While Saul's at work the next day, Billy Ray and Buck drive Jesse into town to meet Duane. Duane's auto shop looks like the salvage yard from Sanford and Son, with junk and run-down cars strewn in every direction around the entrance. Rock music sounds from the inside; it's like he never even got out of the truck.

A blonde girl who can't be any older than Jesse meets them at the front. She's wearing a dark jumpsuit with a couple oil stains on it; Jesse unwillingly flashes back to his days with Vamonos. Her long hair's tied up into a ponytail. "You here to see Duane?"

"He is," Buck says, clapping Jesse on the shoulder. "Y'all got room for another mechanic?"

The girl smiles. "Always. C'mon in." They follow her to the car bay. She sidles up alongside Jesse and offers her hand. "Maggie. Nice to meet you." She's got a pretty strong handshake, Jesse notices.

"Aaron."

"You know a lot about cars?"

"Oh yeah. Tons," he lies.

They approach a vintage Oldsmobile with a pair of jean-clad legs sticking out from underneath it. Maggie raps on the hood. "You got company."

The owner of the legs slides out from beneath the car, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag that's seen better days. This must be Duane, Jesse figures. He's pretty buff for a mechanic, with short dirty blonde—or brown—hair and green eyes. He's sporting a fair amount of stubble on his chiseled jawline. He's rugged, yet he looks like he could be a cover model. Jesse's never been jealous of another dude's looks before, but he's also never had disfiguring scars on his face. So, yeah, he's a little envious.

Duane stands up and shakes Jesse's hand. "Duane. You're the new guy?"

"Y—yeah. I'm Aaron."

"Well, Aaron, let's get started." Duane slaps him on the back—apparently people in Omaha are really touchy-feely—and steers him in the direction of a rust-bucket of a car in the mechanic bay. "You wanna get 'er running?" He digs into his pocket and hands Jesse the key.

Jesse slides into the driver's seat and sticks the key into the ignition. Nothing. Duane folds his arms over his chest, watching intently. "Battery's dead," Jesse says.

"Alright. So, what next?"

"Jump it."

"No cables."

"How do you not have jumper cables?"

Duane rolls his eyes. "What if you're in the middle of nowhere? How you gonna get a jump?"

Jesse sighs, tries to ignore the pang of familiarity scratching at the back of his mind. Because he's been in the middle of nowhere with a dead battery. "Make a new battery."

"How?" Duane asks, sounding every bit like he doesn't think Jesse's got an answer.

But Jesse absolutely has an answer. This is just an exercise to see if Jesse's teachable. So he reaches back into the painful recesses of his memory and pulls out Mr. White's explanation: "A battery's just a cathode and an anode, right? So take mercuric oxide and graphite for the cathode, and zinc for the anode. The mercuric oxide turns into mercury, and the zinc turns into zinc oxide and generates electrons. The two reactions balance each other out. It's, y'know, science...and stuff."

Duane looks positively fucking stunned. A smirk twitches at the corner of Jesse's mouth, because he loves showing up people who underestimate him. Duane blinks a couple times, lets his arms fall to his sides. "Okay, wow, um, how 'bout we go in the back and get you set up?"

That's right, bitch.

Jesse finds that, under Duane's guidance, he's actually pretty good with cars. He never saw himself as a mechanic before, but it's not like he aspired to be a meth cook either, so he's open for surprises. He spends the day learning on the junked cars scattered across the lot, gaining familiarity with the different tools to use and the mechanisms underneath the hood.

Duane's a big fan of watching Jesse work, but Jesse surmises it's less of a desire to keep a careful eye on him and more of a curiousity. Omaha's not exactly a small town, but everyone Jesse's met here seems to know each other, so of course they're interested in this new, mysterious stranger pushing his way into their inner circle.

Or maybe he can't stop ogling Jesse's scars. It's fifty-fifty.

"How'd you meet Buck and Billy Ray?" Duane asks while Jesse's wiping oil off of his hands.

"Neighbors. I moved in with a, uh, friend of mine. His place is right next door to theirs."

"Cool. You from outta state?"

"Alaska."

He huffs a laugh. "What's that like?"

"Cold."

"No shit?"

"And lonely," Jesse says.

Duane's wearing a thoughtful look on his face. "Is that why you came here?"

Saying he moved to Omaha to escape a manhunt probably isn't the answer Duane's looking for. So Jesse just says, "Yeah."

By the end of the day Duane seems to have warmed up to him a bit, because he invites Jesse to a nearby bar for a drink after work.

The bar smells like nachos and beer. Neon signs boasting names like Coors and Budweiser hang from the walls. There's a wide-screen television mounted in the corner broadcasting the highlights of a baseball game. Lynyrd Skynyrd blares from the jukebox by the pool table.

Duane takes a seat at the bar and orders a glass of whiskey. Jesse sticks to beer. "Is Maggie your sister?" Jesse asks, because that seems like a good way to get Duane talking instead of firing questions at him.

Duane chuckles, and there's sort of a bitter edge to it. "Nah. A royal pain in my ass, but she ain't blood."

"Your girlfriend?"

"Just a friend." Duane looks over at Jesse with a smirk. "Word of advice? Don't even try. That girl will kick your ass."

Jesse's eyes go wide. "I wasn't—no, I was just—no."

Duane laughs, takes a sip of his drink. "I'm just fuckin' with you."

Jesse opts for silence and brings his beer bottle to his lips.

Duane goes quiet for a moment, content to drink and listen to the music flowing from the jukebox. Jesse averts his attention to the TV until Duane asks, "How do you know all that science shit? You some kinda genius?"

Jesse chuckles a mirthless sound and shakes his head. "I had a friend who was." It's the first time he's talked about Mr. White in ages. He feels the hole in his chest begin to tear at the edges. "He taught me a lot."

Duane seems to hear the subtext there. "You miss him?"

"Every day," Jesse says around the lump in his throat.

Duane toys with the braided leather cord draped around his neck. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

"You lose somebody too?"

Duane doesn't say anything for a moment, then: "My brother Shawn. He was a bit of a screw-up, I guess, so Dad always told me to watch out for him. And I did. He straightened up, got into a good college. Everything should'a been fine..." He takes a deep, hard gulp from the glass, draining the last sip. Jesse waits for him to say more; this feels like one of those late-night confessions where you spill your soul or else it might poison you from the inside out.

Duane stares at the drink in his hands. "It was Spring Break," he says, a small quiver in his voice. "Shawn was at a party with some friends. I don't know all the details, but apparently he got mixed up in some sort of drug deal. He'd been slingin' glass on the side to pay for school so he wouldn't have to ask me or Dad for money."

Jesse feels a pang in his chest.

"I was s'posed to protect him." Duane laughs a rough, humorless sound, and there's a bit of a slur to his speech now. "I let Dad down, and my little brother."

Jesse wonders what to say that won't sound patronizing. He dodges that conversational brick entirely by asking, "Did they ever find the guy?"

Duane shakes his head. "They better hope I don't find the son of a bitch first." His fingers tighten around the empty glass. He finds comfort in silence for a while, and Jesse's fine with that, because he's awful when it comes to offering words of support that aren't useless platitudes. Mike was good at that kind of thing; he could tell you something cliché and trite and make it sound profound as hell.

God, Jesse misses that bald, droopy-eyed motherfucker.

"What happened to your face?" Duane asks when he's on his second drink. "You get on Wolverine's bad side?"

"Just a fight," Jesse says. He really needs to invest in a t-shirt that says "Please stop asking about the scars."

"Guess you won, huh?"

"Guess I did." Jesse ignores the wave of nausea in his gut at the memory. "You want some nachos?" Duane could probably use something to eat, especially if he's going to drive home.

"Make it hot wings and you got a deal."

Jesse doesn't let Duane leave until he's sobered up, which takes about an hour or two. It's nearing eleven when they finally leave the bar. "You need a ride home?" Duane offers, unlocking the driver's door.

"Nah, I can walk."

"You sure?"

"Totally."

"Alright, catch ya later."

Jesse lingers on the sidewalk, watches Duane drive off into the night before he starts walking home. He traces his steps back to the auto shop, then navigates his way home from there. The streets aren't bustling with as much activity as Albuquerque's, but that's to be expected. It's still moderately active, which Jesse prefers; he'd rather not be alone, even if he's just surrounded by strangers paying him zero attention.

He passes by a gas station and sees an ad in the window announcing a two-for-one sale on fountain drinks. He digs his hands into his pockets, comes up empty. Damn. He could really go for a Slurpee right about now, but he'll just have to settle for fruit punch over ice when he gets home.

Jesse takes a little longer than he ought to finding Saul's neighborhood, because everything looks different in the dark, and this is only his second time traversing these streets. But eventually he makes it home.

A calm breeze rustles through the trees and cools down the sweat leaking from his brow. All the lights in the house seem to be off, save for the glow coming from the living room windows. Jesse takes the stairs up the front porch and hopes it's not too late to knock on the door. Saul really needs to give him a key.

The door swings open, and Saul greets him with, "Jesus, kid, you wanna let me know the next time you decide not to come home?"

Jesse shrinks a little under the scolding. "I'm sorry."

Saul lets him inside but doesn't stop fretting. "Do you have any idea all the awful things I thought were happening to you?" He studies Jesse's face. "No, obviously you don't."

Jesse blinks a couple times, stunned by the weight of Saul's concern. "I don't know your number," he realizes. "How was I s'posed to call you?"

Saul opens his mouth, closes it, because, yeah, that's a big roadblock. "That's—okay, well, next time just let me know, alright?"

Jesse nods and moves for the refrigerator. His body craves that glass of fruit punch like his lungs crave oxygen. It hits him as he's pouring the juice over ice: "Did you seriously wait up for me like a concerned parent?" he asks, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Saul folds his arms over his chest and scowls at him, like Jesse's the cause for all the world's misery. "That's a little hyperbolous."

"You totally did! I stayed out past curfew, and you waited up for me." Jesse grins. "You gonna ground me now, Dad?"

Saul's mouth twists into a little frown. "Don't call me that."

Jesse shrugs, gulps down the punch. "I call it like I see it, yo."

"Fine, next time maybe I won't be concerned at all for your well-being. 'Where's Jesse?' 'Who cares?'"

Jesse hides a smile behind the rim of the glass. "You are such a fuckin' dork." He's not going to pretend he doesn't find Saul's concern endearing, because when was the last time anyone ever gave a shit about him? It's not like Saul's gaining anything by keeping Jesse around, so his fretting over Jesse isn't fueled by selfish reasoning. Maybe Saul just enjoys Jesse's company, and that's enough for him to panic when Jesse's gone too long.

Jesse's not equipped to handle this kind of emotional investment. The only people who cared about him being late were drug dealers. This is entirely new territory for him, so, of course, his gut instinct is to mock it. Otherwise he'd have to be honest, and there's always risk involved in honesty; Jesse's risked enough already.

Saul pouts at him. "You're the dork," he mumbles, and Jesse doesn't know why his stomach does twists and knots at that.

Jesse just laughs to himself and finishes his drink before heading into the shower.

Dread creeps into his bones as Jesse climbs into bed, because there have to be repercussions for opening the floodgates and talking about Mr. White tonight. The subject is utterly forbidden, and Jesse does his best to avoid thinking about it. But he'd been stupid and vulnerable, and he knows it's going to cost him.

Jesse curls up, squeezes his eyes shut, and waits.

A week passes by, and Jesse feels like his life's finally gaining some normalcy. He goes to work at a real, non-drug-related job, he has friends who don't manufacture or sell drugs, and he lives in a nice house with a roommate he finds himself staring at a little too long. On those agonizing, lonely nights at the compound, he'd gaze up at the stars and yearn for freedom. It seems as if he got his freedom and then some.

Saul's at work during Jesse's first day off, so Jesse spends the day doing housework to pass the time. He sweeps and mops the kitchen floor, vacuums the carpet, dusts, and does a couple loads of laundry. He figures he ought to earn his keep here if he's not paying rent. Shit, does Saul expect him to pay rent? Jesse makes a mental note to ask about that later.

He's putting the finishing touches on dinner when Saul walks through the door that evening. Saul stops in the middle of the living room, sniffs the air. "I smell lavender. Did you Febreze the place?"

"Yeah, just a little. 'Cause I accidentally caught a rubber band in the vacuum so I had to get that burnt smell outta the air."

Saul's eyebrows raise in a particularly suspicious way. "You vacuumed?"

"Yeah?" Jesse ignores the disbelief in Saul's voice and says, "You hungry? I made Hamburger Helper. 'Cept we didn't have any hamburger so it's just Helper."

The look of bewilderment doesn't leave Saul's face; it actually intensifies. He blinks once, twice, opens his mouth, closes it. "Did you and June Cleaver get into those teleportation pods from The Fly? I feel like I'm in an alternate universe where you're a 1950's housewife who does domestic things like cooking and cleaning. This is damaging to my world view, Jesse. I need a moment," Saul says before going upstairs.

Why is it so weird that Jesse has an edge of domesticity? It's like Saul forgets that Jesse's an actual person capable of performing tasks that aren't cooking meth. But Saul hasn't had many opportunities to see Jesse's life outside of the drug business, so give it another week or two and the shock will wear off.

Saul comes downstairs about twenty minutes later in his pajamas, which consist of a loose, worn t-shirt and a pair of lounge pants. Saul's t-shirt says "Starfleet Academy." Jesse snickers. "Never knew you were a Trekkie."

"Live long and prosper, baby," Saul says with a half-smile. "You more of a Kirk guy or a Spock guy?"

"Neither. Only reason I know anything about Star Trek is 'cause Badger never shut the fuck up about it. He used to put Starfleet on his resumé under 'education.'" Saul huffs laughter. "Believe it or not, that's progress. He used to put down Hogwarts." Jesse remembers Badger's Harry Potter phase with more fondness now.

"You've always been surrounded by nerds, haven't you?"

Jesse realizes that, yeah, he has. Jake, Badger, Skinny Pete, Combo, Mr. White... All huge fucking nerds in one way or another. And now Saul's here to fill the void. It's kind of nice when he thinks about it. "Maybe 'cause I'm a nerd too."

Saul strolls into the kitchen and stares at the food Jesse's prepared. "Are you also a good cook, or do I have to order take-out?"

"My cooking is fine." God, he swears he's had this conversation before, but under very different circumstances.

Saul doesn't seem to hear the subtext. "I'll be the judge of that."

"Pretty good Helper," Saul says with his mouth half full.

"I told you," Jesse shoots back, because he can't help but gloat.

"Sorry, I'm a skeptic. You never struck me as someone whose kitchen expertise extended beyond microwaving pizza rolls."

Jesse chooses not to be insulted by that, because Saul's never had the chance to learn anything about Jesse beyond the surface. So he gets a pass for his blatant ignorance. Jesse leans back in his chair and decides to offer something of worth. "Yeah, well, when my aunt got sick, I would, uh, I would cook for her 'cause sometimes she, y'know, couldn't. But that wouldn't stop her from givin' me directions from the couch. 'Fry the grilled cheese in mayo!' 'I don't care what the box says; do it my way!'" He chuckles at the memory. "She used to cook all our food for holidays and shit. She had a couple awesome recipes I could make sometime"—Jesse fears he's overstepping somehow, so he adds—"if—if you want, I mean. I know you're, like, the ribbon-winner for muffins, so I guess maybe you wanna cook, huh?"

Saul's watching him with a quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Hey, I'm all in favor of less work for me. If you wanna take over kitchen duties, don't let me stop you."

"Alright, sweet." Jesse takes a bite, asks, "So how'd you get into baking? You got some sort of family recipe for muffins?"

"No, it's far, far lamer than you'd ever imagine." Saul cracks a smile. "You promise not to laugh?"

"I promise I'll try not to."

That must be good enough for Saul, because he begins, "My last ex loved blueberry muffins, but she couldn't cook worth a damn. That woman could burn ice cream. So my glorious, award-winning recipe was borne from my refusal to choke down her godawful, dry, tasteless muffins. If you want something done right..." He lets the rest trail off with a shrug.

Jesse promised he'd try not to laugh, and to his credit he tries fairly hard, but the fact that Saul bakes is too much for him to handle. A snicker bubbles out from his lips, and he covers his mouth to smother the sound. "I'm sorry, that's just—that's so domestic."

"Plus, you watch enough Food Network and you pick up a few things," Saul says, choosing to ignore Jesse's mirth at his hobbies.

Jesse grins at him, but Saul glances away after a moment, his mouth drawn into a solemn line, and Jesse doesn't know what to make of that. It's not like he's laughing at Saul... Okay, he kind of is, but not in a cruel, taunting way. He thinks it's adorable that Saul has such a domestic side; not what you'd expect from the sleazy, flamboyantly-fashioned lawyer.

Actually, now that Jesse thinks about it, Saul himself is kind of adorable. In a totally manly way, of course. His dumb jokes, his goofy t-shirts, his protectiveness, the way he invited Jesse into his home... It's hard not to be a little charmed, Jesse thinks.

Of course, he'll never admit it to anyone, least of all Saul.

That'll be Jesse's little secret.

Jesse walks into the auto shop Thursday afternoon to the sound of Duane swearing viciously at an old, worn-down car in the lot. He finds Maggie, who's standing to the side by the vending machine taking in the spectacle with an amused smirk. "What happened?" Jesse asks.

"The same thing that always happens when he tries to fix Ol' Blue." Jesse tries not to wince at the name. "Something else breaks and he starts swearing." Maggie looks over at Jesse. "It's kind of hilarious."

"Somebody bring it in?"

She shakes her head. "He bought it from a scrap yard, thought he could get it running and turn it around for a nice profit." Duane kicks one of the front tires. "Joke's on him."

"What kind of car is it?"

"'85 Nissan 300ZX," Maggie says. "Hatchback. V-6 engine. Leather interior. Manual 5-speed." He feels like he ought to be immediately attracted to a girl who speaks Car & Driver, but, really, he'd prefer if she could name all of the X-Men.

"Fuck it!" Duane yells at the car. "I'm done! You're goin' back to the scrap heap!" He digs his cell phone out of his pocket.

Jesse runs across the lot. "Wait, hold up!" Duane pauses, and Jesse says, "Don't junk it yet. What if I could fix it?"

Duane has no right looking so judgemental. "Hell, if you can fix it, it's yours."

That stuns Jesse in place. He expected a lot more arguing and questioning of his intellect. He's still new here, and he isn't sure if he's allowed to do things like this. "For real?"

"Why not?" Duane says with a shrug. "I haven't been able to get that thing workin' properly for a whole month."

Jesse's glad that Duane's so easygoing, because later that afternoon when an achingly-familiar puke-green Aztek rolls into the shop Jesse dissolves into a trembling mess. His breath starts rasping down his throat. He can barely get out the words, "Hey, do you mind takin' this one for me?" to Duane before his throat closes up around them and his eyes fog over. He stumbles into the break room at the back of the shop with his heart pounding against his ribcage like it might crack through his sternum. He shuts himself in and slides down the door, curling into himself and trying to remember how to breathe properly. His lungs shudder and shake and contort as if they're being ripped out of his throat.

All Jesse knows for sure is that he's going to die. Because Mr. White is still alive and bent on revenge. Because Duane will be pissed Jesse handed over a job for no good reason. Because his body and his brain are telling him so.

Jesse doesn't know how long it's been before someone knocks sprightly on the door. "Knock knock." A female voice. It must be Maggie.

"'Sup," Jesse croaks, trying his best to sound unaffected, but his voice feels like sandpaper in his throat.

The door edges open against his weight. Maggie slips inside, shutting the door to give them privacy. She kneels at his side. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," he says, wiping the wetness off of his face with sweaty hands. His breathing evens out enough for him to feel like he has some sort of control over it.

"Was this your first panic attack?" At his look of surprise, she says, "My little sister used to get 'em when she started high school."

Jesse takes a deep breath that nourishes his lungs. "I've never—I've never felt anything like that before." His hands are still loose and jittery, lungs jumpy like there's not enough oxygen.

She nods. "It's not the end of the world. It just feels like it. You'll be okay. Just remember to breathe."

Jesse focuses on the pattern of his breaths, how much air fills his lungs, how deeply he exhales. "Is he mad at me?"

"Who? Duane? No way. He's totally cool. He understands stuff like this." She leans in like she's going to tell him an earth-shattering secret. "He won't work on a car that reminds him of his brother's."

The revelation soothes Jesse's nerves. Duane isn't going to scream at Jesse or fire him. As pieces of his rational mind come back to him, he realizes there's probably thousands of those stupid Azteks out there. That doesn't mean Mr. White is alive.

Jesse's not sure if that makes him feel better.

Saul enjoys having Jesse around the house, but the one thing that makes him regret their arrangement are the night terrors. They don't happen every night, but when they do it's a symphony of anguished noises that human vocal chords should be incapable of producing. Honest to God, Saul just wants to bury his head in the pillow until the screaming stops. Maybe it's selfish and insensitive, or maybe Saul's just a coward. But it's like living in a haunted house where the moans and screams and cries echo and reverberate through the walls. All suffering, no humanity.

But Jesse needs his help, and Saul can't turn him away, not after last time when his presence helped lull Jesse into a quiet slumber. So Saul crawls out of his soft, warm bed and ventures down the hall to the guest bedroom. He opens the door. Just being in this room while Jesse thrashes and writhes there in the bed makes anxiety crawl over Saul's skin like a thousand tiny, prickly spiders.

"Jesse." He flicks on the light switch near the door and banishes the darkness. The brightness makes him squint, eyes unadjusted to the burst of light. "Jesse, it's okay. You're safe. Nothing's gonna hurt you," Saul says, making his way to the bed. He jostles Jesse's shoulder, trying to break him free from the spell of the nightmare. "Jesse."

Jesse chokes on an agonized wail, as if he recognizes Saul's voice in the void. He staggers out a few gulps of air and turns over. When he sees Saul, his expression gives way into something lost and childlike, like he's staring into the eyes of a savior. His skin is almost as pale as the sheets. His forehead's covered in a sheen of freezing sweat, his body caught in a stranglehold of blankets. Then his countenance contorts into misery, and he covers his face with his tattooed arm and starts bawling again. His eyes are fountains of tears, ceaseless and miserable.

Saul lays a hand on Jesse's arm. If physical contact severed Jesse's ties to the dream before, it might work again. "Jesse, hey. It's just a dream. You're safe here. You're awake."

Jesse drags his hand over his face. His scars seem to dance in the moonlight. He sits up and wipes his eyes. His body's trembling, his consciousness still ensnared in the claws of the dream. Saul rubs his back in slow circles until his shaking ceases. He can't imagine the thoughts in Jesse's head, what awful dreams Jesse must have to make him shriek like his insides are being shredded.

"You want some ice cream?" Saul asks after Jesse's calmed down a bit. "That usually puts me to sleep."

Jesse gives a helpless nod. Saul gets up from the bed and notices the way Jesse shadows him while they walk downstairs, as if Saul is Jesse's own personal shield against imaginary monsters. Saul pops open the freezer door and peers inside. "Looks like you got choices." He takes out two pints of Ben & Jerry's so Jesse can see. "Phish Food or AmeriCone Dream?"

Jesse thinks for a moment. "Which one's vanilla?"

Saul sets the pint down in front of him. Jesse grabs a spoon before Saul can do it for him and sits at the table. He opens the lid and digs out a spoonful, concentrating on the task like his life depends on it. Saul thinks the tendrils of the dream are still hovering there in the recesses of Jesse's mind, ready to reach out and grab him at the slightest provocation; focusing on something mundane probably keeps them away.

For the briefest second, Saul's stricken with a thought that makes his throat swell: could that be why Jesse does so much housework?

Saul sits across from Jesse, clears his throat, and says, "So, uh, anything you wanna talk about? You don't have to, but if you think it'd help, I'll listen." He shrugs into silence, not wanting to tread over psychological landmines. Or, worst of all, push Jesse into talking about something he'd rather keep locked up inside.

Jesse's brow creases in a thoughtful way. He jabs his spoon into the ice cream again and carves out another bite. "Mr. White died protecting me," he says after he swallows. It's frank and abrupt, and Jesse's mouth twists slightly when he speaks, as if he expects to be chastised. "After selling me out and putting me through hell, he comes back to rescue me. And he takes a bullet for me." Jesse lifts his gaze and looks at Saul. "How am I supposed to live with that?"

"One good deed in the end doesn't redeem him."

"But it's something, y'know? Maybe he was really sorry for all the awful shit he did... He asked me to kill him when it was over, like he knew he deserved it."

Saul really wishes he'd taken those counseling classes in college for extra credit. But no, he had to opt for some bullshit poly-sci classes he can't even use now. He doesn't have to ask if Jesse obliged Walt's request; he already knows the answer.

Jesse shoves another spoonful into his mouth. "He was there that night—the night Jane died."

Saul feels a tightening in his chest.

"He told me he watched her die, that he could've saved her, but he didn't." Jesse sniffles, stares at nothing in particular for a moment.

"He saved your life and then he told you that?" What a dick.

Jesse shakes his head. "This was—this was before." He wipes a hand over his face, like he realizes Saul's missing huge, crater-sized gaps of the story. "I took your car to go to Mr. White's place and burn it down," he admits in a lifeless voice. "But Mr. White's brother-in-law stopped me, and we came up with a plan to catch him. We tricked him into leadin' us to where his money was—the first place we ever cooked—and Mr. White's brother-in-law cuffed him, got him in the back of the car and everything. It was almost over."

Saul doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Jesse says, "And then they showed up," because he tries to gasp but there's no air.

"They started shooting and—God, there was so many of them." Jesse presses a hand to his wet face to stem the tears leaking from his eyes. "They killed Mr. White's brother-in-law and the other DEA agent that was with us. They dug up Mr. White's money and loaded it into their truck. I hid under his car when they showed up, so they couldn't find me. Not 'til Mr. White told them where I was. He said they 'still owed him,' and they were s'posed to kill me. But they decided not to 'cause they had to find out what I told the DEA." Jesse eats a little more, like the ice cream is stemming off some sort of breakdown.

Then he says, "They made me cook for them," in such a detached, matter-of-fact way that it sends chills along Saul's spine. "For a hundred and eighty-seven days."

Saul has a pretty good idea where the scars came from now.

His heart shatters in his chest. "Oh God..." he murmurs, because what else can you say? Over the course of his former career, Saul's heard the gamut of awful shit, but this takes the cake, because, Jesus, that's horrible. "Jesse... None of this is your fault. I want you to know that. You didn't deserve any of this."

Jesse looks at Saul with eyes that have known little kindness, like he doesn't entirely believe the words. He nods slowly, probably unsure of what to say in response, and goes back to his ice cream.

"All of the men who hurt you... They're dead, right?"

Jesse nods again.

"So you know you're safe, that they can't hurt you anymore?"

Jesse swallows thickly and risks another glance at Saul. "I know, but—I can't keep the dreams away..."

"You ever try thinkin' about something nice before you go to sleep? Like, I dunno, hang gliding, surfing, piloting the Millenium Falcon?"

Jesse cracks a smile.

"Sometimes when I fall asleep thinking about something, my dreams pick up where I left off." He shrugs like it's meaningless. "Worth a shot, maybe."

Jesse eats another scoop, and Saul notices his cheeks grow significantly redder. "When you were there, it, uh, it was easier, y'know, to sleep," he practically mumbles, but the kitchen's quiet enough that Saul can hear him.

"You want me there?" Saul lets a little bit of pride leak into his voice.

Jesse blushes, staring into the pint of ice cream and stabbing his spoon into it. "Just 'til I fall asleep. Once I'm out, you can bounce. Or, y'know, you don't have to stay at all if you don't wanna. Whatever," he says in a low voice, like he doesn't care about the answer.

But Saul knows Jesse well enough to see he's pretty good at pretending not to care about things.

Saul says, "I'll stay with you, Jesse."

Jesse goes back to his bedroom after he's had enough ice cream for the night. Saul keeps him company, lies beside him in the bed and listens for the sounds of his breathing to slow. He looks at Jesse's sleeping form, catches Jesse's wrist that's lying near his face. The steady pulse of his heart thumps under Saul's thumb as he draws soft circles over the skin there

The corners of Jesse's mouth are turned up slightly. Saul wonders what it might be like to kiss that mouth, to feel the scrape of stubble against his chin. He's never given the same sex much thought before. His luck with women is rather hit-or-miss; why pick up a new hobby when you haven't mastered the old one?

But Jesse is resilient, fascinating, and resonant in a way nothing and no one even comes close to. He's an inferno, and Saul wants to get close enough to burn. But for Saul to voice any sort of interest in Jesse is to risk demolishing the last fragments of Jesse's trust. Saul could never be that selfish, not when Jesse's so fragile. In time, maybe they could build something together, but for now Saul's stuck on the sidelines. Which, when he gets to do things like this, the sidelines aren't half bad.