His house has been repainted. There's one corner on the wall that's been missed both times, and it tells the story of the transformations that have happened here. The color his aunt had painted it, light mauve, that pristine white from when he'd tried to make this place a haven—and now muted blue, chosen by Andrea as Brock pulled constantly at his hand, demanding they stop for ice cream after.

It looks picture-perfect, but his heart still gives a little stutter anytime the doorbell rings.

Andrea is standing on the porch when he unlocks the deadbolt. "Sorry, forgot my key," she says breathlessly. Brock pushes in around her legs, shouting a quick greeting at Jesse before reaching for the controllers.

"I thought you'd brought the last of it," Jesse says, as he grabs the bag from her and helps her inside.

"For sure this time!" she says laughing. "We are officially living here. Scared yet?"

Jesse laughs, but doesn't quite meet her eyes. "Not of you," he says. "Not ever."

He knows there isn't much he has to be afraid of anymore, Walter had seen to that—he'd orchestrated the deaths of all their enemies, and then even killed himself. Jesse sort of hates that he felt more relief at hearing of Heisenberg's end on the news than he had when Saul had thrown those pictures at his feet.

But maybe that's because of the part he'd played in their deaths. He still can't bring himself to celebrate the harm he's brought to others, and maybe that's for the best. Walt, at least, has no one to blame but himself.

He sets the bag on the table as Andrea bickers with Brock over what is and what is not acceptable dinner food, and tries not to think of Walt. He's down to three, four times a day—tops. He's getting better.

He just can't get the last time they were together out of his head.

He'd been so hurt then, so mad at Walt and at everything. He'd been so certain he knew what Walt was planning, that he was trying to tell him where the money was. Except it hadn't been about the money for once, not then.

Walter had pulled the plug on the camera and then slammed him into the wall. He can still remember the feel of Walter's panicked, urgent words against his ear: "This isn't about the money, the money's safe, all eighty million of it," Walt had said, as he forced a piece of a folded paper into Jesse's pocket. "This letter is more important than every cent of it. You have to mail it. Mail it, or all of us are dead."

Gomez had come barreling in then, and forced them apart.

Jesse figures he must have written the letter right in front of Schrader, in-between pages of confession. It had been kindly addressed to Ms. Lydia Rodarte-Quayle, informing her that Jack, Todd and the others had learned the DEA was after them and they were planning to wipe the operation clean—which just happened to include having her killed. Walt then went on to explain that he had very nobly left her out of his confession, but she would need to take care of the gang before any of them were safe.

Jesse had agonized over whether or not he should have it sent. In the end he didn't do it for Walter. He did it for Andrea, for Brock, for Walt's kids. He did it for the Schraders and even for Saul. He did it for himself.

After all, Mr. White may have been the devil but he's always been right, and with Jack's gang on the loose none of them would have been safe.

He doesn't regret it, most of the time. Still, memories of Walter catch him off guard and stick in his throat. They still make him want to reach for the meth, for the heroine, even, mixed together and injected straight in like the way Jane used to do it. So fucking seamless you never even felt the needle go in.

But most of the time he's fine.

He stares into the bag Andrea had handed him and feels suddenly like he can't get any air. It's just things like this that still hurt.

"What's all this?" he asks breathlessly.

"Oh, the mail," Andrea says distractedly. "I wasn't sure what to do with it. I picked it up for you, kept it safe. I didn't want to bother you with it until you were better—until you were home."

Jesse stares at the letter that sits on top of the pile of bills and junkmail, swallowing hard at the familiar, deliberate cursive. Walter always had surprisingly beautiful handwriting for a scientist, at least when he put his mind to it.

There's no return address. He guesses Walt knew by the time he sent it he wouldn't be anywhere when it was received.

"Is something wrong?" Andrea asks, and he glances up to see her watching him in concern.

"No," he says. "No, everything's fine."

"Okay," she says, leaning up to give him a quick kiss before disappearing into the kitchen, shouting to Brock as she does that it's Brussels sprouts or it's broccoli, and he'd better pick or might end up with both.

Jesse reaches into the bag and pulls out the letter. He stares at it for a moment and envisions himself stuffing it down the trash compactor unopened, of lighting a match and holding it as it burns, of—

Except Walter never did anything without a reason, and whatever this is, it's a piece of the puzzle he left behind.

He opens it and unfolds the single sheet of paper inside. He drops heavily onto the stool as he takes in the words, the sort of goodbye he'd meant to have the first time around but had been too angry and bitter to get.

He still hasn't forgiven Walter White, but for some inexplicable reason he can't help but miss him like a phantom limb.

"Jesse, why are you crying?" Brock asks softly.

Jesse jerks up, brushing away the traitorous tears and laughing over at his surrogate son. "I'm just a little sad," he says.

"Don't you still want us here?" Brock asks hesitantly.

Jesse pushes off the stool and drops down beside him. "Of course," he says. "I don't know what I'd do without you and your mom. I'd be lost."

"You wouldn't have to eat Brussels sprouts," Brock confides, looking sort of reluctant about dangling a life without Brussels sprouts in front of Jesse, lest he should abandon him for the better offer.

Jesse just laughs, filing Walt back away where he belongs. "You're worth it," he promises. "Don't ever doubt that, okay?"

Brock nods, and then leans up against Jesse's side, glancing down at the letter. "What is it?" he asks.

"I think it's a treasure map," Jesse says, and folds the letter in half.

"Are we going to go look for buried treasure?" Brock asks hopefully.

Jesse places the letter in his pocket. "I'm going to let you in on a little secret," he says, glancing seriously at Brock. "It's a lesson I learned the hard way, from a very old friend."

"Okay," Brock says, and he's watching Jesse with such trust it nearly breaks his heart. He knows he can't mess this up this time. He knows they don't need anything more than they already have.

"Sometimes treasure's more trouble than it's worth," he says.

Jesse,

If you're reading this, I'm dead. I know I have no right to ask, but please make sure my family is taken care of.

Because no matter what, you will always be my partner.

Fifty-fifty, remember?

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