New Year's Eve finds them dogsitting again, lounging on the couch watching a Twilight Zone marathon. Bark Lee's got his head in Jesse's lap, snoozing peacefully without a care in the world. Jesse's tucked against the line of Saul's body, casually sprawled against him. He likes the warmth of Saul's arm around his shoulders, the way Saul cracks jokes solely to make Jesse laugh. Never in a million years would he have imagined this could be real, that he could have something nice and safe for himself. Hell, just imagining a life free of Mr. White seemed too much to ask for.
Bark Lee covers his snout with a paw. Jesse reaches across the couch and grabs the folded throw draped over the arm. He covers the pup with the blanket, and Saul scoffs a quiet sound of amusement.
Jesse pouts at him. "What? He looked cold."
"You spoil that dog so much I'm amazed he doesn't take a seat at the table for dinner."
"And that's why he likes me best," Jesse boasts. "Also, you call him 'lard-ass.'"
"He's heavy!"
"Don't listen to him, buddy," Jesse murmurs to the sleeping dog.
Saul's mouth does that trying-not-to-smile thing.
After a moment or two of comfortable silence during a commercial break, Jesse says, "Hey, I wanna bounce a theory off you, but I don't want you thinkin' I've gone crazy."
"That's a chance you're gonna have to take."
"Seriously, just hear me out, alright?"
"Sure." Saul shifts so he's facing Jesse with the full force of his attention. "I'm all ears."
Jesse twirls a frayed thread on the blanket between his fingers. "Well, I dunno, you ever wonder why we gotta dogsit so much? I mean, I don't mind it, but it's kinda weird how they always seem to be out of town, y'know?"
Saul nods like he's urging Jesse to continue with his train of thought.
"And this is gonna sound kinda—okay, really—nuts, but...what if they're the guys cookin' Blue Sky?" Jesse holds his hands up as if warding off Saul's skepticism. "I know, but, like, okay, first off: they look like meth users. Y'know, like the whole biker redneck thing? That whole story about winning the lottery could be a ton of shit."
"What made you start thinkin' about this?"
"I just thought it was weird how they managed to bribe the cops. I mean"—Jesse swallows—"they didn't just get me outta jail; they got the charges dropped and made everybody forget about the whole thing. Like fuckin' wizards or somethin'."
Saul still looks very dubious about Jesse's theory, but he's not saying anything.
"What if all these 'out of town' trips are just lies to cover up a cook? Mr. White did the same thing. If Bark Lee was really carsick how would they ever take him to the vet? How did Buck get him here to begin with if he moved from someplace else?"
Saul doesn't seem convinced. Jesse realizes how bizarre this all sounds now that he's hearing it out loud. "What if they're like Gus Fring was? Some big, upstanding members of the community, and that's why the cops let me go? Or maybe the cops are in on it and that's why nobody's caught the Blue Sky cooks yet?" He flounders under Saul's silent stare of incredulity.
Saul speaks for the first time since Jesse started spouting his theory. "If they are meth manufacturers, how come they've never tried to sell to you? I mean, let's be honest here: you gettin' picked up for possession was the perfect opportunity for them."
Jesse shakes his head. "Too close to home. They wouldn't shit where they eat."
"It's a nice idea, I guess, but stuff like that doesn't happen twice in someone's lifetime."
"Jane used to talk about karma, and how, like, everybody gives off a unique kind of energy, and you attract people with that same energy."
"Yeah, it's called 'being creatures of habit.' Most people don't change their lives or their patterns. It's human nature."
"So you don't think maybe I could be attracting all this bad energy or karma or whatever?"
Saul shakes his head. "Because you're different now. You've changed. And if your energy was so bad, how come you met me?"
"Maybe you're not so good after all," Jesse says with a smirk. "I mean, Buck and Billy Ray only moved here after you did, right? Maybe you're the one attractin' all the undesirables."
Saul gives him a smile that makes his heart flutter. "I guess we'll never know." He gets his arm around Jesse again. "And, hey, if they did make all their money through drugs, paying off the cops wouldn't even be an option. The police would wonder where these guys came into that kind of money."
"What if they did win the lottery though? And they used the winnings to buy the lab and chemicals and shit? And if they're slippin' the drug money in and passin' it off as lottery winnings, who knows? It's not like anybody's keepin' track of all the money they spend, right?"
Saul laughs and shakes his head. "Kid, you've been watching too much TV."
"You really don't think it's weird how they got the charges dropped?"
"I didn't say that. I'm not sold on the drug theory, but I'll buy that they know how to swindle the police. Hell, they've probably racked up tons of disturbance calls from their loud music. Maybe they know which cops are more, uh, pliable to financial persuasion. It's not too outrageous to think the police might look the other way if offered enough cash."
Jesse wonders how much first-hand experience Saul has with this kind of thing. Too much, most likely.
"Sometimes people are exactly what they seem," Saul says in the wake of Jesse's contemplative silence. "And sometimes they're not. But I think you've been knee-deep in duplicity for so long that you're overdue for taking people at face value. You don't have to be paranoid all the time. I get that it's probably served you pretty well in the past, but the past is, well, the past." He fixes Jesse with a loving gaze. "You have a normal life now. Why not enjoy it instead of worrying about everything?"
Jesse would love to abandon his suspicion in favor of something resembling normalcy, but that's not in the cards. In the days following New Year's, his paranoia ratchets up to tin-foil hat levels; Jesse swears he's being followed, watched by some unseen stranger in the shadows. Not all the time, of course, but every now and then on his way home from work or during a late night smoke break, he gets a crawl of fear up his spine he can't shake. An unfamiliar car cruising down their street. Spotting a particular vehicle that seems to be tailing him. Just a general sense of unease and distrust.
Jesse thinks maybe he's cracking, that his fear's going to eat him alive and this is how it's going to end for them. He hates Mr. White for everything, for this fucking shadow on his heels, for saving his life yet simultaneously ruining it. He can barely sleep, too frightened of what he might find there when he closes his eyes. Saul is gracious and patient with him, of course, but Jesse knows he won't be that way forever. Eventually, Saul will tire of waking in the middle of the night to sobs and screams.
Jesse likes working, though, because it clears his head and gives him something to focus on. So he pulls a couple extra shifts at the garage, and if he shows up a few hours early no one gives him flack about it.
Except when Duane catches him asleep on a lunch break one evening. "Wake up, kid."
Duane's voice jerks Jesse back into consciousness. "What? What's up?"
"Dude, no offense, but you look like crap."
Jesse sits up, rubs a hand over his face. "I'm fine."
"Yeah, you're awesome. Those dark circles really work for you. And those bloodshot eyes? Real sexy." Duane's expression softens the longer he looks at Jesse. He moves in closer, lowers his voice. "You got problems at home? 'Cause, y'know, I get it, comin' here to blow off steam or get away for a while."
Jesse shakes his head. "It's not like that."
"When was the last time you slept? Excluding your little power nap just now."
"I can't sleep," Jesse mumbles.
Duane narrows his eyes. "This wouldn't be drug-related, would it?"
"No," Jesse snaps, offended by the insinuation. Duane doesn't know about Jesse's history with drug use, but it still feels like an accusation, an assumption Jesse will use again because he's just a pathetic, worthless junkie like Mr. White said.
Duane must believe him, because he doesn't press the topic. "Alright, well, go home, take some Nyquil and knock out for twelve hours or so."
Jesse nods, pushes away from the table and stands up. "Sorry."
"Don't worry about it. Take care of yourself. You good to drive?"
"I'm fine," Jesse says again, as if he might believe it himself the more he repeats it.
Jesse drives home slower than usual, in no particular hurry. It's still light out, but the sun is in its death throes, casting an ambient golden glow across the land. He switches on the radio to keep him focused. He thinks the silver Honda Accord a few car-lengths away in his rearview mirror is following him, but his brain doesn't do its best thinking when he's sleep-starved.
He turns off of the main road and sticks to the side-streets. If he's being tailed, the pursuer will follow this convoluted path right to Jesse's front door. Anyone can follow a car; it takes skill to know when to stop following.
Jesse takes the long way home, winding through four-way stops and passing meticulously-kept lawns. He risks a glance at the mirror again. Nothing. But that doesn't mean the tail didn't hang back or park in someone's driveway.
He manages to make it home without any obvious signs of surveillance. Saul's finishing up dinner over the stove when Jesse sticks his key in the front door. Saul turns around and gives him a pleasant smile. "You're home early. What's the occasion?"
Jesse shrugs, kicks his shoes off by the door. "No occasion. Just slow."
Saul goes quiet, like he can sense the lie, but leaves it alone. "Well, great, you're just in time for dinner."
"Bitchin'. I'll be right down," Jesse says as he climbs the stairs.
A hot shower does him some good, allows him to decompress and let a few tears escape. Jesse knows the best thing for him right now is a decent night's sleep, but, Christ, if he could just shut his brain off for a couple hours and keep the nightmares away... His senses feel dried-up and barely there, yet overwhelmed all at once.
Jesse comes downstairs after his shower to find Saul setting the table. Saul's still wearing that "I'm here for you, brave little soldier" smile that makes Jesse feel slightly patronized. "Feel better?"
"Yeah, terrific," Jesse says with zero enthusiasm. He approaches the table, lays his hands on the back of a chair. "What's for dinner?"
"Bratwurst with beer and mustard sauce over egg noodles." Jesse gives him a look. "I had to do something with the meat; it expires tomorrow."
Jesse makes a face.
"Hey, it's still good. I taste-tested it," Saul says with offense. "You wanna go next door and get us a couple beers?"
"Doesn't this have beer in it?"
"Not enough." Hard to argue with that, though Jesse knows the real reason Saul's intent on getting him drunk; alcohol makes Jesse sleepy. "Go on, grab us a couple bottles while I finish up here."
Jesse does as he's asked, rolling his eyes like Saul's being difficult.
The cold night air bites at his skin when he opens the door. He wraps his arms around himself, ducks around the tree in the front yard, and follows the sidewalk to the house on the other side of the picket fence. He can hear Buck and Billy Ray talking about something, their voices wafting through the half-open living room window.
Bark Lee's tethered to the doghouse in the backyard, watching Jesse approach the front door. Jesse stops and smiles at the mutt. He takes a couple steps in Bark Lee's direction, and that's when he hears Buck say, "Pinkman."
Jesse freezes mid-step. The name turns to stone in his chest and drops down some internal mineshaft. His heart flutters a panicked flail against his ribs.
"You're just thinkin' crazy," Billy Ray says. "There's no way."
"Tell me that don't look and sound like him."
Jesse hurries to the side of the house to stay out of sight. He presses his back against the structure, edges himself closer to the window. Bark Lee just watches him, head tilted in curiousity. Jesse lifts a finger to his lips to shush the dog in case he starts barking.
"If it's him," Buck's saying, "he could blow this case wide open. Saul too."
Jesse covers his mouth to smother the gasp that bubbles out.
"Saul?" Billy Ray scoffs. "What about 'im?"
"Pinkman mentions a Saul Goodman on the tape. Lawyer, right? Our Saul? Paralegal. The apple don't fall too far from the tree...or whatever."
The gallop of Jesse's heartbeat pounds in his ears. His stomach plummets in realization. The tape. The only tape where Jesse mentions Saul Goodman is the confession tape he made for Hank Schrader right before everything went to hell.
How the fuck did these two get ahold of that?
Jesse shifts his weight, just enough to crawl on all fours underneath the windowsill. Because as much as every word pushes him toward a breakdown, he has to hear more.
"C'mon," Buck continues, "this guy who looks exactly like Aaron also knows somebody named Saul who works in the legal division? There's coincidences, and then there's shit that just don't happen accidentally."
Jesse clutches at his chest and tries to remember how to breathe, but the world's spinning beneath him and there's no way he's slowing it down. Bark Lee, as if sensing Jesse's panic, hunkers down onto all fours and lays his head on his front paws.
"The timestamp on the tape is about six months from when he showed up here," Billy Ray says. "So what was he doin'?"
"I don't know, but he's got the same tattoo on his arm that Aaron does."
Jesse stops breathing, as if a blade has punctured his lungs.
"That's a hell of a stretch."
"On its own? Absolutely," Buck says. "But when you add it all up?" There's a brief silence, possibly while Buck takes a drink. "Aaron told me once that Saul helped him through some problems. Ten bucks says it was a drug habit. Maybe that's as far as it goes, but somethin' tells me those two aren't who they say they are."
A new horrifying realization hits Jesse like a two-by-four and sends him reeling: Buck and Billy Ray are undercover cops. Undercover cops who know Jesse and Saul's true identities.
"His prints are still on file at the station," Buck continues. "First thing tomorrow, I'm gonna run 'em against Pinkman's."
Jesse's heart feels like it's going to burst out of his chest. When Buck matches those prints, they'll lock Jesse up and throw away the key. They won't listen. He's an accomplice in building Heisenberg's empire, and Buck and Billy Ray have his taped confession in their hands. This one would be a slam dunk.
And, oh God, what about Saul? The only thing that terrifies Jesse more than his own incarceration is what might happen to Saul if he were caught.
Jesse's legs shake as he crawls out from underneath the window. He scrambles to his feet and hurries away. His footsteps sound thunderous in his own ears. His shallow, rapid breaths suck the air out of his lungs pretty quickly, winding him and making his muscles burn. HiHe feels like someone might spring out of the shadows and grab him. A bug flies in front of his face, and Jesse nearly trips over his own feet.
He stumbles on the steps to the front porch, sweaty hands grappling with the doorknob until it gives way. Jesse shuts the door behind him, twists the lock for good measure, and slumps against the wood. Through the cloak of adrenaline and panic, he barely registers Saul rushing to him and kneeling at his side until he hears his voice. "Jesse? Hey, hey, look at me. Just breathe, alright? You're okay."
Jesse can't even manage the breath to say that they're not okay, that the world is spinning out of control and falling apart and they need to leave now, because his lungs won't stop spasming long enough for him to speak. He gulps for air, his skin suddenly freezing. He tries to reach out for Saul, but his hands won't stop shaking. If he could just get this one thing under control...
Saul lays a hand on Jesse's tattooed arm, and Jesse focuses on the heat of his hand, the familiar warmth of another person. He manages to dig his fingers into Saul's t-shirt and pull. Saul goes willingly, lets Jesse bury his face in his shoulder and hiccup sobs into his shirt. Saul's other hand wraps around the back of Jesse's head. Jesse forces himself to breathe, exhales in a steady shake of air, inhales slow and deep. Then again. And again. Saul rubs his back, murmuring soft words of reassurance at his ear.
Jesse tries to ignore the cold, suffocating spread of fear, just focuses on Saul's voice and warmth and touch. But that only reminds him of how fragile and fleeting it all is, and he sobs harder, losing the small semblance of control he'd managed to gain.
He squeezes his eyes shut, curls his fingers in Saul's shirt. Shit like this is why Saul looks at him like one wrong move will shatter Jesse and he'll never be put back together properly. He needs to get a fucking grip and think.
Saul's hand slides to the curve of Jesse's cheek, and it's so familiar and comforting that it gives Jesse a moment of clarity, of control, something he can anchor himself to. "It's okay, Jesse," Saul says. "Whatever it is, we'll get through it together. I promise."
Jesse takes a deep breath, lets the scent of him fill his lungs. He focuses on warm hands and gentle words, and the adrenaline begins to ebb. His breathing slows to a calmer rhythm, his wet eyes blinking against the damp cotton of Saul's shirt.
"There, see? You're okay," Saul says, still rubbing his back. "I'm here. Everything's gonna be fine."
Jesse breaks away and leans against the door, his muscles loose and jittery. He wipes his wet face with a shaky, clammy hand, smearing salty tears over his cheeks. Saul kisses Jesse's forehead and asks, "Do you think you could talk to me about it?"
Jesse swallows back the sobs building in his throat, blinks away cloudy tears. Looking at the focus of his world, he can't imagine losing Saul now. Not after living the life they've built for themselves, the soft touches and kisses that put Jesse's broken pieces back together, the way Saul wakes him up by cuddling closer and calling him "Pretty Boy." No, he just can't.
When Jesse feels his voice won't betray him, he says, "Buck and Billy Ray—they know about us."
It takes Saul a moment to register the subtext in Jesse's words. His brow creases. "How?"
"I think—I think they're undercover cops," Jesse stammers. "They know who we are. They know we're involved with the Heisenberg case."
Saul lays a hand on Jesse's shoulder, trying to steer him in the right direction. "How? What'd you see?"
"I heard them talking. They have the tape."
"What tape?"
Jesse rubs a hand over his mouth. "Before..." He trails off, shaking his head, but Saul hears the unspoken words there. "I tried working with Mr. White's brother-in-law to take him down. So I did a confession tape where I told him everything."
"My name didn't come up in there, did it?"
Jesse glances away. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to. Guilt leaks from his every pore.
Saul heaves a deep sigh. "Jeez, kid..."
"I'm sorry," Jesse whimpers, his lower lip trembling. He feels his chest tighten again. Saul lifts a hand. Jesse flinches and shuts his eyes, waiting for the impact. But Saul just cups his hand around Jesse's face with the gentlest pressure, as if his skin's made of porcelain. A tear rolls down Jesse's cheek. Saul brushes it away with his thumb.
"They wouldn't have that tape if they weren't cops, would they?" Saul asks, putting Jesse on track again.
Jesse shakes his head. "They said something about a case, like they're investigating us."
"But they don't have any actual, hard evidence that we're not who we say we are, do they?"
Jesse shrugs. "I don't know. I don't think so. Just the tape and my prints. So you're still safe, probably."
"But not for long," Saul mumbles. He slides his hand from Jesse's face to the slope of his neck, fingers pushing into the taut skin between his shoulder blades.
"Buck said he was gonna match the prints up tomorrow. That's—that's enough for a warrant, right?"
"Yeah."
Jesse's voice breaks when he chokes out, "God, what the hell are we gonna do?"
Saul tugs him closer, presses another kiss to his forehead. "Let's just take a step back and look at this rationally, alright? We know they didn't come here for you, because you were off in God-knows-where when they showed up. Me? If they suspected me for anything they would'a made their move a long time ago. So the reason they're here has to be something else entirely."
"Whatever it is, it's nothing compared to us," Jesse says, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"And there, young master Pinkman, is the silver lining. If they bring this in, it'll be a disaster for them. Two of the players in the Heisenberg case? Right under their nose for months. Hell, we were their drinking buddies. The minute they walk in with this, they lose their jobs. There's nothing to gain, and they know it."
"So how come they have the tape in the first place?"
"Maybe they're lookin' into the Heisenberg case. Blue Sky's still on the streets; they could be learning from the past so they're not, uh, doomed to repeat it, as the saying goes."
Jesse hadn't considered that possibility, too wrapped up in worst-case scenarios. Saul has an almost uncanny ability to calm Jesse down and help him see straight when his brain's swirling with emotion.
Saul keeps going, fully immersed in the lawyer role now. "If they were really gunning for you, they would've already matched those prints and you'd be in lockup right now. My best guess? They don't wanna know. Just a couple clicks through A.F.I.S and they'd have their answer. But they're stalling. Why?"
Jesse shrugs. "Billy Ray didn't sound like he believed it. It's like he was tryin' to talk some sense into Buck."
Saul thinks about that. "Y'know, if they're here investigating Blue Sky, you got somethin' to trade. 'You give me immunity, I give you information.' You know the drill."
"Okay, that's—that's not so bad," Jesse says, licking his lips.
But then Saul's calming effect fails Jesse miserably: "What's on that tape, kid? I can see them turning the other cheek over the drugs. But, jeez, murder? That's gonna be a tough sell."
Jesse feels a cold hand reach into his chest and squeeze. The ghost of Gale Boetticher still haunts him even now. His hands reach for Saul again, fingers clutching at his shirt, and he buries his face in Saul's shoulder, choked sobs escaping through his teeth. Saul deserves this new life, of course, but Jesse wanted to share it with him.
Jesse's hands ball into fists, and Saul holds him in his arms. "It's gonna be okay, Jesse. I promise. I will find you a way through this."
For the first time, Jesse isn't so sure about that.