've got a passion for the drug business."

Jesse thinks it over and settles into the couch. "You really think I could draw for a living?"

"Why not? It's worth lookin' into if you don't know what else to do."

Saul holds his breath while Jesse watches him for a moment. "Why do you give a shit?" Jesse asks. "Why do you care what happens to me?"

"Because you're worth a hell of a lot more than Walt gives you credit for."

Jesse's mouth opens for a moment with no sound. His forehead dents, eyes going wide and sad. "Aren't you s'posed to be his lawyer?"

"Look, Walt might be disgustingly rich, but that doesn't mean he's Man of the Year. I don't have to wear rose-colored glasses 'cause he pays my bills."

Jesse nods like he understands, but his expression is still pretty confused. He starts drawing again after Saul's gone back to his desk.

#

"Since you've taken up babysitting, I've got a couple nieces who'd just love you."

Saul's getting ready to leave for the night, sees Francesca standing in the doorway to his office looking smug. "What?"

"That little arrangement you've got going with Pinkman?"

"It's not babysitting," Saul argues, trying to find a nicer word, because, really, it absolutely is. "It's...sanctuary."

To her credit, Francesca tries not to laugh. She covers her mouth and snorts a graceless sound.

"Okay, that may have been a particularly melodramatic way to phrase it."

"Just a bit."

Saul sighs and leans back against his desk. "It's complicated. He's in deep with an ex-partner, I'm offering him boots."

She quirks an eyebrow at him. "Kid must be loaded." Saul makes a face, and that's when Francesca gets it. "Oh no, is this a charity crusade?"

Saul winces, and, no, he doesn't have a decent argument for that. He's pretty much doing this out of the goodness of his heart, but that sounds cheesy as fuck said out loud. "I'm gonna go ahead and plead the fifth here."

Francesca pokes a finger at his chest. "Aw, you do have a heart in there!"

"A little lower, sweetheart."

She smirks. "Saul has a crush on a boy," she sing-songs at him before leaving the room. Saul just grumbles under his breath because, yeah, maybe she's right.

#

Jesse's sucking on a cigarette when Saul hangs up the phone. "Just a heads-up: Walt's coming by and he's bringing the missus. You might wanna lay low for a while."

Jesse takes one last puff and stubs the cigarette in the ashtray. "Thanks." He gathers his things at a glacial pace.

Saul snaps his fingers. "C'mon, chop-chop. Daylight's wastin'."

Jesse glares at him. "You want me out that bad?"

Saul cringes at how awful it sounds said out loud. "No, no, I don't want him seeing you here. Both our asses are on the line, because Walt strikes me as the jealous boyfriend sort."

The offense on Jesse's face melts away. "So, what, I'm cheatin' on Mr. White with you?"

Saul blushes at the innuendo there, because it's not like he hasn't thought about it. He's wondered what it would be like to touch Jesse, to kiss the words out of his mouth. But everyone who's ever met Jesse has probably thought the same things, so Saul doesn't feel too weird. "That's exactly what you're doing, sans romantic intent and/or sexual touching." Jesse gives him an odd look, but Saul says, "Just go. I'll let you know when the coast is clear."

Walt must be losing his mind, because he's invited his wife—albeit smart as a whip and gorgeous to boot—in on his money laundering scheme. Saul still has no idea how those two found each other, although it makes about as much sense and himself and Jesse.

He chastises himself for the thought. If he ever acted on it, even casually, Jesse would read into it as an expectation. All the trust Saul's been building would fall apart like a lopsided Jenga puzzle.

Walt casts a suspicious glance at the ashtray on the table before he leaves. Saul feels an icy finger run up his spine.

#

Jesse's cell phone rings around eight o'clock at night. He reaches out, thinking it's Saul or Badger or Skinny Pete. He reads the name on the caller ID, and his heart freezes in his chest.

Mr. White.

With fumbling fingers, Jesse answers the phone. "Yo."

"Jesse? How are you feeling?" Walt's whispering, so Jesse deduces he's still at home. He glances out the window, just in case.

"Better." Walt wouldn't have called if he didn't want something, so Jesse waits for him to ask whatever bullshit favor he wants.

"That's good. I'm glad."

Jesse gives an impatient handroll.

"I wanted to ask you if we could talk. Our last conversation was—well, I hate to have things end that way, Jesse. After everything we've been through..." Walt sighs. "I want to patch things up."

"You can forget about tryin' to get me to cook for you," Jesse insists. "That ship has sailed."

"I'm not asking you to cook for me, Jesse. I'm asking for the chance to reconcile. Will you give me that, at least?"

Jesse feels the sting of Walt's words under his skin, the subtle pinpricks of manipulation. Framing it like Jesse would be unreasonable to say no. Like he owes Walt a damn thing. "What's to reconcile? We're not friends. I don't know what the hell we are, but you're not on the top of my Christmas card list, that's for damn sure."

"Jesse."

"Just leave me alone, Mr. White. Haven't you done enough?" Jesse hangs up, unwilling to hear Walt yell at him or play to his emotions. His body thinks the fight-or-flight response is appropriate now and makes his hands go jittery. Seconds later, Jesse's cell phone trills again.

It's Walt. Of course.

Jesse grunts and lets it ring while he digs Saul's card out of his wallet. He turns over the card, finds Saul's personal number. He dials once the phone's gone silent.

"Saul Goodman."

"Yo, it's me."

Saul sounds surprised to hear his voice. "Hey, kid! Is ol' Heisenberg buggin' you?"

Jesse rubs his neck. "Yeah, I guess you could say that. I dunno, I feel like he might come over to talk to me. I sorta told him to leave me alone, and, y'know, he doesn't take no for an answer."

Saul sighs, like he knows exactly what Jesse means. "Yeah, I think he was out sick the day they taught boundaries. Well, hey, come on over if you want. I just got home, so you can help me make dinner, I guess. It's taco night."

"Hell yeah." Jesse grins. "Alright, I'll swing by."

Saul gives him the address, and Jesse throws on his shoes and heads out the door.

He pulls out of his driveway and doesn't see Walt's car lurking anywhere, so he figures he's safe. But he watches for Walt until he reaches Saul's place, which is so much fancier than Jesse pictured in his head. And why wouldn't it be? Saul is flashy and tacky as hell, in a charming sort of way.

Jesse sits there in front of Saul's house for a nervous handful of moments. His knee twitches, and his fingers drum on the steering wheel. This is ridiculous. He's been kidnapped and held hostage in the desert by a trigger-happy drug dealer—twice, actually. He's broken into a filthy house inhabited by junkies and been held at gunpoint. He's seen a dude's head get crushed by an ATM. He's been stranded in the desert for four days.

There is no reason for him to be nervous now.

Also, he needs to stop going to the desert, because it only brings terrible, traumatizing things.

Jesse gets out of his car and walks to the front porch. He knocks on the door. Saul greets him with a smile. He's wearing sweatpants and a faded t-shirt. His hair might also be a little damp. "Is it secret? Is it safe?"

"Calm your tits, Gandalf. I wasn't followed."

Saul grins, pleased Jesse got the reference. "C'mon in then." Jesse gets a whiff of cologne as Saul leads him into the bright, airy living room, and, whoa, Saul smells really good. Not that Jesse's in the habit of smelling people.

"I hope you're hungry," Saul says once they're in the kitchen.

"Yeah, I know: taco night."

"Actually, it's more of a taco pie, I suppose, but that's cool 'cause you're gonna eat it anyway."

"I'm still trying to deal with seeing you wear normal clothes. You look like an actual person." Seriously, Saul Goodman is wearing a t-shirt; this is damaging to Jesse's world view.

"And what did I look like before?"

"You know what I mean, dude."

"I know. I just like giving you shit." Saul smirks, and it's actually kind of cute.

Jesse is in way over his head.

#

"How have you not caused a disastrous kitchen fire already?" Saul asks in disbelief as Jesse's browning the ground beef. "When I said 'help with dinner' I was mostly referring to handing me things and setting timers."

"Meth's not the only thing I can cook," Jesse says with a grin.

Saul smiles back, but he still looks suspicious, like he expects flames to burst out of the pan. "You're not insulted that I'm surprised, right? I mean, I figured your diet consisted of Cheetos and Top Ramen."

"I know how to follow a recipe," Jesse says, because he's not exactly a chef. "I used to cook a lot for my aunt when she got sick. And, no, there were no kitchen fires." Jesse thinks about sticking his tongue out at Saul but decides against it.

Saul's watching him with dubious concern. "And she can, uh, verify this?"

"If she was alive, yeah," Jesse says, and he hears the bitterness in his voice.

Saul's playful expression vanishes like he's witnessed someone kicking a puppy. "I'm a horrible person. I'm sorry."

Jesse shakes his head. "Nah, it's fine. You 'accept things,' or 'make room for the pain,' or whatever the fuck they tell you in group."

"How long?"

"A couple years ago. It was lung cancer." He sniffles. "Same thing Mr. White has."

Saul's face goes worryingly sad for a moment before he reaches for the spatula Jesse's wielding. Jesse moves his hand away. "Will you chill? I got this. C'mon, if I can cook crystal, I can brown up some taco meat."

Saul continues to look unsure and dubious, but he doesn't cast any more suspicious glances Jesse's way or doubt his ability, which makes Jesse feel proud. Saul seems to take Jesse on his word and think he's capable of succeeding, which is a hell of a lot more than Walt ever did for him.

And Walt never invited Jesse to his house and cooked dinner with him either, so, there's that.

After getting the casserole in the oven, Saul says, "We got about thirty minutes 'til we eat. You up for a movie?"

Jesse wonders if their taste in movies is remotely similar. "Not if it sucks."

"The only movies I own that suck are movies that suck hilariously," Saul corrects. "Go on, take a look." He points Jesse to his massive DVD collection. Jesse recognizes some familiar titles on the shelves: Iron Man, Batman Begins, a couple seasons of Archer... Okay, maybe they can agree on something after all.

"What the hell is The Room?"

"The best worst movie ever!" Saul says. "It's a train-wreck of cinematic bad decisions. And that's what we're watching, because you need to experience it for yourself." He flips the DVD into the tray and flops onto the couch. Jesse joins him, a little reluctant at first because Saul's couch isn't exactly spacious, but he eases into familiarity once the opening credits start.

"See, right away the movie's warning you it's gonna be terrible by putting Tommy Wiseau's name under every credit," Saul explains.

"So, what, is this, like, a low-budget horror movie or somethin'?"

Saul laughs knowingly and pats Jesse's knee; Jesse feels his face heat up from the contact. "Just watch."

"Oh my God," Jesse says with a pronounced frown five minutes later. "What is even happening? Is that seriously the real actor?"

"At the risk of cheapening the word 'actor,' yes."

Jesse rubs a hand over his face. "Oh Jesus. It was funny at first but now it's just sad. I'm embarrassed for everyone involved in this."

"It gets funny again, don't worry. Actually, it gets hilarious."

It's pretty hilarious already, because Saul's casually inserting his own comments throughout the movie, but Jesse settles in and keeps watching. It's absolutely a train-wreck, and he can't look away.

"Drinking game: take a shot every time somebody says 'oh, hi.'"

Jesse scowls. "I think there's quicker, less painful ways to kill yourself. Also, this Mark dude is a fuckin' moron. She wants to sleep with you, dumbass!" he yells at the screen, impassioned.

Saul's wearing a smile that won't quit; clearly he finds Jesse's angry confusion and protest amusing.

The oven timer dings, and Saul slides his way off the couch. "Don't bother pausing; I won't miss anything."

"How many times have you seen this?" Jesse isn't sure he wants an answer; that way lies disappointment and horror.

"It's a true test of friendship; if someone can sit through The Room, they're a keeper."

"Do you do this on dates?"

"First dates? No." Saul laughs at the look of terror on Jesse's face. "I'm kidding!" He takes the casserole out of the oven and brings it to the couch. "You don't mind eatin' out of here, do you?"

"Nah, it's cool." Anything to distract Jesse from how awful this movie is.

"So, hey, slap me if I ever doubt you again," Saul says after they start eating. "You absolutely can follow a recipe and cook meat."

Jesse smiles despite himself. "I told you."

Saul holds up a hand. "And I was wrong. I'm self-aware enough to admit my shortcomings."

"But not to admit this movie blows."

"Of course it does. That's why it's so entertaining. You really expect a guy with that—Oh, wait, wait, this part is gold!"

And that's when Jesse witnesses about ten seconds of the absolute worst acting ever put on film, and he just can't anymore. He shrieks laughter, head tipped back against the couch. His whole body hurts from laughing, and he holds onto it as long as he can, because it's been forever since he's been able to let go like this. He's never had light, effortless fun with Walt; there's always been some sort of stress or motive underneath it all. But Saul just wants to share dinner and an awful movie with Jesse. It's hard not to fall for him a little bit.

"I think this movie was written by a crazy person," Jesse says when he can breathe again. "Nobody talks like this."

"Notice how everyone delivers their lines with Tommy Wiseau's weird, unnatural inflections?"

Jesse groans. "Shit, now I can't unhear it. Thanks for that."

"See, I think I enhance the movie-viewing experience," Saul says, which is kind of true. "It's like RiffTrax, but with one guy."

Jesse gives him a curious, confused look. "What?"

"Don't tell me you don't know what RiffTrax is?" Jesse blinks. Saul huffs disappointment. "Oh, Jesus. We're gonna have to fix that."

Jesse shovels in another forkful of delicious taco pie to prevent himself from revealing more sad and shameful gaps in his knowledge of pop culture.

"Do these guys do anything else besides throw a football back and forth?" he wonders aloud about halfway through the movie. "This whole thing would be, like, ten minutes long if they cut out all the pointless, repetitive shit."

"But where's the fun in that?"

"You mean 'fun' in sarcastic quotes, right?"

Saul laughs and sprawls out a little bit more. Jesse wants to lean against his shoulder, initiate some sort of physical contact. But he doesn't know where the line is, or if Saul will judge him for trying. Jesse's not sure what he's feeling here, if this is the need to be close to another warm body or something else entirely. Some of it feels familiar, a nervous little knot in his stomach he hasn't had since...well, since Jane.

Oh.

Is that what this is about?

No, no, it has to be a friend thing—confusing friendship feelings for something deeper. Jesse hasn't thought about being with someone in that way since Jane passed. His instincts bit down on it, shoved it away into some dark corner. But Saul treats him right and talks to him like he matters, like Jesse's not just some pathetic junkie whose saving grace is cooking meth.

He thinks they could work, and this could be the one thing that goes right. Saul could give him a nice, healthy life full of praise and promise. Jesse could focus on his art and make a decent living. They could be happy. But Jesse knows it would never be so simple. The last time he was happy...

He shuts his eyes, unwilling to go there again.

It's around eleven o'clock when they're finished eating and the movie's over. Jesse stretches his legs out and yawns. "Jesus, that was... I don't know what the fuck that was."

"You're a changed man, huh?"

"I'm not sure it's a change for the better," Jesse grumbles. But he can't be too upset, because he spent two hours on the couch with Saul. No complaining here.

"Well, next time we can watch something you like."

Jesse can't stop the goofy smile from spreading on his face. "Next time?"

"Yeah, why not?" Saul shrugs like it's not even a thing, like hanging out at Saul's house is something they just do now. "Door's always open."

Jesse's pretty sure he's smiling like an idiot, but he doesn't care. "Wow, Mr. White never had an open-door policy."

"'Cause he's a dick," Saul says, and Jesse doesn't think he's joking, but he laughs anyway because it's true.

Saul shows him to the door a little while later after Jesse's shoved his feet into his shoes and put his hoodie back on. The cold night air bites at his skin. "Thanks," he says, "for letting me crash for a bit, I mean. It was cool." Jesse makes himself shut up and watches Saul's face for any signs of regret.

"A promise is a promise."

Jesse grins. "I guess I'll see you around, huh?"

He's halfway to his car when Saul clears his throat. Jesse freezes. "Hey, look, if he, uh, if he's staking out your place when you get home...you know you can come back, right?"

Jesse's eyes widen, because, no, he had no idea Saul's hospitality would extend that far, but he nods and says, "Yeah, sure. Thanks."

So, yeah, Jesse's platonically dating Saul Goodman. Hell yeah, bitch.