Duane gives Jesse the judgemental big-brother look when he shows up at the garage. "Whoa, dude, I thought I told you to take a nap or two."

"I did."

Duane makes a face. "Go home and take another. You look like somethin' out of a Romero flick."

Duane can't send him home now, not today, not when Jesse desperately needs access to the records on that computer. "Nah, I'm good, honest."

"You sure?" He watches Jesse for a long moment. Jesse feels his stomach tumble. "If you fall asleep again, I'm kickin' your ass."

Duane lets him stay, but he must have told Maggie to keep an eye on Jesse, because she's been shadowing him all afternoon. If Jesse could only shake her for a few minutes, just enough time to pull up that damn record and write the number down...

Would she believe him if he told her the truth? Jesse's not sure. On a normal day? Probably. But not when he looks strung-out and dead on his feet. She'd dismiss his story as the ramblings of a sleep-starved mind. Then her and Duane both would watch him a little more carefully, making sure he didn't get near that damn computer.

So, honesty? Probably not the best policy here.

"Are you and Saul having...problems?" Maggie asks him in a quiet voice during a late afternoon lull.

"What? No. No way. I just—I've had a rough couple'a nights." Not entirely a lie.

Maggie looks like she believes him, but she's got a bit of skepticism, as if she suspects he's holding something back. But she doesn't push.

Jesse finally gets his chance when Maggie disappears into the break room later that evening. He's guessing she's on a quick bathroom break. Duane's rolled underneath his latest hobby car.

Now or never.

Jesse sneaks onto the computer and brings up Brad Donovan's records. Time to put that phone number to good use. He writes down the digits on a nearby sticky note and shoves the piece of paper into his pocket. His hands feel ridiculously sweaty. He can't believe he's doing this. Just two days ago he had a normal life; it wasn't greeting-card perfect, but it was a good start. Now he's ready to plunge headfirst into the drug business again.

Mr. White's insults spring to mind: pathetic junkie, drug addict, junkie imbecile... But what if Mr. White wasn't talking about the weed or the meth or even the heroin? Maybe Jesse's real addiction is self-destruction. Directing all that self-loathing inward, too cowardly or empathetic to inflict it on anyone else. Filling his body with drugs, destroying his relationships with his parents and Andrea and everyone who genuinely cared about him, and now this, choosing to delve into a world he swore he'd stay away from.

Jesse clicks out of the folder just as Maggie opens the door.

Buck and Billy Ray are waiting for Jesse when he gets home, both gathered around the kitchen table like casual dinner guests. Saul gives Jesse an encouraging smile, but it's weathered around the edges.

"You get the number?" Buck asks.

Jesse nods and takes the note out of his pocket as he moves closer. "So, what, I'm s'posed to set up a meeting with this dude? Are you gonna be there? How's this gonna work?"

"You're gonna pretend to be Heisenberg," Buck explains. "The details aren't important; you can say Walter White was just a patsy to take the fall and you've been in hidin' for a while. Whatever. Just get him hooked so he shows you the set-up."

"Then you bust in and make arrests and everybody goes home happy, right?" It's a long shot, but Jesse's an optimist at heart.

Billy Ray frowns. "Not exactly. It's gonna take a while to earn his trust, but since you're not exactly lyin' about who you are it'd take less time than, say, one of us tryin' to do it."

Saul speaks for the first time since Jesse arrived home. "So, okay, say he gets on the guy's Christmas card list. What's your plan then?"

"Jesse's gonna hook him into a buy—tell 'em he knows somebody who can move large quantities of product. One of our agents is gonna pose as the buyer. Once the deal is made"—Buck spreads his hands—"y'all can go back to your lives."

Jesse isn't so sure about that. Are these men really people Jesse can trust here? Would they put Saul and Jesse's future first or follow some unseen agenda?

Jesse stares at the sticky note in his hand. The numbers are smudged a bit but still readable. "What if—what if he doesn't go for it? He basically handed me the product 'cause he was scared I was a cop. This could, like, drive him deeper underground."

"It's a risk," Buck admits, "but it's a calculated one. You're the only person who could get this close, Jesse."

Jesse risks a glance at Saul. Saul offers no reassurance, but he's not disagreeing either. This is entirely up to Jesse now.

"Fear and intimidation go a long way here," Billy Ray says. "You gotta stay strong. You scared him into handin' over the drugs before, right?"

Who messes with the blowfish, Jesse?

"Blowfishin' this up," Jesse murmurs, dialing the number with shaky hands. His body quakes through the rings.

Brad Donovan answers. "Hello?"

"Yo, let's try this again. Tell me where you're gettin' your glass."

"Who is this?"

"Somebody who's pissed you're slingin' my recipe. Blue Sky is my shit, alright?"

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and Jesse fears he's lost his one tenuous connection to a happy future with Saul. Then, in a reverent whisper, Brad says, "Heisenberg?"

Jesse tries to force some bravado into his voice. "That's right, bitch."

"Bullshit. Heisenberg died months ago."

"Right, you really think I'd let them take me down that easy? Dude was just a fall guy. Had the perfect background and everything. Chemistry teacher? C'mon."

"So you've been laying low this whole time?" Brad still sounds skeptical, but there's a hint of interest there that tells Jesse he can be coaxed.

"Yeah, I wanna get started up cookin' again, but I gotta be careful. Can't have the same set-up as before, y'know."

"How did you get my number?"

"I know a guy who knows a guy...who knows another guy. Look, let's not get bogged down in details, alright? Point is, I got your number. Now, unless you want me findin' your house and kickin' your little punk ass, you're gonna meet me tomorrow and show me your set-up." Jesse feels a familiar tick in his blood. Too many memories. "If you're gonna cook my product, you're gonna do it the right way. My way."

Brad goes quiet. The silence strains Jesse's nerves. "Prove you're Heisenberg."

"The proof is in the cook, yo. Ninety-six point two percent pure. No adulterants. No food coloring." Jesse swallows. It feels like a steel belt's being tightened around his chest. "You got the supplies. I got the recipe. The way you're pushin' your product, you'll never make money."

Brad huffs a shaky, nervous laugh. "Heisenberg wants to cook with me?"

"Either that, or I turn you in."

Jesse closes his eyes and waits for an answer. Nausea roils in his stomach.

With a deep sigh, Brad says, "There's a cocktail place on South 67th, past the university. Meet me there tomorrow at midnight." He gives Jesse the address; Jesse jots it down on the back of the sticky note. "Don't pull any bullshit, alright?"

The line goes dead before Jesse can answer.

All the bravado rushes out of Jesse like the air from a balloon. He drops onto the sofa, buries his face in his hands. Saul's at his side almost immediately, taking Jesse into his arms and letting him find comfort there.

"You did your best, kid," Saul reassures him, rubbing small circles over his back. "I'll get us through this, I promise."

"That's not—he said he'd do it," Jesse blubbers out through jumpy lungs.

That piques Buck's interest. "He agreed to meet?" Jesse nods and gives Buck the note. Buck looks at the address, then looks at Jesse like they're two incongruent puzzle pieces. "This is great—why're you—did he say somethin' to you?"

"It's what I said."

Buck's expression closes off. This is something only Saul will be privy to, and he knows it.

Jesse sniffles, wipes his wet face with his hand. "I need a shower," he grumbles, forcing himself to his feet and heading for the stairs.

"You did good," Billy Ray says. "I know it wasn't easy, but you did good."

Jesse isn't sure he believes that anymore.

"You wanna tell me what's wrong?" Saul asks that night, cuddled up to Jesse in their bedroom. "You're pretty sexy when you're tryin' to be tough, y'know that?"

Jesse breathes out a humorless laugh. "You mean when I'm tryin' to be like him, right?"

He doesn't even have to say the name anymore; Saul just knows.

"That stuff I said... It was all him. Well, most of it." He thinks that over for a second. "The worst of it." Saul can feel a small quake in Jesse's fragile body. "I can't do this if it's gonna turn me into him," he whimpers. "I don't want—that's not me."

Saul brushes away the tears cascading down Jesse's cheeks. "Hey, c'mon, you're nothin' like him. I wouldn't have fallen in love with someone like ol' Walt." He gives Jesse a wide-eyed, open look. "You know you don't have to do this, right? If this is gonna hurt you..." He glances off, bites his lips together. "I'm just sayin' there are other ways to solve this little problem..."

Jesse doesn't understand at first, then the pieces click together in his head. "Whoa, no way, are you suggestin' we"—he hesitates, his breath catching around the words—"like, off them?"

Saul looks panicked. "Okay, that's—that's an option. Not what I was going for, but, sure, that's—I was talking about disappearing. New identities, new location. The whole gamut. We go somewhere new and start over."

"We already did that," Jesse reminds him. "And I don't wanna live the rest of my life lookin' over my shoulder. If we don't feel safe, how could we—" He bites down on that one, because now is so not the time to mention having kids.

Saul seems like he wants to poke at Jesse's unspoken concerns, but he doesn't. "So you wanna stick with this whole cooperate-with-the-cops thing?"

Jesse nods, though he hears the criticism behind Saul's words. "Billy Ray wants to help us." He's aware of how naïve he sounds, and he hates it.

"Look, it's your decision. I'll respect whatever you choose. But, as you know, I've dealt with my fair share of cops, and, yeah, maybe I'm a little biased, but, uh...I'd rather run."

"How come you were all 'totally cooperate with them' before? What changed your mind?"

"The tape," Saul says simply, his eyes suddenly damp. "How could they see all that and still want you in handcuffs? I thought they might have a little bit of trouble coming over here and treating us like criminals. Apparently not." He forces out a bitter laugh. "But who's to say they're not gonna use you to catch this guy and then throw the book at you?"

Jesse really wishes he had a better answer than, "Because I don't think they would do that," to justify himself. He wets his lips, stares at the way Saul's fingers intertwine with his own. "What if...What if we got rid of the tape?"

"What?"

"Think about it. That's tape's the only evidence they got tyin' us to this whole mess, and if we take care of that, well, then they got nothin'."

"You want us to break into our neighbors' house—our undercover cop neighbors' house, mind you—and steal evidence?" Saul has no reason to sound so fucking appalled by this; Jesse's a little insulted.

"Not us. You."

Saul's mouth drops open.

"I gotta meet this guy tomorrow night. I'll tell Buck and Billy Ray I want them as back-up just in case somethin' goes wrong. 'Cause, y'know, it's not unbelievable to think this dude might wanna kill me. They'll camp out in some unmarked van across the street from the bar, totally preoccupied. That's when you sneak over to their place and grab the tape."

Saul blinks way more times than necessary. "You think that's the only copy? Somethin' like that's bound to have a couple duplicates lying around the evidence locker."

"The cops only found the tape after Mr. White died." Jesse's brain snags on that particular detail. He shakes his head to clear it. "They got their guy. Case closed."

Saul makes his thinking face, which looks awfully skeptical.

"I'd totally do it myself, but they're gonna be watchin' me like hawks," Jesse says. "I don't think they care about nailin' you as much as me."

Saul ignores how vaguely dirty that sounds. Big of him.

Jesse squeezes Saul's hand and fixes him with an intent gaze. "Look, this is the only chance we got. If our guy panics or decides he doesn't wanna cooperate, we're boned. Then who do you think Buck and Billy Ray are gonna come after if they go home empty-handed tomorrow night?"

Saul sighs a sound of resignation and offers up a half-smile. "You're lucky I love you, kiddo."

Buck and Billy Ray show up the next morning during breakfast, and Jesse's pretty much accustomed to them barging in by now. Jesse runs through the plan with them, and they seem pretty pliable to the whole thing. Buck insists, however, that Jesse wear a wire, which Saul objects to. But Jesse's done this before—that aborted sting with Schrader comes to mind—and he knows the wire won't be easily detected. Since they're meeting in a public place, Brad's probably not going to shoot him. So Jesse agrees.

Jesse's always hated the way his body surges with unhelpful, panicky adrenaline before doing something risky and terrifying. Sure, this isn't on the same level as meeting with Tuco or the train heist or the magnet ordeal or even Gale, but it's still enough to kick on the fight-or-flight response and render his fine motor skills useless.

Saul catches him fumbling with the button of his jeans after a shower, and he presses himself against the line of Jesse's back. "Now why would you be putting on pants?" Saul asks, a lilt of flirtation in his voice as he lays his hands over Jesse's own. "You know you look so much better without them."

Jesse wriggles into Saul's touch. "Most places have rules about wearin' clothes, Mr. Lawyer."

"Pretty sure our bedroom has a rule about not wearing clothes," Saul says, pushing his fingers under the edge of Jesse's jeans. "A rule which you are currently violating."

Jesse turns around so he's facing Saul, because he loves the way Saul kisses like he's something sacred. "Guess you better punish me, huh?"

Saul pushes the jeans off his hips, shoves his hands into Jesse's boxers, palms skimming over Jesse's ass. Saul's mouth is hot and hungry against Jesse's own, and he captures Jesse's lips with frantic kisses. Jesse lets Saul drag his t-shirt over his head and discard it somewhere on the bed; he's not paying much attention, not when Saul's sucking kisses into the curve of his neck.

Sex is a pretty decent way to channel that nervous energy into something good, so Jesse shoves Saul into the Papasan and climbs into his lap, taking his rigid line of heat all the way in. Jesse groans into the air between them and rocks his hips, overwhelmed by the way Saul fits snugly inside of him. Saul's hands are tight around Jesse's thighs while his hips work underneath him.

Saul hums quiet, contented noises into Jesse's mouth, and Jesse knots his trembling hands in Saul's hair, gripping at his shoulders every now and then when the shove of their hips knocks the breath out of him. Jesse gives himself over to feeling, riding Saul's dick a little harder than usual, but Saul doesn't seem to mind, just presses kisses to Jesse's throat and collarbone and moans his name over the tattoo on his chest.

Jesse can feel Saul's hands dragging down his back, fingers pressing into the valley of his spine. He rises up, sinks down again, and shudders out a sound of need. Saul kisses Jesse's mouth, tongue gliding over his Adam's apple when Jesse tips his head back and sighs praises. His rhythm slows as he gets closer, because he wants this to last as long as it can, this brief, stretched-out moment of bliss where there's nothing but the white-hot heat between them. Jesse chokes out a moan, his nails scraping over Saul's chest, and Saul wraps a hand around the feverish jut of Jesse's dick, stroking him until they're both lost in the pull, shivering and shaking through their mutual orgasm.

Their hips pick up velocity, crashing together in a hot clash of need. Jesse wonders if it's this good for Saul too, if his nerves blaze and scream and surge the same way Jesse's do. Saul's panting into the curve of Jesse's throat, holding him tight and murmuring his name like a prayer. Jesse pushes his fingers through Saul's sweat-damp hair before burying his nose there as he catches his breath. His whole body's a quivery mess, and he can feel a slimy trail of lube and cum dripping down his inner thighs. Saul slides his hand over the curve of Jesse's ass and rubs two fingers over his aching entrance. Jesse moans and slumps impossibly further in his arms.

He wishes this steady hum of arousal between them could last forever, that their biggest worry was leaving jizz stains on the couch cushion. But Jesse's got bigger fish to fry, so to speak, so he dismounts on shaky legs and searches for his clothes on the floor. "Got me all dirty again after my shower," Jesse grumbles, like he's put out about that particular fact.

Saul makes a quiet noise of contemplation, a smile quirked at the corner of his lips. "Want me to clean you up?"

Jesse doesn't have to answer, because Saul's moving over to him and nudging him against the bed. Jesse goes with it, lets his legs fall open. Saul kisses lines along Jesse's inner thighs, licking up the slick mixture of cum and lube. The heat of Saul's breath ghosts over Jesse's barest of skin, making him squirm and writhe. Jesse drops his head back and groans, then, whoa what the fuck that's his tongue.

Jesse moans a loud, embarrassing noise that's surprise and satisfaction all at once. The slippery, wet stab of tongue down there turns his brain to jelly, and all Jesse can do is dig his fingers in Saul's hair as his lungs spasm with hitched breaths. Saul licks and strokes and rubs and teases his tongue in small circles that make Jesse's nerves tense. He's absolutely going to come again; he can feel the tight clench of an orgasm building slowly at the base of his spine. His toes curl, and he gasps out, "God—Saul—" as he hooks his rubbery legs over Saul's shoulders and drags his heels over Saul's back.

Saul laps patiently at his opening, coaxing him to the edge of the world. When Jesse's whole body goes tight, Saul hums around him, and just like that Jesse's gone. Jesse makes a sound like he's dying as a gut-punch of an orgasm hits him, an agonizing stretch that feels like he's coming apart, too much like the heroin and meth speedballs he'd done with Jane.

Once Jesse's able to speak again, he says, "Shit, that was—you're amazing." Saul breathes laughter over Jesse's flagging cock before enveloping his mouth over the head and licking him clean. "God, you're so fuckin' good to me," Jesse sighs, dragging his fingers through Saul's hair.

"Yeah, I'm a real prince." Saul presses a kiss to Jesse's hip bone before resting his chin there.

Jesse smiles, pushing a few stray strands of hair off of Saul's face. He tries hard not to think about all the things that could go wrong tonight. He glances away, fearful that Saul might see the worry in his eyes. His gaze snags on the clock on the night table. The neon numbers read 11:37 p.m.

"Shit," Jesse mumbles, pushing himself up on his elbows. "I gotta go." Saul nods, understanding, and hands Jesse his clothes. Jesse dresses slower than usual, wanting to stretch out these last few moments. "Are you good? Y'know what you gotta do?"

"Go over there and grab the tape. Yeah, piece of cake." Saul shrugs, but the gesture seems forced.

Jesse watches him. "I know it's a lot to ask. You don't have to—"

Saul stops him with a hand. "Hey, c'mon, I promised I'd keep you safe, remember?" He pulls his boxers over his hips. "I can do this. No sweat. You're the one stepping into the, uh, danger zone, if you will."

"Was that an Archer reference or a Top Gun reference?"

"Whichever makes you laugh harder."

Jesse grins, feels the swell of euphoria in his chest. "I love you."

"I know." Saul smirks and reaches for Jesse's hands. Jesse gives them to him, because he's never been Han Solo'ed in a relationship before. "Now, go on, kid. You don't wanna be late to a meet with a drug dealer. They're, uh, pretty big on punctuality."

Jesse nods and turns away.

"Be safe," Saul calls to him as he descends down the stairs

South 67th Street is a long stretch of road that cuts through the University of Nebraska Omaha's Pacific Campus and boasts a plethora of upscale restaurants, bars, and businesses. A good deal of the area is under construction, but everything's created to give off a sleek, modern look. Each building has at least two stories, the topmost floors built almost entirely out of sea-green glass windows. Jesse finds it dubious why a pizza joint or a bakery would need two stories—a V.I.P. lounge, perhaps, so the rich and elite need not mingle with the great unwashed?

He's thankful for his phone's GPS capabilities, because the bar is tucked away near a Thai restaurant, unassuming and unremarkable. Jesse parks right out front, just in case he needs to make a quick getaway. The place is busy enough that Buck and Billy Ray can park their surveillance vehicle near the end of the lot and draw no suspicion. They won't be spotted from inside.

Jesse wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans. Will Brad run when he sees Jesse? Because it's not like that hasn't happened before. He doesn't think Brad's the violent type, but, Christ, it only takes one moment of panic to supercede all rational thought. Jesse knows all too well that sometimes good, gentle people on the straight and narrow are capable of doing terrible things. Evil hooks into you and doesn't let go.

Isn't that why Jesse's here now?

He swallows thickly, turns off the ignition, and gets out of the car. When he steps inside the lounge, he feels like he's stepped into a past dimension. Babylon Zoo's "Spaceman" pours out onto the street as Jesse pushes open the door. Posters of the Spice Girls, Michael Jackson, and Nirvana decorate the walls. The high-backed chairs at the bar are done up to look like Game Boys. Other chairs take on the form of neon-colored cassette tapes. Round tables shaped like CDs sit between couches resembling Tetris blocks. There's even some inflatable seating in hot pink and neon green. The dim lighting draws attention to the glow-in-the-dark stars plastered over the ceiling. One wall is covered in license plates from various states. A large-screen TV shows an episode of Hey Arnold! There's even a makeshift arcade built into a small room that looks like one of those Starbucks airport lounges.

One word: radical.

The patronage is all college kids desperate to relive their blissful youth, which isn't a bad business model for a place so close to a college campus. Apparently this is where '90s kids come to drink. Jesse wonders if he looks out of place here. No one else seems to be dressed in the clichés of '90s fashion, but Jesse still feels like he doesn't belong.

He scans the place for Brad and finds him tucked away by himself at a table in the back, typing away on his smartphone. Jesse frowns at the anachronism but moves closer. "Pretty sure they didn't have iPhones in the '90s," Jesse says, nearing the table where Brad's sitting.

Brad startles to attention, his eyes wide in panic. He doesn't seem to be scanning the place for emergency exits, so that's good. "You? You're the guy?" he exclaims.

"Yeah, we really gotta stop meetin' like this." Jesse's fairly sure Saul's irritating sense of humor is rubbing off on him.

Brad looks like his mind's just been blown in the worst of ways. "Really? It's you? Is that why you were asking me all those questions?"

Jesse stuffs his hands into his pockets. "Partially, yeah."

Brad stares at him for a moment or two. Jesse wonders if this is how zoo animals feel.

"So, you're, uh, you're Heisenberg?" he asks in a low whisper, drowned out over the music.

But Jesse recognizes the chill that crawls up his spine at the name. He nods and takes the seat across from Brad. "In the flesh."

"How'd you escape? The cops must've been looking for you for ages."

"That's not important."

Brad looks offended. "Uh, yeah, it is. If we're gonna be business partners, I'd like to know I'm not gonna end up like your last associate, thank you very much."

He's got a point. Jesse gives a conceding nod. A little honesty will go a long way here. "Alright, so maybe I lied a bit. Heisenberg..." He leans in, lowers his voice. "Heisenberg was two dudes. Me and the other guy. I knew the business, he knew the chemistry."

"So you don't actually know how to cook it?"

"Would I be here wastin' our time if I couldn't cook cherry product?" Jesse scoffs. "The problem wasn't the meth. It was Mr. White's greedy old ass. I wasn't—" He wipes a hand over his mouth. "I wasn't even the one who did him in. He asked me to, but I..." Jesse shakes his head, aborts that line of thought entirely. "Whatever. That's not gonna happen. Just tell me how you cook."

"My knowledge of science goes as far as 'salt is salty,' alright? I run distribution. I'm the, uh, Gus Fring of my enterprise, if you will."

Jesse remembers how Brad's Facebook profile had listed his minor in criminal justice. So of course Brad would know who Gus Fring was and how he played into the Heisenberg case.

Jesse realizes in stark horror that he might actually have fans.

"So you got guys workin' for you?"

"And girls. We're equal opportunity, y'know," Brad says.

"Yeah, you sound like a real humanitarian."

"You wanna talk numbers? That's why you're here, right? You need the money?"

Jesse considers it briefly for a moment before shaking off the thought. "This ain't about money. If you're gonna cook my product, you're gonna do it right. This food coloring shit's gotta stop, yo."

Brad goes a little pale. "How do you know about that?"

"Mr. White was a master chemist. Whoever you got cookin' for you ain't even in the same league, yo." Sure, Mr. White was an asshole, but he could cook some damn good meth.

"And you're gonna show us, why, exactly? 'Cause you're a great guy?"

"'Cause I don't have a lab. You guys do. I can't get my hands on the ingredients. Whatever you guys are doin', it's workin'. And I wanna be a small and silent part of it."

Brad looks like he's thinking it over. Tough sell.

"Look, no offense, but you guys sound like a bunch of wimps. But if you got me on your side, nobody'll fuck with you. We'll be kings."

Saul's never done anything this cataclysmically stupid.

Actually, that's a lie, because he aided Walt in Brock's poisoning. And he's done a lot of other shit he's not proud of. But he can lie to himself and say it wasn't him who perpetuated the crime—he was just a small cog in the wheel of madness, blissfully ignorant to the consequences.

But this? This is hands-on crime. You don't walk away from something like this without getting your hands dirty. Buck and Billy Ray won't be able to prove Saul had a part in this, but, of course, they'll know. They'll look at him a little differently from now on, watch him a bit more carefully. They will no longer trust him—if they ever did to begin with.

Saul's not even doing this to save his own ass. Even with the bombshell of the tape, Jesse's confession is a case of he-said-he-said when it comes to Saul Goodman. Saul covered his tracks impeccably well; if Buck and Billy Ray choose to dig, they won't find anything. Total goose egg.

It's Jesse he needs to save. That's his job, after all. Gotta look out for Pinkman, right?

Bark Lee's tethered to his doghouse, snoozing happily in the back yard when Saul creaks open the gate. He turns his ears toward the direction of the sound and pries an eye open. Then the mutt goes right back to sleeping, sensing no threat in Saul's presence.

Saul figures he'll try the back door first, because he's counting on dumb luck here and really doesn't want to be spotted trying to finagle his way into the front entrance. Most people put all their security into the front; the back, however, is usually woefully unprotected. Then again, these guys are cops, so they're probably smarter about home protection than the average homeowner.

Saul tries the knob anyway, grins to himself as the door swings open. Bingo, baby. Maybe they assumed the presence of a rather large dog in the yard would deter a would-be burglar from using the back entrance. And that would have worked, had that burglar not been someone Bark Lee considers a buddy.

Saul gets the screen door open, takes care to shut both of the doors as he makes his way inside. He's wearing gloves to ensure no prints will be left on anything he touches. Yeah, he's thorough.

The whole place smells like tobacco, an almost tangible odor Saul can taste in the back of his throat. He's definitely gonna need to wash these clothes.

Jesse had suggested just stealing the tape and calling it a day, but Saul knows better. Evidence goes through a chain of custody, and if it goes missing somebody's got to be held responsible. And who will be that unlucky soul holding the smoking gun? The last person to sign the evidence out—Buck or Billy Ray.

Yes, Saul's breaking into his friends' house and stealing something, but they're still his friends. It's not their fault they're investigating a case that overlaps with their neighbors' lives. No reason for them to suffer as well.

So Saul can't just steal the tape. He's got to feign a total burglary, enabling Buck and Billy Ray to save face and write the whole thing off as a break-in. No one will come down on them too harshly if someone broke in and stole their expensive electronics, because most thieves just take the whole damn DVD player, disc included. But a lone disc turning up missing would certainly raise eyebrows.

"Bad idea," Saul grumbles to himself. "This is a bad idea."

He's seen enough crime scene photos to be pretty good at turning a place over. And being friends—in a very loose sense of the word—with Mike Ehrmantraut didn't hurt either. He drops all the electronics he can carry into a box: DVD player, laptop, tablets. He pulls open drawers and cabinets, rips open mattresses and couch cushions to imply a search for cash. He drops a couple belt buckles and watches that look valuable into the box.

Saul feels like he ought to hate Jesse for making this damn tape, but he can't muster up any anger at the kid. Because the raw emotion and anguish and honesty Jesse displays on this tape is more than Saul can handle. Jesse had protested when Saul volunteered to view the tape, and with good reason. Saul's probably not going to die in seven days after watching it, but he knows he's irrevocably changed because of it.

He still loves the kid though. He loves the way Jesse rolls his eyes at Saul's dumb jokes, the way he glances off and rubs his neck when he's embarrassed, that little flirty smile at the corner of his mouth, the way he moans and clutches onto Saul when they make love, the way Saul catches him mouthing along to the radio when he thinks Saul's not looking, the way they fit together when they sleep, the way he baby-talks to Bark Lee, the rush at his touch, the music of his laughter, the freckles on his shoulders, the way he cuddles into Saul when they're in bed, the way he blushes and smiles when Saul calls him "Pretty Boy."

None of that changed in the wake of the tape. Saul's heart had only grown to love him more.

The sound of tires rolling over gravel outside snaps him out of his reverie. Shit. Are Buck and Billy Ray home already? How long has he been in here? Time to blow this joint.

He might be able to make it out from the back yard, ducking low through the trees and eventually making a huge circle around to his house. He can stash the loot in his car, drive it to the dump—

Another sound makes his blood curdle: Bark Lee. A barking dog is pretty much white noise anymore, gone the way of car alarms as a sound people tend to ignore. But Bark Lee wouldn't bark like this at his owners. This isn't a "oh boy, I'm happy to see you!" greeting; this is a warning, a bark of fear and panic.

Adrenaline surges through Saul's veins. He's never learned to harness that whole adrenaline-rush thing into something useful. He needs to slow down and think. He's wasted too much time already. He's not getting out of here with the box of electronics. So just take the tape and go. Hold on to it and see if Jesse's Heisenberg scheme pans out.

Bark Lee's barking picks up energy. Whoever's lurking around outside must be getting closer. Over the pounding in his ears, he hears the front door rattling. Like someone's trying to get inside.

Saul rushes over to the sofa. Using strength attributed to his adrenaline going haywire, he pushes the couch along the floor until it's blocking the door. Without thinking, he climbs onto the sofa and peers out the peephole. It's dark, so Saul can't make out features with any real certainty, but the intruder doesn't look familiar.

He stares out the peephole for a moment or two, the only sounds that of his raucous heartbeat and his panicked breathing. The intruder backs away from the front door. Saul breathes out a sigh of relief.

But the stranger isn't walking away. He's walking around the side of the building.

That's when Saul remembers the back door is unlocked.

Fuck.

You hear all the stories about fear enabling people to lift cars off of loved ones, but the flip side of that is fear paralyzes the hell out of you and can make running feel like you're trudging through morphine-infused molasses. Saul sprints to the back door, but the obstacle course he'd made of couch cushions and overturned furniture slows him down.

Bark Lee barks louder, harder. Saul's shoes slide over the hardwood floor in the kitchen. He trips on an overturned pole lamp, scrambles to his feet. The back door swings open. Too late. Caught.

The intruder looks startled to see someone inside the house. His surprise melts away in a nano-second, and then there's a gun in Saul's face.

"Don't fuckin' move."

Saul's not great at making snap decisions, but the primal instinct part of his brain kicks in and starts calling the shots. Obeying the gunman's orders would be a death sentence. Make a run for it. No hesitation.

Saul rushes down the hallway. When he and Buck spent an afternoon digging around Buck's closet for Christmas decorations, Saul had seen a small box on the top shelf marked "38 Special." A revolver. Not police-issue. Buck wouldn't have it on him now. It should still be in the closet. If Saul can just make it there in time, he can block the door long enough to get the gun.

No dice. A shot rings out. Something hot slices into Saul's side above his hip. Pain explodes through his waist, and he drops to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. Horror tears a hole in Saul's gut. OhGodohGodohGod. "No, no, no, please—" Saul can't die here; Jesse's strong, but nobody comes back from that four times.

The intruder knots a hand in the back of Saul's t-shirt and yanks him off of the floor. "You're not a cop. Who are you?"

Saul can feel blood leaking out of his side. Fuck. He presses his gloved hands over his wound to stem the bleeding. He slumps against the wall, stares into the black hole of the gun barrel. "I'm just a neighbor—We—we seem to have a similar idea here, right? With the robbery? What're you looking for? I'll help you. Just please don't kill me—"

The next shot would be at point-blank range. Don't risk it. "You were tryin' to steal shit, huh? What do they got?"

Saul remembers the word choice he'd used earlier: cop. Somehow this stranger knows Buck and Billy Ray are on the force. Is this guy here to destroy evidence too?

It doesn't matter. Saul's not leaving here alive. He's going to die, and Jesse will be left to comb through his possessions and find that box hidden away in the bedside table drawer and his heart will break anew...

"Look, I—I'm a lawyer. If you just put the gun down, we can talk about this, and whatever you think they got on you I can make—I can make it disappear!"

The intruder looks skeptical. "What kind of lawyer breaks into someone's house?"

"Wait, wait, wait, you said these guys are cops?" Get him talking. Stall for time.

The gunman takes the bait. "They used to work down in Lincoln. I didn't recognize them 'cause of the beards and shit, but I remember that dog. Heard they were sniffin' around the Heisenberg case."

Saul's eyes widen. Oh no. If these are the people Jesse's getting involved with...

Saul's gaze darts around the room for some sort of weapon, a distraction he can use to his advantage.

That distraction comes in the form of a four-legged attack dog. Bark Lee leaps through the open door and digs his teeth into the intruder's leg. The man lets loose a gutteral scream of pain. He tries to shake his leg loose and loses his balance in the process. The stranger drops to the floor. Bark Lee's still on him, jaws clamped around the man's leg.

But he still has the gun.

The intruder swings his aim toward Bark Lee. If he hurts that dog, that sweet innocent dog...

Saul moves with a speed and ferocity he didn't know he possessed. He grabs the pole lamp and swings it like the mallet in a test-your-strength carnival base of the lamp smashes into the man's skull just as he pulls the trigger. The shot is wild. Bark Lee jumps away at the sound of the blast.

The gun clatters out of the intruder's hand. A gurgling, choking noise fills the room as he tries to get air into his lungs through his busted nasal cavities. Saul cringes at the sound. He shouldn't be alive. Why is he still alive?

The man strains to reach for his gun, fingers twitching against the butt of the weapon. Saul kicks the gun away to the other side of the room, underneath the dining table. Bark Lee scampers over the body and runs to Saul. Saul lets go of the lamp and drops to his knees. He barely registers the sensation of Bark Lee licking his face. Pain shoots through him in every direction. He wraps his shaky arms around Bark Lee and hugs him tight. Bark Lee's tail wags in appreciation. Saul pats his hands over the dog's body, searching for injuries. He doesn't find any.

Half a frayed cord dangles weightlessly from Bark Lee's collar. In the melee, Saul hadn't even wondered how the dog got loose from his leash. He must have lunged against his restraints hard enough to snap the old, worn rope.

Bark Lee's muzzle is stained with red. There might be bits of flesh caught in his teeth, but Saul's trying very hard not to look at that. The man's still breathing, hellish sounds like drops of water being sucked up a straw. Saul gets a glimpse of his handiwork and feels bile rise in his throat; the man's head is split open as if it were the messy aftermath of a Gallagher routine.

Nausea swims through Saul's stomach. Christ, what a mess. All he wanted was that damn tape. What now?

Saul can't worry about himself at this stage. The focus must stay on Jesse. What would be best for him?

Jesse's future lies in the existence of that tape. That's what Saul came here for, and that's what he's leaving with.

Saul peels the bloody gloves off of his hands. He grabs onto a chair for balance as he struggles to his feet. He gets his gloves between his teeth before taking hold of the box handles. Under normal circumstances, the box wouldn't be that heavy, but with the wound in his side he might as well lift a sack of bricks.

No go. He won't make it to the car with this box, not unless he wants to bleed out before the paramedics arrive.

Saul pries open the DVD tray and takes the disc out. He limps around the now-still body of the intruder, makes his way out the back door. Saul knows there's going to be a blood trail leading straight to the trunk of his car, but he doesn't think he can make it to the house; pain screams through his every nerve. He'll just have to bullshit his way through a police statement, which won't be too difficult—he's guaranteed to be delirious with pain by the time the paramedics arrive. He opens the trunk, drops the gloves into a black garbage bag and tosses the tape in with them. That's gonna have to do for now.

Saul slumps against the car, the pain making his head spin. His eyes are like long tunnels now. He closes his eyes and sways. He can't just leave the body in that house for Buck and Billy Ray to find. The head wound is a huge red flag that someone else was here; it's not like Bark Lee could've smashed the dude's head in.

Odds are someone heard the gunshots and the barking and placed a call to the police. The cops will be on their way. He can't let that happen. Buck and Billy Ray have to get here first.

Think. Think!

Saul breathes in the coppery smell of his own blood as he runs through the facts.

The gun—with the intruder's prints on it—has been fired twice, one bullet probably lodged in Saul's side. If not, it's stuck in the drywall with Saul's blood and DNA on it. The crime scene techs will determine the angle of that bullet and learn Saul couldn't possibly have shot himself to frame their John Doe. The bullet's entry wound is from the back, with no muzzle stamp on Saul's skin or clothing; proof that Saul fulfilled his duty to retreat before using deadly force.

Except claiming self-defense won't fly, because, technically, Saul did break in to Buck and Billy Ray's house. You can't defend yourself from deadly force when you're committing a crime. So the question remains: how to explain his presence in that house?

The place is already turned over, and the guy came there to rob them. Saul will pretend he saw suspicious activity next door and went to check it out. It's not like the dude was some Boy Scout going door-to-door selling magazine subscriptions.

With a shaky, clammy hand, Saul takes his cell phone out of his pocket and dials Buck's number.